With a lot of pain and time and coaching from Jeff, Clint finally managed to raise one leg over the cantle of the saddle and let himself slide to the ground. Smoky stood still as a statue and as solid, his eyes was on Jeff with a steady warning for him to keep his distance—and Jeff did.
Smoky's eyes was on Jeff with a steady warning in 'em for him to keep his distance—and Jeff did.
"Hang on to the saddle," coached Jeff, "try and get the horse thru the gate in the corral, and I'll close the gate on him."
That was done in time, and as the gate was closed Clint's hands went limp and he fell to the ground. Lucky it was that Jeff could reach him thru the corral bars, but he had to do considerable manouvering even then to get the cowboy thru and under so as not to stir Smoky. And it was a mighty good thing for Jeff as he picked Clint up and started towards the house that there was bars high and strong between him and that pony, for as high and strong as that corral was Jeff worried some and, looking back over his shoulder as he went, wondered if it would hold him.
The sun had sunk away, and dark had come before Clint came to well enough so things was plain to him and he could talk. Jeff had made him as comfortable as was possible, boiled some "jerky" and made a strong broth which he was holding under Clint's nose for him to sniff at.
That cowboy sniffed, looked around, and then said, "where's Smoky?"