Of the many ponies that makes up a “remuda” there’s seldom any that can be walked up to, even the gentlest has to be roped. They’re broke that way and it all saves time, for a cowboy can stand off thirty feet, rope his horse and start leading him out from there. It saves him many steps and when there’s so many riders and horses, them steps and the time it’d take to make ’em sure would accumulate. Then again there’s so many wild ponies that would have to be roped anyway. So making the whole thing simple, every horse is caught with a loop. No good roper ever whirls a loop in catching horses, and the only sound that’s heard is when the rope splits from the ground to the pony’s head.
Once in a while, and even with real cow outfits that’s well run, there’s exceptions in roping every horse that way. Smoky was the one exception on the Rocking R, and every cowboy was good natured jealous at the way that mouse colored son of a gun of a horse would stick his head out every time Clint came around and then left his hiding place from amongst the other horses to meet him.
Smoky knowed that something was up soon as Clint came near him, but whatever it was he was anxious to be at it;—him and that cowboy would get along.
The little horse humped up as he felt the cinch, and Clint grinned as he remarked:
“Going to make this old broke-down cowboy ride this morning, huh?”
And Smoky did. He bogged his head soon as Clint was well set, and bucked and bellered all over the flat like he was a man-eating outlaw. It was the right thing for a live horse to do them cold fall mornings, and Clint was enjoying fanning the dust off Smoky’s round rump the same as that pony enjoyed the idea that he sure was giving somebody a tossing.
“Better save some of that,” says Clint as he finally pulled Smoky’s head up, “cause you might need all the energy you got before you get back.”
About twelve miles or so from camp a knoll was reached; from there Jeff “scattered” his riders to circle and comb the country on the way back. Clint and another rider was the last to be let go, and on the “inside” brought with ’em all the cattle they found. Half ways back to camp, Smoky begin to notice big dusts on both sides of him; them dusts kept a getting closer and closer till pretty soon he begin to see that it was more cattle making them dusts. Herds kept a being drove in with the bunch Clint and the other rider had rounded up, and by the time camp was reached, all the dusts had throwed in and made one. Twenty or more riders and over a thousand head of cattle was turned to the cutting grounds and held there a milling.
Smoky was tired, he’d been breathing dust and turning bleary-eyed critters till it seemed like there’d be no end. Besides it felt awful hot on his back where the saddle was, and even though Clint often got off, uncinched the saddle and raised it so the cool air could circulate thru, it wasn’t long when his back, not used to long saddling, would feel as hot as ever again.
It was a great relief to the little horse when the saddle was pulled off as they reached camp and the rope corral. Clint then led him to the creek and washed the dry sweat off his back with the cool water, and as that was done Smoky right away forgot the work of that first circle. He felt a lot at ease with everything in general as Clint turned him loose in the corral, and a while later when fresh horses was caught and ropes begin sailing again, Smoky wasn’t for hunting a hole like the times before; he felt that he’d done his.—Pecos was snared while standing a few feet from him, and then the ponies was turned loose. But there Smoky lagged behind a little; he’d spotted Clint, who was saddling another horse, and he stood in his tracks, watching, and maybe wondering. Then the wrangler came, and Smoky followed the remuda up the draw.
Plenty of grass, under, and all around him, and a chance to stand still was for the first time appreciated by the mouse colored gelding. He’d had a taste of real work, the first taste, and with it had come the feeling that he wasn’t no half broke bronc no more. He was even beginning to look at the critter with a knowing eye and something was sprouting up in him which left no doubt but what he was the boy that could handle ’er.
He never figgered on how much there was to learn in the ways of handling that split-hoofed range animal—he’d had no way to know as yet, and as it was he grazed feeling sure that he knowed a lot about ’em. He felt equal to the old saddle marked cowhorses that was in the same remuda and he wouldn’t have nothing to do with the raw broncs that was mixed in. But there that high opinion of himself was stopped, for the old cowhorses wouldn’t let him associate with ’em and as they’d chase him away, he failed to notice that they felt the same about him as he did about the uneddicated raw broncs.
But then, credit had to be handed to the little horse on account that even though he still had a powerful lot to learn, he sure was all for learning, and the pride he’d naturally took in the game, along with the coaching of such a cowboy as Clint, all promised that he’d sure
