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.
That pony had been harder to get near than any of the wild ones he was with.
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.