Smoky, the cow horse

by Will James

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. May be 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.