A few days went by when Smoky seemed in a trance. He remembered some of being led and jerked all the way back to the breed's hangout, of being saddled the next day and jerked around some more, and then rode out and with spur and quirt, made to trot around. He didn't realize the breed had set on him or he didn't seem to care. The little hay that was throwed out to him wasn't noticed, and hardly did he drink,—only if by chance he happened to mope around the corral and find himself standing in the stream that was running in one side of it.
There was everything about the horse to indicate that in a few more days he'd be laying down, never to get up no more; his trail seemed fast coming to an end, and the heart that was left in him had shrunk till nary a beat of it could be felt. The breed kept a riding him out, thinking he at last and for sure had the horse right where he wanted him.
"I'll make a good horse out of you, you scrub," he'd say as he'd beat him over the head with his quirt and at the same time cut him with the spur. Smoky had seemed to feel neither the quirt nor the spur. He didn't flinch nor even bat an eye as both would come down on him and leave the marks. There seemed to be no sign of hopes or life left in the horse, and the abuse went on till, finally, one day the breed happened to cut the horse a little deeper and in a more sensitive place.
That cut had stirred the pony's shrunk up heart, and a faint spark had showed in his eyes for a second. The next day Smoky even snorted a little as the breed walked into the corral, and he tried to buck some as he climbed into the saddle. The breed was surprised at the new show of spirit, and remarked as he took down his quirt:
"I'll take that out of you."
From that day on Smoky's heart begin to expand towards natural size once more—But it wasn't the same kind of heart that had once been his,—that first one had died, and this one had took root from abuse, growed from rough treatment to full size, and with hankerings in it only for finding and destroying all that wasn't to his liking. And there was nothing to his liking no more.
The breed he hated more than anything in the world, but Smoky, with that new heart of his, wasn't for showing them feelings much. He'd got wise in ways of how and when to do his fighting, and where it'd do most good;—he'd wait for a chance. In the meantime he'd got to eating every stem of what little hay the breed would hand him; he'd have to live to carry out them new ambitions of his.
But somehow, a hint of Smoky's new ambitions must of leaked out; anyway the breed had a hunch that it wouldn't be well for him to come too close to that pony's teeth and hoofs. He'd often watch him thru the corral poles and wonder, he'd sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be best to just place a forty-five slug between that pony's ears instead of fooling with him, but the hopes of still being able to sell the horse for a good price would always keep him from drawing his gun.
