"THE SQUEAK OF LEATHER"
Twenty feet of rope is laying between the cowboy's hand and the pony's
head. The cowboy is standing there just watching and smiling some at
the surprised look that's in the pony's face, that pony had just been
stopped sudden in his bucking with an empty saddle;--it was the first
time a saddle had been on his slick back and it was no wonder he tried
to get out from under that thing, nothing had ever clung there before.
[Illustration: He didn't forget how he was stopped, and so sudden, that
first time he'd tried to break with an empty saddle.]
"Now, you just take it easy for a spell, and keep your head up," says
that cowboy as he started walking towards the pony.--Legs wide apart,
a wild look in his eyes, and a snorting his surprise Smoky watched him
come; he didn't know whether to stand his ground and start fighting
or back away as the cowboy came.--On he came, and as Smoky was seeing
no sign of harm, he stood in his tracks, watched, and waited. A hand
touched him on the forehead and moved on down his neck, the cowboy
was a talking to him the while, and pretty soon Smoky's heart wasn't
thumping so hard no more.----
[Illustration: A hand touched him on the forehead.]
He was then led a little ways, and as he heard the squeak of leather
and felt the weight of the saddle with each step he took, an awful
hankering came to him to put his head down and try to buck it off, but
the cowboy was right there in front of him and he didn't want to be
stopped again and so sudden as he'd been stopped that first time.
The other side of the corral was reached and there Clint turned and
rubbed Smoky on the ear. "Well, old boy, lets see how you're going to
behave when I get up in the middle of you."
Smoky watched the man reach for the latigo and felt the cinch tighten
up; a hump came in his back and which made the saddle set near on
end,--it was the hump that carried the punch in the buck, and most
likely Clint could of led the pony around some till the hump wore down
and his back straightened up again, but that rider wasn't for taking
the buck out of a bronc too quick. He believed a good sensible horse
should buck at the first few "settings" and he wasn't the kind of rider
that'd smother that natural feeling and have it come out later, when
the horse is supposed to be broke gentle.
He let the hump be and never moved the pony out of his tracks;--he
knowed that just one move would be enough to start that pony to
exploding, and Smoky was set and just a waiting for that signal to
start. He watched the cowboy raise his chaps so the belt wouldn't
hinder his leg action, watched him pull his hat brim down solid, and
then he couldn't watch no more. Something had come between him and his
vision, it was the cowboy's thumb which had layed over his left eyelid
and pulled it down over his eye--In the next second he felt a weight
added on to that of the saddle, and all of a sudden he could see again.
But what he did see left him stary eyed and paralized. For half a
minute he just stood like petrified, that cowboy had disappeared from
the side of him, and instead, there he was right in the middle of his
back and on that hunk of leather he'd been hankering to shed off ever
since it was put on there.
Instinct pointed out only one way for him to act,--it was telling him
that neither the human nor the leather belonged up there in the middle
of him that way, and that if he tried he could most likely get rid of
'em. There was nothing else to do that he could see, and right then he
felt that he sure must do _something_.
His head went down, and a beller came out of him that said much as "I
want you"--Up went Smoky's withers followed by the hump that made the
saddle twist like on a pivot, and last came steel muscles like shot
out of the earth and which carried the whole mixed up and crooked
conglameration of man and horse up in mid air and seemed like to shake
there for a spell before coming down. All seemed heads and tails and
made a picture of the kind that was mighty hard to see, and still
harder to figger out.
Saddle strings was a popping like on a whip lash, leather was a
squeaking, corrals shook as the hard hitting hoofs of the pony hit the
earth, and a dust was stirred that looked like a young cloud. Smoky was
scared, mad, and desperate. All the action, strength, and endurance
that was in him was brought out to do its best. Not a hair on his hide
was laying idle thru the performance,--every muscle tightened and
loosened in a way to shake the weight on his back and make it pop.
Clint felt the muscles work even thru the saddle, and every part of
that pony which his legs touched seemed as hard as steel and full of
fast working bumps which came and went, twisted his saddle under him,
and made him wonder if it was going to stay. It seemed like sometimes
that Smoky was headed one way and his saddle another,--he wasn't always
sure of the whereabouts of that pony's head; and in all his riding
that's what he wanted to keep track of most, cause losing track of a
horse's head at them times is something like riding blindfolded--a
rider would prepare for one kind of a jolt and meet another, which
would cause things to scatter considerable.
Clint was still straight up and on top when Smoky's hard jumps finally
dwindled down to crowhops and then a stop. That pony was needing
wind mighty bad, and as his nostrils opened wide, was taking in the
necessary air, he felt a hand a rubbing along his neck, and wild eyed,
ears cocked back at the cowboy that was still there, he stood and heard
him talk.
"You done a mighty fine job little horse," says Clint, "and I'd of been
disappointed a lot not to've found that kind of spirit in a horse like
you."
* * * * *
If Smoky had been raised amongst humans like a dog and been with 'em
steady that way, he'd of had a hunch or felt what Clint said and meant.
But Smoky was a wild horse of the flats and mountains, and even tho the
sound of Clint's tone and the feel of his hand soothed him some, he
would buck again and again. It was his instinct to fight the human, and
he would fight till that human showed he could handle him and proved a
friend.
That had to be done gradual, and Smoky had no way to know as yet that
man could be a friend of his, not while the breaking was going on
anyway, for thru that spell a horse is _made_ to do things he sometimes
don't want to do and which all keeps down the confidence that would
come faster if that didn't have to be done.
Smoky was doing some tall figgering as he stood there trembling and
wondering if there wasn't anything that he could get by with. He'd been
made to do things just as that cowboy pleased and he'd found no say
in the goings on, none at all. If he could only've bucked him off that
would of pleased him a lot, but the little horse didn't know that he
wouldn't of won anything by that;--he didn't know he was on this earth
for the purpose of the human and that if he did throw one man another
would climb him till finally he'd have to give in and go thru a lot of
grief the while.
Smoky felt a light slap on his neck. "Come on, young feller," says the
cowboy. "Lets see you trot around the corral a while."
But Smoky bucked more than he trotted, the cowboy let him, and when his
head would come up he'd keep him on the go till finally there seemed to
be no buck in the horse at all.
"I reckon that'll be enough for you to-day," says Clint, as he headed
Smoky for the side of the corral and made him face the bars to a stop.
He then reached for the pony's left ear and twisted it some, just
enough to keep that pony's attention on the twist of that ear most
while he got off.
Clint touched the ground with his right foot, and keeping his left in
the stirrup, at the same time keeping close to the horse's shoulder
and out of the reach of his hind feet, he held that position for a few
seconds. Smoky was watching him, shaking like a leaf and ready to paw
the daylight out of the cowboy at the first wrong move or sudden jab of
a knee.
Clint _wanted_ him to watch. This was part of the eddication, and all
that cowboy wanted to teach right then was for Smoky to stand and not
to go to acting up. Slow and easy, at the same time having complete
control of himself and his horse, Clint raised himself up in the saddle
again. It was done in a way that only bronc busters know. Smoky never
even felt the pull on the saddle as the cowboy climbed on, and if that
saddle hadn't even been cinched it wouldn't of budged then, so neat it
was done.
Clint climbed on and off a few times that way, Smoky stood and
shivered, scared, but willing it seemed like to take his medicine.
Maybe it'd come to his mind that there was no use fighting that cowboy,
or else he was getting tired--anyway that was the last of it, Smoky
felt the cinch loosen and then slow and easy the saddle was pulled off.
About that time he whirled and faced the rider who was holding the
saddle, he took a sniff at the hunk of leather and snorted like to say,
"Gee! I thought that thing was on me for good."
The saddle was set to one side and the cowboy begin rubbing Smoky's
back with a gunny sack, and according to the way that pony acted that
felt mighty good, his upper lip stuck out and twitched with every
motion of the rubbing, and when Clint finally quit the little horse's
action showed plain that he should do it some more, Clint rubbed again.
"I'm afraid," he says as he grinned and rubbed, "that I'm naturally
going to spoil you. Here we just got thru with the first saddling and
you're beginning to look for favors already."
* * * * *
Smoky's picket grounds was moved to a fresh one for that night and
where the grass was tall, a plenty and green,--but somehow his
appetite wasn't at its best, and when the break of day come there
was very little sign (as Clint noticed) that the pony had et at all.
He'd just stood in one spot, looked like, and seemed to've done tall
wondering and figgering instead of feeding. He was ganted up the same
as if he'd been rode all that night, and still there was no show of any
appetite for the feed that was under and all around him.
As Clint worked in the corral busy with other broncs he'd look thru the
bars for any show of interest in the little horse, he'd look often but
most every time that pony's position was about the same, and if he did
catch him with his head down he noticed how Smoky was just nibbling at
the feed, and not eating much.
Smoky was taking the change, from the life he'd led to what he was now
going thru kinda hard, harder than the average wild horse ever does,
and Clint layed it that the little horse had more brains than the
average, more sensitive maybe, and more able to realize.
"I guess I'd better lay off of him to-day," decides the cowboy, as
he noticed very little change in him even late that afternoon, "he's
having a hard time trying to figger things out as it is."
It was bright and early the next morning when Clint looked out of the
bunk house door and noticed Smoky out on the creek bottom. It appeared
that the little horse, after figgering and figgering, had come to some
sort of decision, and that done and settled had went to eating again,
for that's what he was doing when Clint looked out,--Smoky was eating
like he was trying to make up for the time he'd lost, and he seemed
all at peace with everything in general.
The cowboy grinned, "I know what that son of a gun has decided on,"
he remarked. "He's going to fight, and I see where I'm sure due for a
tossing from that pony to-day."
Clint done his day's work, and after riding and lining out nine head of
rough and kinky broncs, went to where Smoky was picketed and led him
into the corral where he'd been initiated a couple of days before. He
was some kind of a different horse than what he'd been that day, his
head was higher and more with just one purpose. He didn't shy and snort
at every little thing like he did that first time, and Clint noticed
that he never seemed to see the saddle as it was eased on his back and
cinched.
"I don't like the sound of them 'rollers' that's making that noise in
them nostrils of yours," he remarked; "they sound to me like you meant
business."
Smoky did mean business, and even tho Clint was doing considerable
kidding, he meant business too, he wasn't going to let the little horse
get away with anything, for he realized that if he did it'd be harder
than ever to persuade him to be good, he'd have to be treated rough,
and Clint didn't want to treat him rough.
The cowboy seen the light in Smoky's eyes and understood it, he
understood his every action, and they all meant fight.
"I'm glad to see so much spirit in you old boy," he says as he pulled
his hat down, "but if you want to fight I'll have to fight too, and
here's hoping the best one of us wins;--let's go."
Smoky only shook his head a little as Clint put his hand on his left
eye and mounted, he didn't want to notice a little thing like that,
which was just as much a warning from him for that cowboy to get set,
set well and solid, for in this next performance things was a going to
pop worse than ever.
There's a big difference between the bucking that comes with the first
setting of a bronc and the bucking that comes with the settings that
follows afterwards on that same bronc. The first time Smoky was rode
he was just a plain scared pony, of course his intentions was all to
the good towards throwing that cowboy, saddle and all, off, but he was
too scared and desperate to try and figger out how that should be done.
He'd learned from that first setting that plain bucking wouldn't faze
that rider, he'd have to use some science, and with a cool head, study
out the weak points the rider might have, and work on them weak points
till a shadow on the ground tells him the cowboy is _leaving_.
Smoky had learned that it wouldn't get him anything to stampede hot
headed into bucking like he did that first time, maybe that's what he'd
been studying on the last day or so. Anyway, he was some cool horse,
and when he "bowed his head" this time it was all done deliberate and
easy. He lined out with a few easy jumps just to sort of feel out how
that cowboy was a setting as a preliminary, and with an eye back on all
the movements of the rider as he went, he layed his plans on just how
to proceed and get his man.
It was just when Clint seemed to be riding his easiest when without
warning Smoky "broke in two" and brought out some mighty wicked
saddle-twisting, and cowboy-loosening jumps; crooked, high, and hard
hitting was them jumps. It looked to the horse like his man was
loosened at the sudden turning of events and had been shifted to one
side a little,--and that's just what Smoky was looking for to carry on
the program he'd mapped out.
It was the first encouragement that pony'd got since he first felt a
rope on him, maybe he could get it over that cowboy yet. He bucked all
the harder from the new energy the signs of winning brought him. No
chance did he give so that the cowboy would ever get back in the saddle
and straight up, and every jump from then on was used as a kind of
leverage against the rider,--he bucked in a circle and every time he'd
hit the ground he was his whole length back from where he'd started up.
The cowboy was well up on the fork of the saddle and still to one side.
Smoky bucked on, and cool as a cucumber in a mountain stream, kept
a watching and took care that he didn't buck back under him. He was
holding his own, and looked for signs of the rider loosening some more,
but no sign of that showed. The cowboy was still to one side and well
up in the saddle, but he sure hung there, and with his left hand on the
"Mecate" (hackamore rope) he kept his right up in the air and fanned on
the same as ever.
As the fight kept on and no show of the cowboy ever loosening up any
more was seen, Smoky begin to wonder. He'd tried different tactics and
with all his figgering and variety of side-winding he couldn't tear
away from that hanging hunk of humanity. He was getting tired, his
lungs begin to call for air and pretty soon he wasn't so cool no more.
All that was in him, science and everything, was brought out on a few
more earth shaking jumps, and when a glance back showed Smoky the rider
was still setting there, he got desperate again and begin to see red.
He bellered and at the same time forgot all he'd studied on in the ways
of getting his man.
[Illustration: When a glance back showed Smoky the rider was still
there, he got desperate again and begin to see red.]
The fight didn't last long after that, it was too furious and
unscientific. Smoky fought the air, the earth, and everything in
general,--nothing in perticular was his aim, and pretty soon he lined
out in long easy crowhops and then a standstill.
Clint climbed off as Smoky stood spraddle-legged and took in the air.
The little horse never seemed to notice him and in a hazy way felt the
rider's hand rubbing around his ears and straightening out his mane.
"I knowed you'd give me a tossing to-day," says Clint.
And there was one thing Smoky didn't know: it was that no time during
the fight did the cowboy feel he was losing his saddle; a setting to
one side the way he had been was just a long-staying holt of his,
something like a half nelson with the wrastler.
Poor Smoky had lost again, but in a way he'd won,--he'd won the heart
of a cowboy, cause, thru that fight that cowboy's feelings was for the
little horse. He'd seen, understood, and admired the show of thinking
qualities and the spirit which was Smoky's.
* * * * *
The idea might be got, on account of Smoky being the steady loser,
that his spirit would get jarred and finally break, but if anybody
thinking so could of seen that horse the next day that idea would of
been scattered considerable. His time on the picket rope had been spent
on _more_ thinking and figgering, and the way he went after the tall
grass showed he meant to be in shape to carry thru whatever the new
scheme was.
And some would of thought it queer to've seen how Smoky, the steady
loser in the contest, seemed to hold no grudge or hate against the
winning cowboy. As it was, that pony seemed to welcome that human a lot
as he walked towards him the next morning, and the way he rubbed his
head against the shoulder of that smiling rider showed that the fights
in the corral had got to be some friendly. Both was mighty serious, and
both meant to win in them fights, but soon as they was over and the
dust cleared there was a feeling the likes of when two friends have an
argument, when the argument comes to an end both the loser and winner
are ready to grin, shake hands, and be friends again.
Smoky had lost out twice in trying to dodge out from under his man, but
he was nowheres near convinced as yet that it couldn't be done. The
third time Clint climed him that pony bucked harder than ever and that
cowboy just sat up there and let him. Clint had whipped _some_ horses
for bucking that way, but he'd whipped them because it was natural
orneriness that made 'em buck. With Smoky it was different, there was
no meaness in him so far,--that pony was confident that nothing could
set him once he got onto the hang of knowing how to buck real well,
and all he wanted was to be _showed_ for sure that Clint could really
set there and ride him thru his worst that way. After that was done
he'd most likely quit.
* * * * *
The first couple of times Smoky was rode and after he'd quit his
bucking, there hadn't been much more to it excepting that Clint would
just run him around a bit and turn him a few times till the hump was
well down on that pony's back. Smoky had got to thinking that was all
would ever come of being corraled and saddled, and so, he was some
surprised, when after the bucking spell was over at that third setting,
to see the corral gate opened wide, the cowboy on him again, and
heading him for open country.
Smoky took to the high ridges like a duck takes to water, he trotted
out like a good horse, and then was put into a long lope. Covering
territory felt mighty good to the little horse for a change and he
wasn't caring much where the cowboy lined him out to. For a spell he'd
forgot the weight on his back, his ears was straight ahead, and the
hand he felt on his neck only reminded some that somebody was _with_
him.
He was needing that change after being bested again like he'd been that
third time. Clint had won once more and Smoky was a lot in favor of
something, most anything, to drive off the feeling he'd got in losing.
He was taking advantage of the run in that way and sashayed at a good
clip, all went fine, till, of a sudden a jack rabbit scared out of
his hiding place jumped up and right under Smoky's nose,--he shied
straight up and to one side, and at the same time he was scared more
by the wing of Clint's chap which had curled up and slapped along his
shoulder. Away he went to bucking once again.
The first few jumps was mighty wicked but they didn't last; he'd
already had his buck out not long before and pretty soon he
straightened into a lope once again. Clint let him lope a ways then
turned him and headed him back to the corrals, stopped him there,
turned him a few times and started him out a ways only to turn him and
bring him back again. That went on for a few minutes, and then Smoky
was unsaddled and put on the picket rope once more.
The run had tired Smoky a little and give him an appetite. He didn't
do so much figgering on how to get his man that night, and instead he
grazed more, rested some, and even slept a little. When he was led to
the corral the next day and the saddle put on he even neglected to
watch the cowboy and begin to show interest in the broncs that was in
another corral. His ambitions hadn't allowed him to do that before,
but somehow, things had changed.--Figgering ways and means of throwing
off that rider had got to be tiresome, specially when nothing but
disappointment was ever got by it; and besides that saddle and man was
getting so they wasn't so bad to stand up under no more.
But as neutral as Smoky showed and felt, that little son of a gun
bucked again. Of course there was nothing in his bucking that was so
wicked as it had been in them first three saddlings; it was more that
he felt he should buck _some_, it made him feel better, and besides he
was wanting exercise; but he raised the dust and pounded the earth in
good shape even at that, and that play of his would of throwed many a
man.
Another run like the one of the day before, a few turnings and
teachings on the feel of the rein, and Smoky was thru for another day.
He was getting used to the lay of the program Clint had set, and the
new game that was brought on right along as he was rode begin to draw
the pony's interest.
Then one day, the cowboy begin dragging a rope on him; he let it drag
quite a ways, and even tho Smoky watched it mighty close so it wouldn't
circle around his legs and throw him like most ropes always did, it
didn't worry him much. Pretty soon Clint coiled the rope up and made
a loop which he started whirling in the air,--the whirling was slow
and easy at first and done with a small loop. Smoky looked back all
interest and snorted a little; he wondered what that rope was doing up
there and what Clint was up to.
[Illustration: Smoky wondered what a rope was doing up there.]
But nothing happened only that the whirling kept up, the loop was
gradually made bigger and then it was throwed on the ground a ways
in front of him. Smoky shied and snorted and the coils shot out,
straightened, and all of it pulled up again by the cowboy, but he
didn't try to run away from it, he hadn't forgot the eddication he'd
received from the long soft picket rope. He'd learned from it that it
didn't pay to stampede when a rope was around, on account that them
ropes had a way of stopping him that couldn't at all be argued with.
Loops was made, throwed out, and drug in again one right after
another. They went one side one time, and another side the next, then
in front and back, till Smoky begin to lose fear no matter which way
the rope went or how it coiled up. It was at the point when he was
beginning to lose interest in the game that Clint roped a small bush.
The rope tightened on it and Smoky pulled,--he pulled more in wonder
what was holding him than with the idea of what he should do, but
anyway the bush came out and headed straight for Smoky as it did, he
struck at it and would of left from there, but Clint held him and made
him face it.
[Illustration: The bush came out and headed straight for Smoky.]
Smoky shook like a leaf as slow but sure the cowboy kept a pulling
the bush towards him, he struck again and snorted as it touched his
front feet, and he bucked a couple of jumps when he felt it up along
his shoulder, but there was no getting away from it; the way that bush
moved, it looked like something vicious to Smoky, and when Clint took
the rope off of it, and held it out under the pony's nose for him to
see what it was the little horse near showed signs of shame for getting
scared.
Loose stumps, branches, pieces of old wagons, and everything that could
be drug or moved was roped,--anything that was light enough was pulled
up for Smoky to investigate, and each time he was showed that he'd been
shying and fighting for no reason, till finally, nothing could be found
that brought any more than a snort from him. An old coal oil can was
then roped and brought up a rattling under Smoky's nose, but he even
stood his ground at that.
He was learned to pull on the rope and made to drag things as heavy as
a yearling critter. Then gradually Clint made him keep the rope tight
and hold it that way till a couple of light jerks on it made him give
slack. All that took time, and the cowboy learned him only one thing
each day, sometimes very little of that one thing,--but as the days
went by it all accumulated to a lot.
It done Clint's heart good to watch the way Smoky was taking to things,
his little ears worked back and forth, and with his eyes he never
missed a move that went on, his nostrils quivered at all that was new,
and the cowboy was noticing with a glad feeling that the pony was
putting a lot of trust in him, a word from that cowboy, or a touch from
his hand was getting to mean a lot when that pony was dubious or at the
point of scaring at some new happening.
Clint hunted up a bunch of cattle one day and acquainted Smoky with
some pointers in the handling of the critters. He'd haze the horse
in the bunch, cut out some fat kinky yearling, and make him put his
interest on that yearling only. All was a puzzle to Smoky at first,
and he had no idea of what he should do, but Clint give him his time,
and coaching him along it wasn't but a few days when the little
horse understood some of what was wanted of him. In the meantime the
teachings with the rope wasn't left behind, that went along with
working cattle, and once in a while Clint would snare some big calf
and make Smoky keep his nose along that rope while the calf circled,
bucked, and bellered.
Smoky showed signs of liking all that went on. He took interest in it
the same as a kid would to some new game,--he liked to chase the wild
eyed cow, turn her when she didn't want to be turned, and put her where
she didn't want to be put, he liked to hold the rope tight on one of
the critters and feel that _he_ was the one that was keeping 'er
down. It all struck him as a kind of a game where every animal before
him had to do as _he_ and the cowboy wished.
[Illustration: He liked to chase the wild-eyed cow, turn her when she
didn't want to be turned, and put her where she didn't want to be put.]
He was all for catching on and not a nerve in him was idle as Clint
would take him of evenings and ride him out for a spell, and chase, cut
out, or rope at the critter. Them goings on had his mind occupied and
the fact that he'd figger and think on the subject between times was
proved by the way he'd go at things in a decided and knowing how way,
when the day before the same thing had left him puzzled and wondering.
That little work he was getting and the all heart interest he was
finding in it, had settled him to the big change from the free life
he'd led with the old buckskin horse and the bunch of mares and
colts,--his mammy was even forgotten, and instead there'd sprouted in
him something that made him take a liking for the long lanky cowboy
that came to see and _play_ with him every day. He'd got to finding a
lot of pleasure in doing just what that cowboy wanted him to do, and
when that was done there was a hankering in him to do just a little bit
more.
That's the way Clint wanted to keep him; just a hankering to do more
would get results, and he was careful to see that the little horse
didn't tire on the work. He wanted to make it play for him and keep it
that way as long as he could, for he knowed that was the way to keep
Smoky's heart and spirit all in one hunk and intact.