And as his mammy went to join the bunch, he followed and the big buckskin bought up the rear. From then on Smoky ranked second.
CHAPTER III
WHERE THE TRAILS FORK
Middle summer had come, the day was hot and still; even up amongst the high peaks and where the snow was making a last stand the heat was strong, for the sun was shooting straight down and the crags could give no more shade. Up on a rocky trail of that country a small bunch of range horses was drifting one behind the other and following the leader,—the leader was Smoky's mammy, the new little black colt right at her heels and next the blaze faced, mouse colored, yearling, Smoky. A little further back was a big buckskin horse and there followed eight or ten others which made up the rest of the bunch.
They all trailed along seemed like headed for nowheres in particular. They passed under wind-twisted trees and right on thru the shade they'd give. Cool streams wasn't even sniffed at, and the long stems of grass that was everywhere wasn't at all noticed, they was all just drifting and maybe only hitting out for another special good part of the high range.—A feller watching 'em would of figgered that something or other had started 'em on the move, maybe a rider had been spotted that morning which had kettled 'em into a run, or else cougars might of been too numerous for comfort.
The little bunch kept a trailing along till they came to where the trail branched and the leader took the lower one, the little black colt and all the rest followed, all excepting the mouse colored yearling. The upper trail had drawed that one's interest, and nothing would do but what he had to investigate it for a ways. He kept his nose on the ground as he went and sniffed for clues of anything that might be of interest to him, he could see the bunch below and he figgered on cutting across to 'em soon as his curiosity was satisfied.
Ahead of him a ways and above the trail was a big granite boulder a good ten feet high. A scrub mahogany had found root in a crack of the big rock and was spreading its branches well over it and making a good shade. In that shade and mighty hard to notice, was an object, a long, flat, dark buckskin object, which looked a lot like part of the rock. It was stretched out full length and seemed like without life only maybe for the tip of its long, round tail which was jerking up and down. The round head raised an inch at the sound of hoofs on the rocky trail, the ears flattened and the yellow eyes turned jet black at the sight of Smoky, the mouse colored yearling.
Smoky was coming right on the trail and would pass to within a couple of feet of the big rock that was the mountain lion's game hunting perch, many a deer he'd pounced onto and killed from that perch; and not far away from that spot was bones scattered around which showed where he'd drug his victims and et his fill. Wolves, cayotes, and other varmints had cleaned up what the big lion would leave and the result was white bones a shining to the sun.
The lion had a big territory which he claimed as his, but in all that rough country there was no better place than the one he was now getting ready to spring from, he'd got meat from that spot when he failed at others, and the trail he overlooked was tracked with many hoofs, hoofs of all the kind that ranged up there,—it was a main trail to a main pass.