Chapter 13 Smoky The Cowhorse by Will James
"A MANY-MEN HORSE"
The Cougar being he was useless for rodeo purposes, had been sold to the livery stable man for twenty-five dollars.
It was figgered that at least twenty-five dollars worth of use would be got out of him there. The horse was fat and strong looking, could be broke to harness, and made to do his share with any of the six and eight horse teams which was kept on the road acrost the deserts as freight teams.
But one day, and before the harness ever disgraced The Cougar's hide, a bunch of tourists had flocked into town to stay for a spell, and one of the crowd suggested a little horseback riding. The livery stable man was at once swamped with orders for saddle horses, and before he got thru tallying up how many he could furnish, he found he was short of about three. By scouting around, he dug up two more, but he was still short one, and then his eye fell on the mouse colored horse.
At first, he was for overlooking that horse entirely, but as he needed one more to finish up the party, he couldn't very well afford to overlook any horse that might do. He caught the horse and saddled him, and scared but game, he got in the saddle. If that pony still had one jump left in him, it was up to that old boy to find out; and one jump from that horse would be that much too many. He'd never do for no tourist then.
But The Cougar never even humped up as he was rode around the stable corrals. The man's legs begin to quit shaking, and as he sat there, his face gradually turned from blank white to natural color again; and then he begin to grin and show pleasant surprise as he noticed how well the horse reined whichever way was wanted.
"By japers," he remarked to the stable door, "this feller is a real saddle horse."
So, when the tourists, all togged up in their shiny riding habits, appeared some time later, the stable man was all ready and waiting for 'em. He sized 'em all up as to which would get along with each horse best, and being he was still dubious as to what The Cougar might do, he looked 'em all over careful once more till the strongest and most able looking young man in the bunch was spotted.
The Cougar's reins was handed to him, and sort of cautious, he asked:
"I suppose you know how to ride well?"
That young man turned on him, surprised at such a question, and answered sarcastic:
"Why certainly."
The stable man grinned as he watched him and all ride up the street. "Why certainly," he says to himself, and grinned some more. "I hope he's just as certain on his riding when he gets back."
It was evening before the party, slouching all over their horses, returned to the stable. The stable man smiled, satisfied, as he noticed that the young feller, not at all mussed up, was still riding The Cougar. He'd been worried about letting that young feller have the horse, but everything was o. k. now and the folks seemed to've all enjoyed their ride considerable, and so well that they wanted the horses again for the next day.
"This is a very fine horse," says the young feller as he got off The Cougar. There was all about him that as much as went on to say, "Why certainly I can ride." The stable man had seen many like him, and knowed exactly how well he could ride; but he was relieved in learning that The Cougar had behaved so well.
"And what's the horse's name?" asks the young feller.
For a minute the stable man done some tall thinking; if the horse's real name was given out, the young feller would sure swell up and bust in learning that he'd rode the famous outlaw nobody else had been able to ride for so long; and even tho the horse hadn't made a single jump with him, his "certainly" would get more conceited than ever. And then again, he maybe wouldn't want the horse any more. So after hesitating a while he finally came onto a new name for the horse.
"Cloudy, is that horse's name," he says.
That name sounded sort of pleasing all around, and it fitted the color of the pony mighty well, but then the good points for it would never loom up like the name of Smoky had in the cow country to the north, nor would it ever be mentioned about from state to state and give thrills just at the sound like the name of The Cougar had often done. But then again that horse wasn't the same no more,--he'd went from top cowhorse, to champion bucking horse and all around outlaw, only to fade away in a livery stable, and there for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to ride as they pleased. Cloudy was just a livery plug.
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 disfigguring 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 tho 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 tho 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 tho it was no place in perticular, the old feller 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 brought back at noon, he'd just have time to eat his grain, when another equestrian would darken the stable door, and ask for Cloudy.
"I enjoy riding that horse so, don't you know."
Everybody preferred Cloudy to any horse the stable man had, and being that feller wasn't running that business for his health, he rented him out every chance he got, and fed him an extra feed of grain so the horse could stand up under the work. Sometimes that horse would be rode till away into the night, then brought in dripping with sweat and often staggering. But the next day his work went on just the same.
Folks of all ages, sizes, build, and packing from none to a big amount of brains, came and rode Cloudy. Once in a while he'd be handled right and like it was known that a horse has feelings and brains; but most of the time his feelings wasn't at all considered. No thought would be given that the horse might of already went a long ways, or that he might be tired. But amongst all that rode him, the boys was the worst, and fast running the old pony downhill and towards the end.
The most of 'em would start the horse on a high lope, and from the time they got on him till he was brought back, that high lope, instead of being let up on, would most always wind up into a high run. Up and down the side streets they'd race him, loan him to other boys to race him some more, and each would do their best to show off on how fast they could make the tired horse go.
There was times as the spur, a quirt was layed on the old horse, to make him go faster; when The Cougar heart which had died in him near showed signs of coming back to life again; but the pony's spirit had dwindled down as the years accumulated, and he couldn't back the way he felt. He was weary both in mind and body, and no chance was ever given him so as to let either rest; and if once in a while the heart of The Cougar did make a try at coming back it wasn't for long. The flame would only sputter and go out, and another rap with the quirt would only make him try to do his best once again, as just plain Cloudy, the livery stable plug.
The boys, girls, and grown ups kept a setting on the old horse; and not knowing, but sure and steady, was riding and dragging him down to a death that'd be away ahead of the time when it should come. They'd compared well with a pack of wolves, for like that kind, none of 'em would ever wanted to come within a hundred yards of the horse when he was up and a fighting. None of 'em would ever dreamed of wanting to set on his back when he was The Cougar and hankering to fight and kill, but now and at last he was down; there was no fight in him no more, and like the pack of wolves they compared so well with, they all closed in on him.
The only difference was, the wolf pack killed their victim quick. They don't leave the life drag on for days, weeks and months, nor let the victim suffer to finally die slow and by degrees. Then again, the wolf killed to eat and live.
But there was no blame ever attached to these human wolves who was killing the horse only for the pleasure they'd get in riding him, and the fine exercise that went with it. Most of 'em meant well; only they didn't know. Cloudy, always true in whatever he done, was so willing, no jab of the spur was needed to make him go; and his willingness to do his best that way was often if not always mistaken, and took for granted that he was feeling good and rearing to go.
They didn't know the difference between a tired, wore out horse and one that's fresh and fit to be rode. Then again, there was many who never stopped to realize. To them a horse was just a horse, and they didn't know nothing about horses. That kind figgered a horse to be like an automobile, always able to go and as fast as was wanted; and instead of stepping on the gas like is done with a car, just give the horse the whip, and that way keep him right on a going.
A winter came and scattered the bright fall days four ways. The coming of the long, cold winter, along with the raw winds that swept down from the divide, brought to the folks around a dread of the dreary months that was to follow. Them folks wasn't for enjoying being out much any more, and instead found a lot of comfort in being where there was a roof over their heads, and a fire roaring between the four walls.
The tourists had all left, and scattered back to where they came. "The town was dead," and many heads was got together a trying to figger ways to break the monotony that'd took hold of the community. For two weeks a cold wind had blowed down off the mountain and once in a while would bring along light flakes of snow that kept a skipping and never seemed to light. The weather was cussed at by some, while others kept busy bringing in wood and coal, and not any had a good word put in for Old Man Winter, not any excepting one, and that one was only an old livery stable plug.
That old plug couldn't of said anything anyway, but he done better, he felt what he couldn't say. He felt that the coming of winter that way and the evaporating of the tourists and the others, as it came, was all that saved what little life he had left. There was saddle sores on his back, and he'd got to where there was nothing to him but a rack of bones on which a hide hung. That hide was faded from many a sweating, and in spots the hair had wore off and left it bare. His weary legs near buckled under him, and was hardly able to pack the weight he'd reduced to; and another couple of weeks more the old pony would of been done for. He'd long ago been going on his nerve, and that had been fast wearing out on him.
But now, it looked like Old Man Winter had come just in time and saved him from the bone pile. There'd been two weeks when the cold winds howled, whistled thru the cracks of the stable and shook it; and in them two weeks, the old horse had recuperated some till he was able to listen to the howling wind and feel the while that no equestrian would be showing up to interrupt the rest he was needing so bad.
Every person around wondered when that awful wind was going to stop; but with Cloudy, and if he could of, he'd wished that wind would last forever. It'd got to be sweet music to his ears, and he dozed to his heart's content only to be woke up out of his dream to stare at a fresh forkful of hay once in a while. Then he'd eat a spell, listen to the wind some more, and on the sound of it, go to dozing again. Maybe dreaming of a winter range, somewheres, and far away. Pecos is by him maybe, while he dreams, then other ponies of the Rocking R, and on a ridge watching him is Clint--the only real friend he'd ever knowed.
The winter months wore on and Cloudy begin to look like a horse again; then spring come, and the air that came with it got the folks to wanting to be out. One day the gray haired gent who'd rode Cloudy in mornings of the summer before showed up again and was picked on as one steady customer for the pony; then a few days later a young lady came to the stable who "just loved horses," and asked if she could get Cloudy every afternoon and whenever the weather was fit to ride in.
The stable man let her have the horse once and noticing what good care she'd took of him, figgered her as another steady customer for the old horse. With her and the grey haired man showing up every day he allowed how that would be enough work for him, and none of the other equestrians ever got a chance to set on that horse from then on.
A few years before, and if Cloudy had been the kind of a horse folks would want to ride, that pony would of been able to take on a couple more equestrians and stand up under the work easy enough; but now he was getting too old for much more riding, and the stable man realizing that, was trying to make him last as long as he could. But Cloudy was getting stiff mighty fast along the shoulders and front legs, he couldn't reach out no more in the same stride that'd been his; and instead, whenever a front foot touched the ground for another step, it was like he was placing it on needles, and careful so as not to jar his shoulders and the rest of his body any more than he could help.
There was times when he felt like he wanted to split the breeze the same as he used to, but that feeling was mostly in his heart, and his old legs couldn't follow up. Them old legs had hit the ground too hard, too many times, and jarred too many riders out of the saddle at the rodeos where he'd performed as a bucking horse. Then the first year of livery stable work where he was jammed around on the town's hard and rocky streets put the kibosh on him for fair. The old tendons had been called on to do too much.
But neither the old gent nor the young lady that was riding him every day noticed the stiffness crawling up on the old horse. He still went, and he still seemed willing to go some more, and far as they could tell he was as good as any four year old. Both took care of him so well that no hint ever came to either of 'em that they was riding an old horse what had along ago earned freedom and a rest for what few years was still his to live.
Every afternoon the girl came, her pockets loaded down with lumps of sugar, and refusing help, saddled Cloudy and headed him for a trail from where the scenery around could be seen and well. She'd pet him on the neck and run her fingers thru his mane, and talk while the pony, given plenty of time, would pick his way thru the rocks and brush. She'd let him rest often while in the steepest climbs, and sometimes would get out of the saddle so as to give him a better chance. At them times, she'd reach in the pocket of her white riding habit and get a few lumps of the sugar she'd brought for him.
Cloudy hadn't been much for sugar when it was first introduced to him. He'd sniffed and snorted at the white lump, but the young lady had kept it under his nose till he finally nibbled at it. It didn't taste so bad, and he'd nibbled at it again, and some more, till came a time as the girl kept a feeding it to him right along he'd got to looking for it. He'd even stop sometimes, look back at her while she was on him, and make it mighty plain that he wanted another one of them white lumps; and when she was by him on the ground he kept a trying to stick his nose in her pockets and reaching for 'em. He knowed where she carried it.
What a surprise it would of been for the cowboys who knowed Cloudy when he was The Cougar, the man killer, to've seen him in the act of bumming a young lady for sugar that way; and what a surprise it would of been for that same young lady to've learned that not so very long ago that horse would of took her hand and snapped it off at the wrist if that hand had ever come to within reaching distance.
It would of been a surprise sure enough, and afterwards, she'd figgered the horse being mean that way would of been on account of rough treatment by some one. She'd been right, even if that some one was only a scrub of a degenerate halfbreed and not fit to be classed amongst humans. Without him coming into the life of that pony there wouldn't of been no such a horse as The Cougar, and he'd still be known around to the northern country as Smoky, the best cowhorse that ever busted a critter.
But anyway, and whatever had been in the past of the horse that was now better known as Cloudy, didn't worry the young lady any. To her he was "the sweetest horse" she'd ever seen, and she kept a supplying him with sugar. If she knowed that lumps of sugar wasn't the best thing there is to feed to a horse, she'd filled her pockets with a handful or so of grain instead, or something that's more fitting to a horse's stomach that way; but she didn't know, and she sure meant well.
Fine warm spring days came, the kind of days when folks and animals alike hunt for a place where the sun shines the best. The last storm of the season had left, and as it went the last of Cloudy's rest had come to an end. That pony was rearing to go (as best as he could) when the young lady came and saddled him one bright afternoon; and as she'd been cooped up considerable herself, her spirits more than agreed with that of the horse.
Out of the stable old Cloudy went, his legs hardly feeling the stiffness that was in 'em, and seeming like his hoofs was more for flying and not at all for touching the ground. The old pony acted like he wanted to go so bad that the girl didn't have time heart to hold him back; besides the stable man had told her one time that it wouldn't hurt to let him run once in a while, if for a short ways; so, leaning ahead on her saddle, she let the horse go.
Cloudy et up the distance and brought up sudden changes of scenery as mile after mile was covered and left behind. With the warming up of the run, the stiffness went out of his legs. He felt near young again, and was taking the steep hills more like a four year old than the old stove up horse he was. Sweat begin a dripping from him, and as the gait was kept up, that sweat turned to white lather.
His whole hide was soaked and steaming from the heat of his body, but he kept right on a wanting to go, and like the girl, the excitement of the run had got a holt of him till neither realized they was carrying a good thing too far. The girl's hair was flying in the breeze that was stirred. She'd lost her hat, but she wasn't caring. To be going and splitting up some more of that breeze had got to the girl's head, and cheeks flushed and a smiling she was sure getting a heap of joy out of just being alive and a going.
The trail followed along a stream and up a canyon; it kept a getting steeper and steeper, and the old horse begin to breathe harder and harder, till finally, his wide open nostrils couldn't take on enough air to do him no more. He had to slow down or else drop in his tracks, but Cloudy didn't slow down, and not a sign showed on him that he was wanting to. He was the kind of a horse that never quit and would keep right on a going till his heart stopped.
The girl, not at all realizing, kept a riding and enjoying the fast pace for all she was worth. She might of rode the old pony to his death that afternoon, only, the trail stopped and she couldn't follow it no further. It had washed out during the spring thaw, and a place ten feet wide and as deep had cut the trail in two.
She stopped there, and coming out of the trance the fast ride had put her in, she started looking for a place to cross, but there wasn't any, and the only way left was to go back on the trail she'd come.
She put her hands on Cloudy's neck like to tell him how it was "too bad the trail stopped short that way" but she never got to say the words. The feel of the sweat and lather that covered the horse left her dumb, and then she noticed how hard he was breathing.
The thrill of the run had turned to sudden worry and fear for what she might of done, and another sort of excitement took a holt of her as she realized and then wondered what to do. She stepped away from the horse and wide eyed looked at him. She'd never seen a horse shake and quiver all over like that one was doing. He seemed like hardly able to stand up, rocked back and forth like he was going to keel over any minute. Cloudy was "jiggered"* and his staggering scared her all the more. She must do something, and quick.
-----
* Overrun.
-----
The first thing that came to her was to try and cool him off before, as she figgered, he fainted from being overheated. She tore at the saddle and worked at the latigos till it was loosened, then she pulled it off and with the blanket throwed it to the ground. Steam raised off the pony's back, and at the sight of that the girl got excited all the more. Then she spotted the mountain stream below and just a little ways.
She led the horse careful and over to it, and then, thinking steady of quick ways to cool the horse off, she figgered it a good idea to lead him in the water and where it was the deepest. She skipped from boulder to boulder till finally a place was found where the water came up above the pony's knees, and there she let him stand, while with her cupped hands she splashed the cold snow water on his chest, shoulders, and back.
A half an hour or so of that, and the horse at last quit quivering, showed signs that he was cooled off and got his breath all o. k. again. After a while he drank, and then drank some more, and the girl watching him felt sure that the worst was over and that the horse was saved. She smiled, petted him on the neck, and felt relieved at the natural way he'd got to acting again.
The sun was hitting for the tall peaks to the west when the girl finally decided Cloudy was all right again and fit to start back. He was good and dry by then and felt cool; she'd kept him in the shade all the while, and being that mountain shade is not at all warm at that time of the year, the old pony was near shivering from the cold by the time the girl led him back to the saddle and put it on him again.
The ride back to the stable was like a funeral march as compared with the one starting out. The horse was kept on a slow walk all the way, and every care was taken by the girl so that only the easiest trail was followed. She worried as she rode along and noticed that the horse didn't seem to be the same as before; his step wasn't so sure and he'd stumble when there was nothing on the ground for him to stumble on, and then he'd sway like he was weak.
It was away after dark when finally the stable was reached, the stable man was there and waiting, and greeting the young lady with a smile he asked:
"Did you water Cloudy before you left?"
"No," says the girl, "but I watered him on the mountain where I turned to come back."
"The reason I asked, is because the new stable boy I hired forgot to water him this morning, or he thought I did."
The grey haired man didn't get to ride Cloudy the next day, nor did anybody else, for that horse was hardly able to even get out of the stall; his legs was like so many sticks of wood and with no more bend in 'em than them same sticks have. His head hung near to the ground, and not a spear of the hay that'd been put in the manger had been touched.
The girl came to the stable that noon, and would of cried at the sight of him, only the stable man came up, and she held the tears back best as she could.
"Looks like he's done for," says that feller as he came up. He didn't ask the girl what she'd done, cause a look at the horse told him the whole story better than the girl could of; and as he figgered, a man has to take them chances when he's renting horses out that way. Besides, the girl looked so downhearted about it that he didn't have the heart to do any more but try to cheer her up.
"I'll doctor him up the best I can, and maybe get him to come out of it a little."
The girl took hopes at them words, and her eyes a shining, asked:
"And can I come and help you?"
Every day from then on the time the girl had used a riding Cloudy was spent in the stable and by that horse. Liniments and medicines of all kinds was dug up and bought and used, and as the stable man watched her trying to do her best, he'd only shake his head. He knowed it was no use, and if the horse did come out of it, he'd never come out of it enough to ever be of any use as a saddle horse again.
The horse had been foundered.--The twenty-four hours without water, the hard run and sweating up, and then cooled off sudden in ice cold water, and drinking his fill of that same water, and all at once, had crippled him and stoved him up in a way where he'd be plum useless, only maybe for slow work and hooked to a wagon.
A month went by, and the doctoring went on, the girl always a hoping; and then one day she came to the stable to find the horse gone. She hunted up the stable man and finally, after a lot of running around, found him up in the hay loft.
"I figgered," says that feller on finding himself cornered, "that it'd be best to turn him loose. There's good range up north a ways and thinking it'd do him more good to be loose that way on good feed, I just took him up there."
But there was no good range in that country, not for many miles. The stable man had lied to save the girl's feelings. And instead, realizing that he couldn't turn the horse loose only maybe to let him starve, and being he couldn't afford to keep and feed a useless horse, there'd been only one way out. He'd sold him to a man who bought old horses and killed 'em for chicken feed.