As a raw bronc and then cowhorse, Smoky had been for learning all that could be learned. As The Cougar and outlaw, he’d been for killing and disfiguring every man that gave him the chance. There’d been something that called on him to do his best while on the Rocking R range, and there he went to the top as a cowhorse. Something else, and very different, had stirred his interest while in the arena of the rodeo grounds; he’d shined there as a fighting outlaw, and in a way that’d made all the others seem to be out of sight.
He’d had something big to work for, both on the range and in the arena; but now it seemed like as the big livery stable doors closed on him after his first day of use there, that the end of his string had come. He’d sort of felt it in a way, soon as the last car of the bucking horses he’d been with went and disappeared over the skyline. He hadn’t tried to get away, or even snorted when the stable man came in the corral where he’d been left, and led him out.
He’d followed the man to the big stable, and as he was kept there, he found nothing about the place nor the folks around that suggested anything worth while working for. He was just a horse there, a plug that could be rented by the hour or day, and even though all seemed strange and new compared to what he’d been used to, there was nothing in the goings on which could put a spark in his eye.
Maybe it was that his heart was growing old, but anyway, and after getting acquainted some with the place, the pony sort of took things as they come without snorting out his opinions. He was fast getting past caring—his main interest in life soon begin to be only for the manger of hay and the little grain that was fed him when the day’s work was done. One day the stable man came and curried him, that was a new experience for the horse; never had a curry comb ever touched his hide before. Somehow he didn’t mind it, and then come a time when the feel of that performance was looked forward to; it felt near as good as a good roll in the dirt. The currying, his feed of grain, a rest, and to be left alone, had got to be the remains of the mouse colored pony’s ambitions.
But he had to work, and earn what hay and care was handed him. He didn’t mind working, but all this aimless chasing around he was took out to do most every day wasn’t at all to that pony’s liking. He’d been broke to doing something useful, and which had to be done. Afterwards, and with his bucking, there was a reason; but with these equestrians, as they was called, they didn’t seem to know themselves what they wanted to do, or where they wanted to go. They’d just wander around and handle him with a rein in each hand like he was a plow horse. They’d run him up and down streets where the ground was hard on his feet, and let him walk where the going was soft and level. It was no wonder that the end of the day, and the stall at the stable, was looked forward to so much.
Never before had that horse appreciated his night’s rests as he was now doing. He’d near close his eyes for the peace he’d feel then, and eat his hay and grain slow, the same as though he was fearing that as soon as it was gone, he’d have to be out again, and going. There’d be a short spell thru the night when he’d close his eyes all the way, and his tired mind, like his tired body, would be at rest; and then after a while, when his eyes would open again, he’d clean up what little hay he’d left the night before, and that way, gather all the strength he could for the day’s work that was soon to begin.
Near every morning, early, a grey haired man, and sort of stout around the middle, would come. A little “pancake” saddle with flapping iron stirrups, would be put on the pony’s back; and after a lot of hard work and puffing, the equestrian would finally get up and on the horse, and the early morning ride would begin.
The man was heavy, and set his saddle mighty awkward, but with all his weight and awkwardness, and as Cloudy got acquainted some with the man, he finally sort of took a liking for him. That one seemed to know where he wanted to go, and when he got there, even though it was no place in perticular, the old fellow would always get down off of him. Sometimes he’d talk to him, and Cloudy would listen—it didn’t matter if he couldn’t make heads or tails of what the talk was about, he just liked the sound of his voice.
Them morning rides was always on the outside of town, up some canyon or lane, and Cloudy felt better at them places. Besides, he never was rushed; and if he was put into a trot or a lope, it was done proper and in a way both man and horse enjoyed. Seldom would any sweat ever show after the ride was over and the stable was reached again.
But the day’s work would be just beginning for Cloudy, and the stable was no more than got into sight, when saddles would be changed and another person, fresh, and aching for a jaunt, would get on him and start out on another ride. When he’d be
