He’d given it all a mighty good test of course, but as compared with the way Smoky had acted with how he was now acting as The Cougar, it would match well with a man playing a peaceful game of solitary and a gambler dealing for his life with some hated enemy.
The Cougar would of killed himself to get his man; he was past caring for his own hide and only lived to hate. But even as strong as that hate was, it was queer to see that he wasn’t interested to do damage only to the men that handled or tried to ride him. Maybe that was because there was always so many around—the grandstands was full of people and it was the same around the chutes and corrals of the rodeo grounds. Them crowds might of confused him to a standstill and sort of made him keep neutral till only one or two come near.
Another thing that might of fooled a few was the way The Cougar carried his ears. Most every town person has noticed how some horses in the city’s streets have some kind of leather muzzles to keep ’em from biting passing folks. Them horses have their ears back most of the time and whenever somebody comes near, they have a mighty cranky look too; but as a rule they’re not as wicked as they look. It’s just that they’re tired of having everybody that goes by stop and try to feed ’em peanuts or apples and such, or being petted and sometimes rubbed the wrong way. Some horses’ disposition can’t stand it, and them few seem to get so that they can’t keep their ears forward and look pleasant any time;—they’re always laying ’em back and looking like they would do some damage; but the most they would do if they had no muzzle would be to maybe just nip a little hunk of hard-twist serge or a little silk off different folks’ arms.
Like a feller says to me one time, “It’s just that they’re bored.”
The horse out on the range, no matter how mean he might be, hardly ever puts his ears back at a human; when he does, it’s only once in a coon’s age and only for the split of a second. In the next split of that second something has happened.
The Cougar, being a sure enough range horse and with real mustang4 blood to boot, carried his ears in the ways of that kind. He’d look at a man thru the chute timbers and with his ears straight ahead, but in them eyes under the shadow of them ears was a fair picture of what would happen if that man ever stepped in that chute with him. It didn’t need no imagination to see it either.
Never did The Cougar lay his ears back unless he was sure of his victim. When he did there’d be an ambulance wagon racing thru the arena and remarks in queer low tones passed by white-faced folks up in the grandstand; which all kept accumulating and piled up in The Cougar’s reputation as a bad horse.
A little bit of a freckle faced hombre who’d made the “grand finals” was along the chute one day and “up” to ride The Cougar. He’d come from acrost the border, and thru the first three days of the rodeo had proved himself to be a “ranahan”5 in bronc riding as well as in steer roping.
“By golly,” he was heard to say as The Cougar was hazed into the saddling chute, “I’ve come a long ways to get a setting at that pony.” He felt of his taped spurs to make sure they was there to stay, “and if you watch close,” he went on, grinning, “I’ll give you all a few lessons on how to play a tune with a spur rowel at the tip of a pony’s ears.”
The little “vaquero”6 was feeling good; he hadn’t been to town for a year or more, and a chance to ride a mean horse where there was folks around was a big change to him. Barrel cactus and Spanish dagger had been the only witnesses to his riding ability, and riding a sidewinding pony on dobe flats or high mesas wasn’t so apt to bring out the best in a rider as when in a nice arena, where there’s a band playing and folks a cheering.
“There’s a horse to my liking,” he says as he took a look at The Cougar. The way that pony was acting while being saddled didn’t faze the rider none at all, the grin on his face kept a spreading all the wider as he made ready to climb the chute; he’d handled many a fighting horse, and to him they all could do only one thing, and that was their worst.
As a true rider of the range he welcomed anything that’d test his skill and ability, and if The Cougar had come straight up from hell, wore horns, a forked tail, and cloven hoof, he’d of grinned all the more and bet his year’s earnings that he could send him back to where he came with his tail between his legs and hollering “enough.”
“Rider up,” hollered the hazer, but the judges was already watching, for it was The Cougar “coming out.”
The cowboy let out a war whoop and grinned as the chute gate flew open and The Cougar came “uncorked.” He packed that grin past the judges and at the same time “reefed” (spurred) the earth-jarring outlaw with taped rowels from back of the ear to the back of the saddle skirts.
“Yee-e-e-ep!” he howled, as the bellering Cougar left the earth once more. A cloud of dust went up which kept the judges from seeing what went on, but even if there’d
