Clint rode on for the Rocking R thru that summer and fall, and always as he rode, he kept an eye on the country around and hoping that sometimes he'd run acrost his one horse, Smoky. He didn't want to think that the horse had been stolen, and he kept a saying to himself as he rode: "he's just strayed away somewheres."—There wasn't a draw, coulee, or creek bottom passed by without the whole of it was looked into, and never before was the Rocking R country looked into so well. Every rider, on down to the wrangler, kept his eyes peeled for the mouse colored horse, and even tho cattle is what the wagons was out for, there was more eyes out for Smoky, and cattle was only brought in as second best.
And even tho cattle is what the round up wagons was out for, there was more eyes out for Smoky, and cattle was only brought in as second best.
It wasn't till fall round up was near over that Clint begin losing all hope of ever seeing Smoky again in that country, and as them hopes left him, there came a hankering for him to move. Maybe it was just to be moving and riding on some other range for a change, but back of it all, and if Clint had stopped to figger some, he'd found that his hankering to move wasn't only for seeing new territory,—there was a faint hope away deep, that some day, somewheres, he'd find Smoky.
For that pony had got tangled up in the cowboy's heartstrings a heap more than that cowboy wanted to let on, even to himself. He couldn't get away from how he missed him. He'd thought of him when on day herd and how the horse had seemed to understand every word he'd said. On the cutting grounds, he'd kept a comparing whatever horse he'd be riding with Smoky, and find that pony (no matter how good he was) a mighty poor excuse of a cowhorse alongside of the mouse colored pony that was missing.
Clint'd keep on comparing whatever horse he'd be riding with Smoky, and find that pony (no matter how good he was) a mighty poor excuse as compared with the mouse colored horse that was missing.