Clint was scared and he cussed a little. He tried to keep Smoky down whenever a critter broke out that needed turning, and even tried to let a couple of ’em get away, but he couldn’t do it without making it too plain to see, and besides, Smoky had ideas of his own about handling them critters.
The cowboy was worried all the rest of the day and lost some sleep that night a wondering how he was going to dodge Old Tom. He knowed the old cowman would be around with some proposition to swap him out of Smoky, and that was one of the last things the cowboy would do. There wasn’t a horse in the outfit or anywheres else he’d trade Smoky for.
It’s took for granted on any real cow outfit that whenever a horse is swapped or borrowed out of a cowboy’s string and handed to somebody else, that that cowboy is requested to quit or be fired, in other words it’s an insult that makes any real cowboy want to scrap and then ask for his wages.
Clint was a valuable man to the outfit, but with Old Tom one cowboy more or less didn’t matter, that is if that cowboy stood between him and a horse he wanted. He walked up to Clint the next day and not hesitating any he says:
“I’m going to try that mouse colored horse you was riding yesterday”; and thinking it’d please Clint to hear, he went on, “and if I like him I’ll trade you my brown horse Chico for him; he’s the best horse I got at the home ranch.”
But all that only made Clint get red in the face, and fire showed in his eyes as he spoke.
“Huh! you can’t ride Smoky.”
“Why in samhill can’t I?” asks Old Tom, also getting red in the face.
“Cause you can’t,” answers Clint, “why you couldn’t even put a saddle on him.”
Clint was for quitting the outfit right there and hit for some other country, but the thought of leaving Smoky behind kinda put him to figgering another way out;—if he could get Old Tom sort of peeved and let him handle Smoky while he was feeling that way, most likely that pony would do the rest.
“I’ll show you whether I can saddle that horse or not,” says Old Tom, frothing at the mouth; “why I’ve handled and rode broncs that you couldn’t get in the same corral with, and before you even was born.”
“Yep,” says Clint, grinning sarcastic, “that was too long ago, and you’re too daggoned old now for that kind of a horse.”
Old Tom glared at Clint for a second, and not finding no ready come back done the next best thing and got busy. He went to his saddle, jerked his rope off it, and spitting fire, shook out a loop that could be heard a whistling plum to the other side of the corral.
Smoky was surprised into a dozen catfits as that same wicked loop settled over his head and drawed tight and sudden around his neck. He bellered and bucked thru the remuda a dragging Old Tom with him. The old cowman made a motion and two grinning cowboys went and helped him.
Clint stood on the outside and watched the performance. He rolled cigarette after cigarette and tore ’em up fast as they was made, not a one was lit. He seen Smoky brought to a choking standstill and that cowboy felt like committing murder as he noticed the fear in that pony’s eyes as he faced the strangers; but there Clint noticed something else and which he gradually recognized as fight—there was more fight than fear, and at the sight of that the cowboy took hope.
“Since when does a cowboy get help to rope and saddle his horse,” he hollered as Old Tom was sizing up Smoky. “Pretty soon you’ll be wanting one of us to top him off for you.”
It worked just right, and Old Tom’s answer was only a jerk on the rope that held Smoky. The old cowman knowed better than to handle a horse that way and as a rule was always easy with ’em, but he was mad, mad clear thru, and rather than shoot a cowboy he was taking it out on the horse.
And Smoky by that time was fast catching up with the spirit of all that went on. He was like a raw bronc that’d never seen a human or a saddle, and when he was finally brought up alongside the saddle, there was all about him to show he wasn’t safe for anybody coming near. But Old Tom, even though it was a long time ago, had handled many mean horses;—he knowed he was past handling ’em any more, but this time was different and he’d do his best to carry it thru.
The two riders that’d been helping him was waved away; he’d show Clint and the rest of the young fellers that he could still do it. He then spread a loop and caught both of Smoky’s threatening front feet; Smoky knowed better than to fight a rope and he stood still knowing he’d soon have another chance. Rawhide hobbles was fastened on his front legs, a bridle put on his head, and then the saddle was reached for and put on his back and cinched to stay.
“Better say your prayers before you climb up,” says Clint, still prodding Old Tom, at the same time hoping that he would stop before he went too far. But there was no stopping him, he pulled up his chap’ belt, set his hat down tight, and still mad enough to bite a nail in two, loosened the hobbles, grabbed a short holt on the reins and climbed on.
Smoky looked back at the stranger that was a setting on him, and soon as a touch of the rein on his neck told him that all was set, things started a happening from there. He
