"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 payroll 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 down 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 to
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."
[Illustration: Many a cowboy had remarked it was worth the price of a
good show to watch Smoky outdodge the critter.]
The owner of a neighbor outfit sent word by one of his "reps"[1] 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.
[Footnote 1: Riders representing other outfits.]
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.
Ole 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 loose 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 wont 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.
[Illustration: The next day Clint was busy bringing the weak stock
closer to the ranch.]
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 specially 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."
The 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 wont 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.
[Illustration: Heavy drifts was lunged into and hit on a high run as
they tried to leave the rider behind.]
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 of his gunny sack covered boots to the dark
face which showed under the wore out black hat, pointed out as the
man being a halfbreed 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 halfbreed 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 and 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.