That was the sound which’d come to Smoky’s ears; the older cowhorses all knowed that sound well, and if any of ’em could of packed a tune there’d been many in the remuda a humming.
The song that was being worked at just then had been heard at all the cow camps and roundup wagons of the cow country for many years, and handed down from the injun fighting cowboy to the son that took up the trail where he left it and when the horns on the critter wasn’t so long no more. There was a lot of memories stirred up whenever them songs was heard and many a cowboy got sentimental at the sound of ’em, for most all cowboys can remember some quiet night when the time of such a song was spread around the herd;—then of a sudden and for no reason a stampede is in full swing, a dead cowboy is found under his horse at the bottom of a fifty foot jump off, and leaves only the memory of the song he’d been singing that night.
“Oh, I’m a Texas cowbo-o-oy, and far away from home,
And if I ever get back again no more will I ever roam,
Wyoming’s too cold for me-e-e, the winters are too long,
And when roundup comes again, my money’s all go-o-o-ne.”
Clint had got harmonious, and with the other cowboy a trying to keep up on the mouth organ was singing the song. He mixed in about ten verses and took in other songs as he went, the tunes changed some, but the “Texas whang” he carried with the tunes made ’em more or less alike and all appreciated the same.
The last verse had died down, some of the boys looked up expecting more, and others, hat brim pulled down, was stargazing at the fire and letting the memories the songs had brought lead ’em back to times and happenings that’d been stirred the most.
All was quiet, excepting for the crackling of the fire, and one of the boys was just about to speak the name of some other old song when off from the direction where the remuda was held, a nicker was heard.
Clint looked towards where the familiar nicker had come and smiled—the cowboy’s voice had carried to where Smoky had been grazing, and the little horse had stopped grinding on his feed soon as the first verse had hit his ears; he’d listened on thru to the end, nickered, and watched the fire on the creek bottom from where the voice had come.
He watched it long into the night till all was quiet and the fire had dwindled down to coals; time for first night guard to be relieved was near and Smoky was still watching. Pecos was dozing off a ways, and pretty soon Smoky begin to feel a little groggy too and he dozed with him.
A new day was no more than hinted by the paling sky to the east when the “nighthawk” begin bunching the ponies and hazing ’em towards camp. It was still faint daylight when the catch ropes was a hissing over the ponies heads once again and loops settled around slick necks. Broncs was drug out, and a fighting against the saddle while the sun was still back of the ridges, but the day’s work had started at the roundup camp.
In a short while the remuda was let out again, and the day wrangler started grazing ’em while the outfit broke camp for other grounds. When all was loaded in the big wagons the pilot took the lead, and when the sun showed up to begin its circle up above, the cook had already moved his kitchen some ten miles and the pots was beginning to feel the heat of the fire underneath.
Smoky was in another new country that day, and as he grazed with the remuda he noticed the same workings of the day before, another big herd was brought in from that morning’s “circle,” then one more that afternoon, more cattle was cut out and then singed hair floated on the breeze once more.
Twice again he was corralled with the remuda for fresh horses the riders was needing, and the little horse was slow beginning to get used to the sound of the ropes and the sight of the strange cowboys. Clint was to see him at the last corralling of the day and when the nighthawk took the ponies out for the night Smoky nipped Pecos in the flanks. He felt playful.
Outside of the time he spent in the rope corral the little horse was enjoying the following of the roundup mighty well—there was always so many horses around, and all with the bellering of the big herds and the dust that was kept up sure tallied up with the beat of his heart. He hadn’t figgered on what to expect being one of the remuda that way, and being that he couldn’t make out all that went on he didn’t know just what could be expected, and that’s why maybe he wasn’t worried much.
“Going to make a very big circle this morning, Jeff?”
It was the morning of the third day that Clint asked the foreman that question, and when Jeff answered he understood what was on Clint’s mind. He grinned at the cowboy as he spoke.
“You go ahead and ride your Smoky horse, Clint, I’ll put you on the inside circle so as it won’t be too hard on him.”
And that’s how come when it was Smoky’s turn to be rode that
