Chapter 10 Smoky The Cowhorse by Will James
"AMONGST THE MISSING"
The remuda was in the big corrals of the home ranch once more, and after a few "winter" horses was cut out, the rest was hazed towards the winter range, and let go.--Four long winter months went by.--Then one day the round-up cook begin to get busy cleaning the chuck box, meadow larks was a tuning up on the high corral posts, and along with the bare patches of ground that could be seen, no better signs was needed that spring had come.
Clint was again the first to spot Smoky that spring and notice the amount of tallow that pony was packing. He was in fine shape for whatever work that'd be his to do that summer, and soon as him and the cowboy got thru with their first "howdys" they both went to work like they never had before.
Smoky took up to where he'd left off the fall before and kept on accumulating science in ways of handling the critter till that critter would just roll up an eye at the sight of the mouse colored pony and never argue as to where he wanted to put 'er; --she'd just go there.
Spring work went on, middle summer came, and sometime after, the fall round-up was in full swing again. Thousands of cattle was handled, cut out, and culled. Big herds of fat steers was trailed in to the shipping point and loaded in the cars, and when the weaning was done and the old stock was all brought in close to the cow camps, Jeff headed his wagon towards the home ranch once more. The work was over, the remuda was turned out and the riders that was kept on the pay-roll saddled their winter horses and scattered out for the outfit's different camps.
Winter came on and set in, then spring bloomed out green once again, and with it the cowboys spread out on the range once more. Season after season followed one another without a ruffle that way, the same territory was covered at the same time of the year, the wagon rolled in at the same grounds, and the rope corral stretched at the same spot, old riders disappeared and new ones took their place, like with the ponies; the old cowhorses was pensioned, replaced by younger ones and the work went On, season after season, year after year, the same outfit rambled out of the home ranch and combed the range like as if no changes was taking place.
Jeff, the cow boss, the round-up cook, Clint, and a couple more riders was all that was left of the old hands as the wagon pulled out one spring;--the others 'd had cravings for new countries and went and throwed their soogans on some other outfit's wagons.
Five years had went by since that day when Clint, riding Smoky, had joined the wagon. Five summers was put in when every time Smoky was saddled and rode Clint was the cowboy that done it. Not another hand had touched Smoky's hide in that time, excepting when Old Tom had tried to appropriate the horse for his own string, and since that day there hadn't been any excuse for Clint to worry about anybody taking Smoky away from him. There wasn't a cowboy in the outfit who didn't more than want the horse, and if Clint ever failed to show up when the spring works started there'd most likely been some argument as to who should get him; but he'd always been the first to ride in at the home ranch at them times and none had the chance to lay claim on the horse.
In them long summers, and as Smoky was rode off and on, the little horse had got to know Clint as well as that cowboy knowed hisself; he knowed just when Clint was a little under the weather and not feeling good,--at them times he'd go kinda easy with his bucking as the cowboy topped him off. The feel of Clint's hand was plain reading to him, and he could tell by a light touch of it whether it meant "go get 'er," "easy now," "good work," and so on. The tone of his voice was also mighty easy to understand. He could tell a lot of things by it, specially when he was being got after for doing something, he shouldn't of done. His eyes was wide open at them times, his neck bowed, and he'd snort sorta low, but when Clint would tell him what a fine horse he was, Smoky was some different,--he'd just take it all in the same as he would warm sunshine in a cold fall day, and near close his eyes for the peace he was feeling at the sound of the cowboy's voice.
The way Smoky could understand the man who rode him thru and around the big herds had a lot to do in making him the cowhorse he'd turned out to be. His strong liking for the rider had made him take interest and for learning all about whatever he was rode out to do. There'd come a time when Smoky knowed the second Clint had a critter spotted to be cut out, and the pony's instinct near told him which one it was, till nary a feel of the rein was needed and the dodging critter was stepped on and headed for the "cut."
The same with roping and where Smoky could do near everything but throw the rope that caught the critter. There he shined as he did anywhere else under the saddle. He'd keep one ear back, watch out and follow the loop leave Clint's hand and sail out to settle around a steer's horns, and the slack was no more than pulled when that pony would turn and go the other way,--he knowed how to "lay" the critter, and none of the big ones ever got up, not while Smoky was at one end of the rope.
Of the many happenings that all went to show of Smoky's knowing how in handling the critter, there's one Clint and the boys liked to tell of. It was only an average of the others that happened, but there was something about that one which made the telling easier as to the wonders of that horse. It was the detail that counted there.
There was a big steer in the herd with a crooked horn which had curved and threatened to grow some more and right thru his eye. Clint and Jeff spotted the steer at the same time, and while one of the boys went to the wagon to get a saw to cut the horn off with, both Clint and Jeff took their ropes and proceeded to catch the critter.
The steer was wild, big and husky, and wise, and soon as he seen the two riders coming thru the herd headed his way, he broke out of it and tail up in the air begin to leave the flat. About then is when Smoky appeared on the scene.
That little horse et up the distance between him and that steer in no time and soon carried Clint to within reach. On account of the crooked horn Clint had to rope the steer around the neck, and that he did neat and quick. Everything went on as it should,-- Smoky run on past the steer and Clint throwed the slack of his rope over that same steer's rump and in another second that critter would of been laying with toes up to the sky and ready to tie.
The unexpected happened about that time, and when the rope tightened the steer didn't lay at all. Instead there was a sound of something ripping. Clint went up in the air about three feet, turned a somerset and hit the ground, the saddle stood up on end on Smoky's back and only the flank cinch was holding it there. The stub latigo of the front cinch had been ripped right thru by the tongue of the cinch buckle like it'd been paper.
Every rider around the herd seen the thing happen, and had already figgered how it wouldn't take long for Smoky to get himself out from under the remains of that saddle. For near every horse would go to bucking and raising the dust when being pinched around the flanks that way, and Smoky had seemed so inclined to want to buck that it was thought he'd never overlook that chance.
The boys was already grinning at such a good promise of seeing a little excitement, but the grins soon faded to looks of wonder, For Smoky, instead of trying to get shed of the saddle, showed he was using his brain to the best way of keeping it there. He was a cowhorse and working, and it was no time for foolishness, so, when the rigging reared up on his hind quarters that way he reared up with it, and turned while in the air. When his front feet touched the ground again the saddle was where it belonged and he was facing the steer.
When that story was told to the country around there was many hard-to-be-convinced riders, who laughed and shook their heads and remarked how it was pure luck that the pony acted that way, but if they'd knowed Smoky, if they'd seen how he juggled that saddle and worked to keep his holt on the steer, there'd been a different tune.
The steer had stayed up and with his ten hundred pounds of wild weight had fought at the rope and hit the end mighty hard. Then Smoky done another thing and which kept the boys a staring and doing nothing. The steer was making another wild dash for open country, and Smoky, instead of holding his ground and waiting for the steer to hit the end of the rope broke out in a sudden run and right after the critter. When the speed of both of 'em was up good and high, Smoky of a sudden planted himself till his hocks touched the ground, and when Mr. Steer hit the end of the rope that time it was just as tho that rope had been fastened to a four foot stump. His head was jerked under him, he turned in the air, and when he came down he layed.
"There was only one thing that horse didn't do," Jeff had remarked afterwards,--"he didn't give the rope a flip before he set down on it."
Smoky had kept the rope tight and Clint tied the steer down to stay till the crooked horn was sawed off. When that was done Clint put up a hand and spoke, and Smoky gave slack so the rope could be pulled off the steer's head.
Big herds of Mexico long-horned steers had been bought by the Rocking R and shipped up into that northern country. They got fat on that range and wilder than ever, and there's where Smoky showed he had something else besides the knowing how. Them long-horned critters are too fast for the average cowhorse to catch up with in a short distance, but not with Smoky;--he had the speed to go with what he knowed, and Clint would have time to whirl his rope only a few times when the little horse would climb up on the long legged steer and pack the cowboy within roping distance.
Many a cowboy had remarked that it was worth the price of a good show to watch Smoky work, whether it was around, in or out of a herd; and many a rider had let a cow sneak past him just so he could see how neat that pony could outdodge a critter. And when after the last meal of the day and the cowboys stretched out to rest some, talk, or sing, none ever had any argument to put up and no betting was ever done against whatever Clint said Smoky could do or had done. They all knowed and admired the horse, and came a time as these cowboys came and went that Smoky begin to be talked about in the cow camps of other cow outfits. One whole northern State got to hear of him, and one cowboy wasn't at all surprised when hitting South one fall and close to the Mexican border to hear another cowboy talk of "Smoky of the Rocking R."
The owner of a neighbor outfit sent word by one of the "reps"* one day that he'd give a hundred dollars for that horse; Smoky had been broke only two years then. Old Tom laughed at the offer, and Clint got peeved. The next year that offer was raised by the same party to two hundred, and Old Tom laughed again, but Clint didn't know whether to get mad or scared this time. Anyway, things went on as usual for a couple of years more, and then a big outfit from acrost the state line sent in an offer of a cool four hundred dollars for the mouse colored cowhorse.
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* Riders representing other outfits
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Good saddle horses could be bought by the carload for fifty dollars a head about that time, but there never was no set price on a good cowhorse, and as a rule that kind can't be bought unless an outfit is selling out. The biggest price that was ever heard offered in that country for any cowhorse had never went over two hundred, and when rumors spread around that four hundred had been offered for Smoky many figgered that whoever offered it had a lot of money to spend;--but them who figgered that way had never seen Smoky work.
Old Tom came up to Clint that fall after the wagon had pulled in, and showed him the letter offering the four hundred. Clint had heard about the offer and he just stargazed at the letter, not reading;--instead he was doing some tall wondering at what Old Tom was going to do about it. He was still stargazing and sort of waiting for the blow to fall, when he felt the old cowman's hand on his shoulder, and then heard him say:
"Well, Clint, I'll tell you"--then Old Tom waited a while, maybe just to sort of aggravate the cowboy, but finally he went on,--"if my cattle was starving, and I needed the money to buy feed to pull 'em thru with, I might sacrifice Smoky for four hundred, but as things are now there's no money can buy that horse."
The cowboy smiled, took a long breath, and grabbed the paw the old man was holding for him to shake.
"But I'm hoping," resumed Old Tom, "that some day soon you'll get to hankering to drift to some other country and quit this outfit, so I can get Smoky for myself; I'd fired you long ago, only I'd have to fire Jeff too, and somehow I'd rather get along without the horse till one of you highbinders quit."
Clint had kept a smiling all the while the old man was speaking, then he gave his hand another shake and walked away. He knowed Old Tom had said that last just to hear how his voice sounded.
As usual, Smoky was turned out on the range along with the remuda for that winter. Clint had helped haze 'em to the breaks as he'd always done, and noticed as he stopped and let the ponies graze and scatter that the feed was mighty short and scarcer than he'd ever seen it. The whole summer had been mighty dry and the range short on grass, but this little scope of country that was the saddle horse range had always been good, and the ponies had always wintered there better than if they'd been in a warm stable and fed grain.
Clint thought some of taking Smoky back with him and keeping him up for a winter horse, but then he'd have to turn him out when spring works came on, and the cowboy didn't want to think of going out on spring round-up without his "top horse."
"No," he decided, "I'm going to let you run out this winter, but I'll be out to see how you're making it and don't lose too much tallow. You're getting to be too valuable a horse to take any chances of losing," he says to him as he scratched him back of the ear--"but," he went on, "you're not half as valuable to the outfit as you are to me, old pony, even tho Old Tom won't consider no price on you."
Clint was on his way back and had no more than got sight of the buildings of the ranch when Old White Winter hit him from behind and made him clap his gloved hands over his ears.
"Holy smoke," he whistled thru his chattering teeth, "she's sure starting ferocious."
And she had,--the first initiating blizzard of the season was more than just a snowstorm with a wind, it was a full grown blizzard drifting over the country, covering up the feed with packed snow, and freezing things up. It kept up for two days and nights, and as it cleared up, the thermometer went down. The next day Clint was busy bringing in old stock closer to the ranch and where they could be watched, and as another blizzard hit the country again a few days later that cowboy was kept on the jump bringing under the sheds and next to the haystacks all the stock he'd hunted up.
Clint was in the saddle all day every day, and sometimes away into the night. A month went by and in that time two feet of snow had accumulated on the range;--more was threatening to come, and all the cowboys that was kept on the Rocking R payroll more than had their hands full. The ranch hands would roll up their eyes at every bunch of stock the riders brought in to be fed, for as they figgered they already had all they could handle, and if this kept up, Old Tom would have to hire more hay shovelers and buy more hay.
Clint had worried some about Smoky and figgered to hunt him up sometime, but as on account of the deep snow he couldn't get his horse out of a walk, he never could make it. Besides there was always a bunch of cattle somewheres on the way, and amongst 'em there'd be a few that needed bringing in.
But with all them drawbacks, Clint finally reached Smoky's range late one day. The gray sky was getting darker, and night was coming on as the cowboy topped a ridge and spotted a bunch of ponies. Amongst the bunch was a long-haired, shaggy-looking, and lean mouse-colored horse, and Clint could hardly believe his eyes or keep from choking as he rode closer and recognized his Smoky horse.
The cowboy was for catching the horse right there and bring him in to the ranch. He wondered if Smoky could travel that far, but as the horse raised his head out of the hole in the snow where he'd been pawing for feed, and spotted the rider coming towards him, Clint was surprised to see so much strength and action. Smoky hadn't recognized the cowboy, and before he'd took a second look, he'd hightailed it from there in a hurry.
Clint watched him and smiled as he seen that the horse wasn't in near as bad a shape as he'd first thought.
"But I'm going to take you in just the same, you little son of a gun, for God knows what you'll be like in a few weeks from now if this weather keeps up."
He started on the trail Smoky and the other ponies had left, it was good and dark by then, but the trail in the deep snow was easy enough to follow. He wondered as he rode if he could get Smoky to stand long enough so as the horse would recognize him under all the disguise of his winter clothes, for at night especially he looked more like a bear than anything; then again, horses are spookier and harder to get near at that time. Clint had his doubts if he could catch him, and he figgered he'd most likely have to take the whole bunch along in order to get him to the ranch.
He was riding along on the trail and trying to get sight of the ponies, when to his left just a little ways, and out of the snow, came a faint beller. It sounded like a critter in trouble, and Clint stopped his horse. The beller came again, and he rode towards the sound. All curled up, shivering, and near covered with snow, a little bitty calf was found,--couldn't been over two days old, figgered the cowboy, and he wondered how the poor little cuss could still be alive.
"Where's your mammy, Johnny?" says Clint as he got off his horse and came near the calf.
But the words was no more out of his mouth when a dark shadow appeared, and bellering, tried to get to the cowboy with her horns before he could get on his horse. In making his getaway, Clint noticed tracks of more cattle, and following 'em a ways, come acrost another cow and with another calf, only this second calf was older and more able to navigate.
"These two wall-eyed heifers must of been missed during last fall's round-up," Clint figgered, "and just as luck would have it they both have winter calves. Well, Smoky," he says as he looked the direction the ponies had went, "I guess that leaves you out, this time."
It was near noon the next day when Clint showed up at the ranch packing a little calf on the front of his saddle. He found Jeff by the big sheds where the cattle was sheltered and fed, and told him:
"I had to leave this little feller's mammy out about ten miles. There's another cow and young calf with 'er, and maybe you better send a man out after 'em before this storm that's coming catches up with 'em. Me, I'm going to eat the whole hind leg off a beef and roll in between my soogans."
That storm Clint had spoke of came sure enough, and seemed like to want to clean the earth of all that drawed a breath, the snow piled up and up till, as the cowboy remarked, "the fence posts around the ranch are only sticking up about an inch, and soon won't be visible no more."
That storm would of meant the death of all the cattle that was on the range, and most of the horses too, but as the tail of it came, a high wind sprung up, the snow drifted and piled high in the coulees, and at the same time took the depth of it down considerable wherever that wind hit. When it all finally quit raging, there was many patches where the grass was buried only by a few inches, and them patches the wind had cleared was what saved the lives of the range stock that winter.
Clint had worried about Smoky as the stormy weather came on; he'd tried time and time again to get to him, but always some helpless critter made him branch off and finally turn back. "To-morrow," Clint kept a saying, but the "To-morrows" came and went and the cowboy, always a fretting, hadn't got near Smoky's range.
The great liking Clint had for the mouse colored horse made him fret and worry more than was necessary. That liking made him imagine a lot that was nowheres near true, and many a time that cowboy rolled in his bunk, tired, and wore out, and dreamed of seeing Smoky caught in a snow bank, weak, starving, and wolves drawing near.
Smoky had sure enough lost considerable fat, and his strength was reduced some too, but he was nowheres weak;--that is, not so weak that he couldn't get up easy once he layed down, or be able to travel and rustle for his feed. The last big storm had took him down some more, but he was still able to plow thru the snow banks that'd gathered on the sides of the ridges, and get on the other side where the feed was easier reached.
If it didn't snow too much more there was no danger for Smoky and the bunch he was with. Him and Pecos had got to know that range so well, they knowed where the best of shelter could be found when the winds was cold or the blizzard howled, and then again, they knowed of many ridges and where the snow was always the thinnest. They had a spot to fit in with or against whatever the weather had to hand out, and whether the next on the program was to be sunshine or more snow, they was still well able to enjoy or compete with either.
Weeks had passed since Smoky had raised his head out of the hollow in the snow and spotted the rider, who'd been Clint, coming onto him; and then one day, here comes another rider. Smoky had been the first to spot that other rider, and as was natural him and the rest of the bunch made tracks away from there and till the rider couldn't be seen no more.
A mile or so on, the bunch went to pawing snow and grazing again. Night was coming on, a wind was raising, and pretty soon light flakes of snow begin to come. Then, when night was well on, and as the wind got stronger and the snow heavier, the rider showed up again, right in the middle of the bunch this time and before Smoky or any of the others could see him. The ponies scattered like a bunch of quail at the sight of him and so close, but they soon got together again, and on a high lope went along with the storm.
The rider followed on after 'em, and as mile after mile of snow-covered country was left behind, the ponies realized there was no dodging him. Heavy drifts was lunged into and hit on a high run as they tried to leave him behind, and then as they'd cross creek bottoms a mile or so wide, and where the snow was from two to three feet deep, the run begin to tell on 'em. They finally slowed down to a trot, and as the rider wasn't pressing 'em any, there came a time when going at a walk seemed plenty fast. They was getting tired.
The night wore on with 'em a traveling that way. The heavy wind pushed 'em on and their long hair was matted with snow, but tired, and hard as the deep snow was to buck thru, it all seemed better to drift on that way than stand still in such as the storm had turned out to be. They drifted on, not minding the rider much no more. Then after a while it begin to get light, slow and gradual; the new day come, and the rider, finding a thick patch of willows, let the ponies drift in the shelter. He tried to look on the back trail as he let 'em drift, and he grinned as the thick stinging snow blurred his view.
"That old blizzard will sure do the work of covering up my trail," he remarked as he looked for a sheltered spot amongst the willows.
He soon found the sheltered spot and where the wind was more heard than felt; and getting off his tired horse begin tamping himself a place where he could move around a little and not have the snow up to his waist. He tied his horse up where he'd be within easy reach, and soon had a fire started out of dead willow twigs. Rice and "jerky" was cooked in a small lard bucket, and et out of the same. When that was gone, a few handfuls of snow was melted in the same bucket and coffee was made. Then a cigarette was rolled, a few puffs drawed out of it, and the man, curled up by the fire, was soon asleep.
All of him, from the toe to his gunny-sack covered boots to the dark face which showed under the wore out black hat, pointed out as the man being a half breed of Mexican and other blood that's darker; and noticing the cheap, wore out saddle, the ragged saddle-blanket on a horse that should of had some chance to feed instead of being tied up, showed that he was a halfbreed from the bad side, not caring, and with no pride.
He slept, feeling sure that no rider would be on his trail in this kind of weather; for the trail he'd made was wiped out and covered over near as soon as he made it, and as for the horses he'd stole, he knowed they wouldn't be facing this storm and trying to go back; they'd be more for staying in shelter instead and try to find something to eat.
Seventeen head of Rocking R saddle stock, counting Smoky, was half a mile or so further down the creek bottom from where the half breed was sleeping. They hugged the thick willows for the shelter they'd give, and feed off the small green branches, the rye grass, and everything they could reach which they could chew on. Smoky and Pecos, side by side, rustled on thru the deep snow, sometimes ahead and sometimes behind the other horses, all a nosing around or pawing for whatever little feed could be found. But many cattle had been there ahead of 'em, and when darkness came on they showed near as drawed as they'd been that morning.
The snowing had let up some during the day, but as night drawed near the wind got stronger. The snow was drifting, and there'd be another night of travel when no trail would be left to show.
The breed woke up, looked around and grinned, then got up and shook himself. The fire was started again, another bait was cooked and consumed, and after all was gathered, he mounted his horse and went to looking for the ponies he'd left to graze down the creek bottom. He run onto 'em a couple of miles further an' where he'd figgered they'd be; and as dark settled over the snow covered range, he fell in behind 'em and started 'em on the way.
An hour or so of traveling, and then Smoky, who was in the lead, found himself between the wings of a corral, a corral that was made of willows and well hid. The breed had built it for his purpose, and signs showed that it'd been used many a time before. Long willow poles made the gate, and after he run the ponies in, and put up the poles, he went after his rope on his saddle.
Many a brand had been changed in that corral, and on both horse and cow. Other times he'd used it just to change horses, and that's what he wanted just now, a fresh horse. He wasn't changing for the sake of the tired horse he'd been riding, it was just that he didn't want to take chances of having a tired horse under him in case somebody jumped him.
His loop was made, and thru the dark he was trying to see just what horse to put his rope on. The white background helped him considerable in making out the shapes of the ponies, and there was one shape he was looking out for before he let his loop sail, the shape of a mouse colored blazed faced horse which he'd noticed and watched all along. Pretty soon, and furthest away from him, he got a glimpse of Smoky's head,--he recognized the white streak on his forehead, and his rope sailed.
Smoky snorted and ducked, the rope just grazed his ears, and went on to settle over another horse's head. In the dark, the breed couldn't follow his rope, and he didn't know but what he'd caught Smoky till he pulled on the rope and brought the horse to him. He cussed considerable as he seen he'd caught another horse than the one he wanted, but as he noticed that this horse was good size and strong looking, he let it go at that, and didn't take time to make another try for Smoky.
"I'll get you next time, you--" he says as he looked Smoky's way and saddled the horse he'd caught.
Letting the poles down, the breed mounted the fresh horse, let the ponies out, and turned 'em out of the creek bottom onto a long bench. The strong winds had blowed most all the snow off there, and excepting for a few low places where it had piled deep, traveling was made easy. He kept the ponies on a trot most of the night, and sometimes where the snow wasn't too deep he'd crowd 'em into a lope.
Steady, the gait was kept up, and finally, after the breed seen that the ponies was too tired and weak to travel much more, he begin to look for a place where he could hide 'em and where they could rustle feed during the day that was soon to come. On the other end of the ridge he was following, he knowed of a place; and taking down his rope, he snapped it at the tired ponies and kept 'em on the move till that place was reached. There, another stop was made.
The storm had dwindled down and wore out till nothing was left but the high wind. It kept the snow drifting, which would keep on covering tracks and make traveling easier. But the breed didn't need the storm to help him no more, for, as he figgered, the country ahead and where he was headed was all open. He expected no riders would be found on the way at that time of the year, and as he'd been on that route many a time before with stolen stock, he knowed just how far it was between each good hiding and stopping place, both for himself and stock.
There was corrals on the way, some built by him, and others built by more of his kind. Sometimes he would change the iron on the ponies he'd just stole, but as the hair was too long for anybody to be able to read the brand that was on 'em, that could wait a while till he got further away and he could travel in daytime more.
He was pleased with everything in general as he left the ponies and started hunting a shelter for himself. He grinned, satisfied, as he melted snow for his coffee and figgered on the price the ponies would bring. He knowed good horses, and even tho they was in poor shape now he knowed what they'd turn out to be after a month's time on green grass.
And then there was "Smoky," that mouse colored horse;--he'd heard how four hundred dollars had been offered for that pony, and allowed that some other cowman to the south would be glad to give at least half that price for him, once it was showed what a cowhorse he really was.
A few hundred miles to the south was the breed's hangout, a place in a low country and where the snow hardly stayed. Once there he could take it easy, let the ponies fatten up, and after the brand was well "blotched" so nobody would recognize the original, he'd sell 'em one at a time for a good price or ship 'em out to some horse dealer. In the meantime he had nothing to worry about, the storm had took his trail off the face of the earth, there was a good seventy miles between him and where he'd started with the horses, and near a hundred miles to the Rocking R home ranch.