There was everything about the horse to indicate that in a few more days he’d be laying down, never to get up no more; his trail seemed fast coming to an end, and the heart that was left in him had shrunk till nary a beat of it could be felt. The breed kept a riding him out, thinking he at last and for sure had the horse right where he wanted him.
“I’ll make a good horse out of you, you scrub,” he’d say as he’d beat him over the head with his quirt and at the same time cut him with the spur. Smoky had seemed to feel neither the quirt nor the spur. He didn’t flinch nor even bat an eye as both would come down on him and leave the marks. There seemed to be no sign of hopes or life left in the horse, and the abuse went on till, finally and one day, the breed happened to cut the horse a little deeper and in a more sensitive place.
That cut had stirred the pony’s shrunk up heart, and a faint spark had showed in his eyes for a second. The next day Smoky even snorted a little as the breed walked into the corral, and he tried to buck some as he climbed into the saddle. The breed was surprised at the new show of spirit, and remarked as he took down his quirt:
“I’ll take that out of you.”
From that day on Smoky’s heart begin to expand towards natural size once more. But it wasn’t the same kind of heart that had once been his—that first one had died, and this one had took root from abuse, growed from rough treatment to full size, and with hankerings in it only for finding and destroying all that wasn’t to his liking. And there was nothing to his liking no more.
The breed he hated more than anything in the world, but Smoky, with that new heart of his, wasn’t for showing them feelings much. He’d got wise in ways of how and when to do his fighting, and where it’d do most good;—he’d wait for a chance. In the meantime he’d got to eating every stem of what little hay the breed would hand him; he’d have to live to carry out them new ambitions of his.
But somehow, a hint of Smoky’s new ambitions must of leaked out; anyway the breed had a hunch that it wouldn’t be well for him to come too close to that pony’s teeth and hoofs. He’d often watch him thru the corral poles and wonder. He’d sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be best to just place a forty-five slug between that pony’s ears instead of fooling with him, but the hopes of still being able to sell the horse for a good price would always keep him from drawing his gun.
“A good long ride’ll fix you,” says the breed one morning as he drug his saddle near the corral chute. “And I’ve got a hell of a long one ahead for you today.”
Smoky was prodded into the chute with a long pole, and saddled where he couldn’t move. Then the breed climbed in the saddle, opened the chute gate and started the horse out on a long run.
Ten miles of country was covered which Smoky didn’t see; his instinct made him dodge badger holes and jump washouts, and his eyes and ears was steady back and on the human he was packing, if he could only reach with his teeth and get him down.
The breed’s spurs kept a gouging him, and along with the quirt a pounding, Smoky was kept into a high lope. With that kind of tattoo being played on him the pony gradually begin to warm up and getting peeved. It wouldn’t be long, if that gait was kept up, when he’d be reaching the boiling point, and then get desperate.
A steep bank was reached by the edge of a creek, and there Smoky sorta hesitated a second. His ears and eyes was pointed ahead for that second and looking for a place where the going down wouldn’t be so sudden; when the breed, always looking for some reason to deal the horse misery, put the steel and layed the quirt to him at once. That took Smoky by surprise, and the flame that’d been smoldering in his heart loomed up into a active volcano all at once.
Down over the bank he went, and when he landed he had his head between his front legs and went to bucking from there. By some miracle the breed stuck him for half a dozen jumps, then he made a circle in the air and landed on all fours at the foot of the bank.
A shadow on the ground and right by him made the breed reach for his gun near as quick as he landed; it was the shadow of the horse and too close; his gun was out of the holster and he turned to use it; but he was just the splinter of a second too late, and the six-shooter was buried in the ground as Smoky, like a big cougar, pounced on him.
XII
“When the Good Leaves”
Big posters was tacked on the telegraph poles all around the little town of Gramah. Them posters could be seen in many windows of the town’s stores, and advertised the coming rodeo and cowboy’s reunion. Amongst the prizes that was wrote down on the poster was prints from photographs of bucking horses and steers, and
