Chapter 11 Smoky The Cowhorse by Will James
"THE FEEL OF A STRANGE HAND"
A long month had passed since Clint had rode out to get Smoky and came back with a calf instead. Every day since, that cowboy had been for going after Smoky again, but the deep snow and storms had more than kept him breaking trails for snowbound cattle that was weak and needed bringing in. He couldn't find no time and hadn't been able to frame no excuse so as he could hit out for Smoky's range. Then one morning he got up with a hunch. He tried to keep it down, but every morning it got stronger till finally Clint just had to saddle up the best horse he had, and hit out for where Smoky had been wintering.
The last big storm had let up a few days before, and many fresh tracks covered the horse range. Clint trailed and trailed; he found and went thru many bunches of ponies, but no Smoky. Even the bunch that pony was running with when last seen had seemed to evaporate into thin air, and there Clint wondered. He wondered if somebody'd stole him and the bunch, but he put that off, figgering that no horse thief would steal horses packing as well known a brand as the Rocking R, unless he was a daggone fool, or a daggone good one. Anyway, as worried as Clint was, he felt some relieved in not finding the bunch Smoky had been with; for if he'd found them and no Smoky, that'd been proof enough that the pony had went and died somewheres. The other ponies he'd seen that day still looked good and strong, and that was proof enough that Smoky must be the same.
"Most likely him and his bunch just drifted with that last storm and went back to their home range," Clint thought, as he headed his horse back for the ranch; but the hunch that was still with him didn't seem to agree with that thought none at all.
Two weeks later found the cowboy on the horse range once more, and making a bigger circle; but Smoky and his bunch still kept being amongst the missing. He told Old Tom about it as he got back to the ranch that night, but the old man didn't seem worried; he waved a hand as Clint said how he'd finally got to believe that the whole bunch had been stole.
"Don't worry," he says, "we'll find him and all the rest during horse round-up."
Finally, spring broke up, the deep drifts started to melting and the creeks begin to raise. Then after a while, and when the "hospital stuff" * had been turned out on the range a couple of weeks, riders begin stringing out towards the horse range and gathering the remuda. Clint lined out by himself and hit for the country where Smoky had been raised. He reached the camp where he'd started breaking him, and from there he rode, every morning with a fresh horse and running down every bunch of stock horses a hoping to get sight of the mouse colored gelding.
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* The old cattle which 'd been kept and fed under the sheds thru the winter.
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He rode for a week and seen every horse that was on that range, strays and all; and finally after he'd combed the whole country where Smoky had run as a colt, he rode back to the ranch, feeling disappointed but a hoping that the other riders had found him.
The remuda was in the big corrals, when he got there,--all of it, excepting for the seventeen head which couldn't be found nowheres. Smoky was one of the seventeen.
There was a few more days riding, and then of a sudden Old Tom decided Clint had been right, the horses was sure enough stolen. His big car hit only the high spots as the old man headed for town. Jack rabbits was passed by and left behind the same as if they'd been tied, and when he hit the main street he was doing seventy. He put on his brakes and passed the sheriff's office by half a block, but he left his car there, and hoofed on a high run all the way back.
That official was notified of the theft, and notified to notify other officials of the State and other States around; and Old Tom stuck close to see that that was done and mighty quick. A thousand dollars reward was offered for the thief, and the same reward for the return of the horses, naming one mouse colored saddle horse as special.
The spring round-up went by, summer, and then the fall round-up and the close of the season's work. Nothing of Smoky, nor any of the ponies he'd run with or the horse thief was heard of. It seemed like one and all had left the earth for good, and if what all Old Tom often wished on the thief could of come true, that hombre would of sure found himself in a mighty hot place.
Clint rode on for the Rocking R thru that summer and fall, and always as he rode, he kept an eye on the country around and hoping that sometimes he'd run acrost his one horse, Smoky. He didn't want to think that the horse had been stolen, and he kept a saying to himself as he rode: "He's just strayed away somewheres." There wasn't a draw, coulee, or creek bottom passed by without the whole of it was looked into; and never before was the Rocking R country looked into so well. Every rider, on down to the wrangler, kept his eyes peeled for the mouse colored horse; and even tho cattle is what the wagons was out for, there was more eyes out for Smoky, and cattle was only brought in as second best.
It wasn't till fall round-up was near over that Clint begin losing all hope of ever seeing Smoky again in that country, and as them hopes left him, there came a hankering for him to move. Maybe it was just to be moving and riding on some other range for a change, but back of it all, and if Clint had stopped to figger some, he'd found that his hankering to move wasn't only for seeing new territory,--there was a faint hope away deep, that some day, somewheres, he'd find Smoky.
For that pony had got tangled up in the cowboy's heartstrings a heap more than that cowboy wanted to let on, even to himself. He couldn't get away from how he missed him. He'd thought of him when on day herd and how the horse had seemed to understand every word he'd said. On the cutting grounds, he'd kept a comparing whatever horse he'd be riding with Smoky, and find that pony (no matter how good he was) a mighty poor excuse of a cow-horse alongside of the mouse colored pony that was missing.
But all them good points of Smoky's was nothing as compared to the rest of what that horse really had been as a horse, and there's where Smoky had got under Clint's hide, as a horse, one in a thousand.
The last of the wagons had trailed into the home ranch, and the next day, the remuda was hazed out to the winter range. Clint wasn't along that fall to see the ponies turned loose. Instead he was in the big bunk house at the home ranch, and busy stuffing his saddle into a gunny sack. A railroad map was spread on the floor and which the cowboy had been studying.
Jeff opened the door of the bunk house and took in at a glance what all Clint was up to. He noticed the railroad map laying by his foot and smiled.
"I figgered you would," he says, "now that Smoky is not with the outfit no more."
The first of winter had come and hit the high mountains of the southern country. Big, dark clouds had drifted in, drenched the ranges down to bedrock with a cold rain, and hung on for days. Then the rain had gradually turned to a wet snow, kept a falling steady, and without a break, till it seemed like the country itself was shivering under the spell.
Finally, and after many long days, the dark clouds begin to get lighter and lighter and started lifting and drifting on. Then one evening, the sun got a chance to peek thru and smile at the country again. It went down a smiling that way, and after it disappeared over the blue ridge, a new moon took its place for a spell, and like as to promise that the sun would smile again the next day. Clint'd keep on comparing whatever horse he'd be riding with Smoky.
And it did; it came up bright and real fitting to that Arizona country. The air was clear as spring water in a granite pool, and as still. The whole world seemed dozing and just contented to take on all the warmth and life the sun was giving. A mountain lion was stretched out on a boulder, warm and comfortable, where the day before he'd been in his den all curled up and shivering. Then a few deer come out of their shelter, hair on end and still wet thru, but as they reached the sunny side of the mountain it wasn't long when it dried again, and layed smooth.
Further down the mountain and more on the foothills, a little chipmunk stuck his head out of his winter quarters and blinked at the sun. He blinked at it for quite a spell like not believing, and pretty soon came out to make sure. He stood up, rolled in the warm dirt, and in more ways than one made up for the long days he'd holed away. Other chipmunks came out, and then he went visiting. More seeds was gathered as he went from bush to bush and even tho he already had a mighty big supply already stored away, he worked on as tho he was afraid of running short long before spring come.
He was at his busiest, and tearing a pine cone apart for the nuts he'd find inside, when he hears something a tearing thru the brush and coming his way. Away he went and hightailed it towards his hole, and he'd no more than got there when he gets a glimpse of what looked like a mountain of a horse and running for all he was worth.---A long rope was dragging from his neck.
The chipmunk went down as far in his hole as he could, stood still and listened a minute, and then storing away the nuts he'd gathered, stuck his head out once more. He chirped considerable as he looked around to see if any more out of the ordinary or dangerous looking was in sight, and he'd just had time to blink at the scenery a couple of times, when he gets a glimpse of another horse,--this one was packing a man, and at the same speed went right on the trail the other had left.
The chipmunk never wondered what this running was all about, he just chirped and ducked out of sight; but it wasn't long when he stuck his head out again and gradually showed all of himself. He stood up on a rock close to his hole, and looking around from there, he could see two objects out towards the flat, moving fast, and seeming like one trying to catch up with the other. He watched 'em, till a raise finally took 'em out of sight; then he watched some more and in other directions, and seeing nothing that'd need watching, he went to visiting again and to gathering more nuts.
Out on the flat, and on the other side of the raise, the two objects went on. How glad that one object in the lead would of been to've changed places with the chipmunk and like him been able to crawl down a hole and hide for a spell. For hours and hours thru the night he'd been trailed. His hoofs had sunk deep into the mud every step he'd took, but acrost foothills and adobe flats he'd went on, always the human close behind.
Twice that human'd disappeared and he'd took hope, but soon he'd show up again, and mounted on a fresh horse would chase him some more. A rope had settled around his neck once,--he'd fought till it broke, and run on a dragging it.
He was getting tired, mighty tired, and beginning to feel with each step he took that the country was in cahoots with the man and trying to hold him back. His feet went ankle deep in the soft, rain-soaked ground, and pulling out and placing 'em ahead steady, on and on, was getting to be more and more of an effort.
Once again the man disappeared, only to show up mounted on another fresh horse. The man's relay string had been well placed and as the horse he'd been chasing was getting tired, and easier right along to turn the way he wanted him, he could near see how the end of the chase was going to be.
The sun was getting well up in the sky when skirting along the foothills and going thru a thick bunch of cedars, the tired horse noticed dead cedars piled up in a way that made a fence. Any other time he'd whirled at the sight and went some other way, but his vision wasn't very clear no more, nor was his brain working very good. He'd went on his nerves and kept on long after his muscles had hollered "quit," and he'd got to the point where he was running because something away back in his mind kept a telling him that he should, really not knowing why. He was past caring where he went, and even if the rider behind had stopped and quit, he'd kept on running just the same and till he'd dropped.
He followed the cedar fence hardly realizing it was there. Then from the other side of him appeared another fence. It gradually pinched in on him as he went, till finally both fences led up to a gate and into a corral hid in the thick trees. There he stopped, realizing somehow that he couldn't go no further, and legs wide apart, breathing hard, sweat a dripping from every part of him, he stood still.
The halfbreed closed the pole gate, and turned looking at the horse.
"Now, you ornery mouse colored hunk of meanness, I guess I got you."
But Smoky, eyes half closed and not seeing, head near touching the ground, and the rest of him trying hard to stay up, never seemed to hear.
Many months had passed and many things happened since Smoky had been hazed away from his home range on the Rocking R. There'd been long nights of traveling when many miles was covered and very little feed was got on the way. Then long, weary miles of travel had accumulated till near a thousand of 'em separated him from the country where he'd been born and raised.
Many strange looking hills and flats he'd crossed as he was kept on the go with Pecos and the rest of the bunch, and when he'd come to the desert it'd been a great relief. The deep snow had gradually been left behind by then and the bare sagebrush flats had took the place of the snow covered prairie. Many bunches of wild ponies had been seen on the way, and once in a while a little bunch of cattle was passed by. The country had kept a changing; from rolling prairie it went to low hills, low hills to mountains, and on the other side more low hills and then sagebrush. The sagebrush had stayed in the landscape from then on and only added some yuccas as the southern country was reached, then spanish dagger, barrel cactus, and catclaw.
Finally a wide river in a deep canyon of many colors had been reached and swimmed acrost. A few days more travel, and then it seemed like Smoky and the bunch had got there,--anyway there'd been no more travelling. The next day, the half breed had corralled all the ponies, and with a running iron blotched the Rocking R brand over with what looked like a wagon wheel. The original brand was disfiggured complete, and then the horses was shoved up on a high knoll while the new brand healed. The knoll was a high flat mesa, with rimrocks all around and where it could be got up on only in one place. That place had then been closed with a rope and a blanket stretched over it. There was good feed up there, and enough snow and rain water in a natural reservoir to last many days.
All would of been well for Smoky, and the long trip with the bucking of snow, hard traveling, and all with the changes of the country would of been took in as it comes; but along with that trip, there'd growed something between that pony's ears which had got to chafe. It was a hate, a hate with poison and all for the breed that'd kept him and the others on the move.
Smoky was born with a natural fear and hate of the human. He'd carried it always, excepting when Clint, that one man, was around; but hating humans had never bothered him, not till the dark face of the breed had showed itself over the skyline.
With him in sight, that hate had got to grow till murder showed in his eye, and the little fear that was still with him was all that'd kept him from doing damage to the dark complected human that'd trailed along behind all the way. He'd boiled over to himself, stayed in the lead, and far away from the breed as he could.
The breed had throwed a rope at him one day, and missed. Smoky had never been missed that way before, and from that once he'd learned that by ducking at the right time there was such a thing as dodging a rope. The next day the breed had throwed his rope at him again, and Smoky, watching, had ducked at the right time and once more the loop had missed. The breed begin cussing as he spread another loop and tried to place it around Smoky's neck, but his cussing didn't do him any good, and the loop had fell short a foot from the dodging pony's head.
Smoky would of enjoyed all that, if he hadn't meant it so much; and what's more the breed had got ferocious, which all made things more serious for the horse. He'd hated the sound of that breed's voice as that hombre, fighting his head, and cussing for all he was worth, had coiled up his rope once more and made ready for another try.
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 come, 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"* 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.
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* Changed for a time by just cutting the hair.
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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 tho 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 tho 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 hornbre, 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 could, the cowboy took off the foot ropes, and soon as the last coil was pulled away, he made long steps for the highest part of the corral and where he could watch everything to his heart's content.
The cowboy had no more than reached the top pole of the corral when a sudden commotion, which sounded like a landslide, made him turn. Smoky had come up, and at last given a chance had more than started to make use of it. It was his turn to do some pounding, and he done it with the saddle that was on his back and which went with every crooked and hard hitting jump he made.
The breed had rode many hard horses and he was a good rider, but he soon found that Smoky was a harder horse to set than any he'd ever rode before; and as good a rider as he was there was many a twist brought in that he couldn't keep track of. They kept a coming too fast, and it wasn't long when he begin to feel that setting in that saddle on such a horse was no place for him. The saddle horn and cantle was taking turns and hitting him from all sides, till he didn't know which way he was setting. Pretty soon he lost both stirrups, and once as he was a hanging over to one side, one of them stirrups came up and hit him between the eyes. That finished him; he hit the ground like a ton of lead.
The cowboy up on top of the corral had laughed and enjoyed the performance all the way thru; and when the breed dug his nose in the dust of the corral he laughed all the more. He'd never been more agreeable to seeing a man get "busted" in his life.
The breed layed in a heap, never moving; and then the cowboy, finally getting serious, was for getting him out of there before the horse spotted him, and reduced him into thin air. Somehow, he wasn't caring to see a human get tore apart and right before his eyes that way even if that human did deserve killing; but Smoky's interest was all for shedding the saddle right then and all that carried the breed's smell; finally it begin to slip; higher and higher on his wethers it went till the high point was reached, and then it started going down. When it reached the ground the hackamore had come off with it, and before Smoky, slick and clean, straightened up again, the breed had picked himself up, and without the help of the cowboy, sneaked out of the corral.
The next few minutes was used by that cowboy in telling the breed to get another horse saddled and hit the trail while the hitting was good, and helping him getting his horses together, boosted him out of camp.--But the breed wasn't thru with Smoky, he was going to "tend to him" again some other time.
Months had went by before that other time come, and it'd been away late in the next fall before that hombre ever put his hands on Smoky again. In that time the other ponies, which all had seemed inclined to behave, had been sold. Smoky had been kept in the corral, treated with a club regular, and fed "post hay," till, as the breed figgered, he'd break that pony's spirit, or break his neck; but he was going to make him behave some way, so as he'd get the price he'd be asking for him.
Then one night a high March wind had sprung up, rattled the corral gate, and finally worked it open. Smoky hadn't been long in seeing the opening, and when a few days later the breed, hunting for the horse, spotted him, the mouse colored gelding had took up with the wild bunch, and only a glimpse of him did he get.
Every once in a while that whole summer the breed had tried cutting Smoky out of the wild bunch and run him in, but that pony had been harder to get near than any of the wild ones he was with. He knowed what was on the program for him if that breed ever caught him again. The steady beatings he'd got from him had made his hate grow for the human till a striking rattlesnake looked like a friend in comparing.
But the breed hadn't been for quitting,--he couldn't stand to have anything get the best of him, not even an ornery pony; and as Smoky enjoyed his wild freedom them summer months, the breed had kept a studying which circle Smoky and the wild ones would take whenever they was being chased, and getting a good lay of the land he finally figgered a plan.
And, that's how come, when he started out after Smoky again in the fall he knowed just where to place a relay string of ponies. At the other end was a trap corral and well hid. Then the breed spotted the horse late one afternoon, and fell in behind him and the other wild ones he was with. It had been a long chase; the wild ones had dropped out of the run one by one and branched to one side, but Smoky and the rest of the strongest had kept on right along on the trail where the breed had stationed his fresh relay horses. Finally, and as the breed kept a coming in on 'em with fresh horses, the strongest of the mustangs kept a branching out; but Smoky had kept on straight ahead, till, leg weary and staggering, he'd found himself in the wings of the trap corral, and then inside, past being able to see the grinning halfbreed who'd closed the gate on him.
A few days went by when Smoky seemed in a trance. He remembered some of being led and jerked all the way back to the breed's hangout, of being saddled the next day and jerked around some more, and then rode out, and with spur and quirt, made to trot around. He didn't realize the breed had set on him or he didn't seem to care. The little hay that was throwed out to him wasn't noticed, and hardly did he drink,--only if by chance he happened to mope around the corral and find himself standing in the stream that was running in one side of it.
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 to-day."
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.