And in that third throw the breed had fooled Smoky. He’d, swung his rope like as to throw it, but the loop had never left his hands. Smoky had dodged and dodged thinking sure that the rope had came, but it never had, and finally when he’d quit dodging, it did come, and with the speed of a “blue racer” had circled around his neck.
Smoky had fought like a trapped grizzly as the rope had drawed up, and the breed had to take a few turns around a corral post to hold him.
“I’ll fix you now, you—”
Cussing a blue streak, the breed had broke a limb off the willows that hung over the corral, and coming towards Smoky had been for showing that horse who was boss. He’d went to work, and tried to break the limb over the fighting pony’s head. Orneriness had stuck up in the breed’s gizzard, and anything would be done, even killing the horse right there would of been hunkydory so long as he could ease his feelings some.
He’d pounded and pounded till the limb begin to break, and as he’d noticed it give that way he was going to keep on till it did break, but there again, luck had been against him. The rope that’d held Smoky went and separated at the honda and set the horse free.
The breed had raved on some more at seeing his victim getting away, and throwed the club after him as the pony staggered back amongst the other ponies; and then somehow realizing that then was no time to fool with ornery horses, the breed had caught another horse.
“I’ll tend to you some more,” he hollered at Smoky, and getting on the other horse he’d let the bunch out and started ’em on the trail.
Two hundred miles of that trail was covered, and in the time it took to cover that distance, Smoky had fed on hate for the breed till that hate growed to a disease. Killing the breed would be all that could cure it. Every blow that human had pounded on his head that day, a couple of weeks past, had left a scar, a scar that healed on the surface, but which went to his heart instead, spread there, and stayed raw.
Then one day, on the edge of a big desert flat and amongst the junipers, the breed spotted a high, strong, corral. A log cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney was off to one side a ways, and standing in the door was a man, the first man the breed had seen since starting out with the stolen horses. But he felt safe, five hundred miles had been covered, the brands on the horses had all been “picked”3 and besides, as he figgered, it’d be a good place to stop a while and recuperate; and as he seen the place was a cow camp, he thought maybe he could get the cowboy to help him some with that mouse colored horse he was still wanting to “tend” to and packing a grudge against.
The cowboy wasn’t much for the breed the minute that hombre rode up, but as company was scarce, he kinda stood him, and even agreed to help him with the horse.
Smoky watched the two walk in the corral the next day, and knowed something was up. His ears layed back at the sight of the breed and hate showed from every part of him;—he was ready to fight, and if anything he was glad of the chance.
But Smoky had no chance, too many ropes settled on him at once, and the first thing he knowed, he was flat on his side and tied down before he could use either hoof or teeth.
The horse was no more than down and helpless, when the breed, seeing his victim within reach and where he couldn’t get away, begin to get rid of what’d been on his chest for so long, and when Smoky even though tied down, reached over and near pulled the shirt off of him with his teeth, was when the breed figgered he had an excuse to beat that horse to a pulp even though the horse had no chance.
The cowboy, not understanding the breed’s tactics for a spell, stood off a ways, and watched. There was all about the horse to show that he’d been right in his first dislike for the dark faced hombre. At first he was for interfering and shove the club the breed was using right down his throat. Then as he noticed how the pony would like to do the damaging instead, he thought of a better way and walked up.
“Listen, feller,” he says to the breed, “what’s the use of beating a horse up that way. Why don’t you give him a chance and try to do it while you’re setting on him?”
“Maybe you think I can’t do it,” says that hombre, bleary-eyed and mad clear thru.
The scheme had worked fine—the cowboy grinned to himself as he helped the breed put the saddle on Smoky. Once he’d got a little too close to that pony’s head while helping that way, and that horse come within an inch of getting his arm, the cowboy overlooked it, and to himself remarked: “the poor devil had sure got a reason to be mean, and I guess he’s at the point where he figgers no human is his friend any more.”
The cowboy was right, anything on two legs, whether it was the breed or any other human, had sure enough got to be Smoky’s enemy—a crethure to scatter into dust and put out of the way whenever a chance showed up.
The saddle was cinched on, and while the breed was getting as much of the seat under him as he
