And then there was "Smoky," that mouse colored horse;--he'd heard how four hundred dollars had been offered for that pony, and allowed that some other cowman to the south would be glad to give at least half that price for him, once it was showed what a cowhorse he really was. A few hundred miles to the south was the breed's hangout, a place in a low country and where the snow hardly stayed. Once there he could take it easy, let the ponies fatten up, and after the brand was well "blotched" so nobody would recognize the original, he'd sell 'em one at a time for a good price or ship 'em out to some horse dealer. In the meantime he had nothing to worry about, the storm had took his trail off the face of the earth, there was a good seventy miles between him and where he'd started with the horses, and near a hundred miles to the Rocking R home ranch. CHAPTER XI "THE FEEL OF A STRANGE HAND" A long month had passed since Clint had rode out to get Smoky and came back with a calf instead. Every day since, that cowboy had been for going after Smoky again, but the deep snow and storms had more than kept him breaking trails for snowbound cattle that was weak and needed bringing in, he couldn't find no time and hadn't been able to frame no excuse so as he could hit out for Smoky's range. Then one morning he got up with a hunch. He tried to keep it down, but every morning it got stronger till finally Clint just had to saddle up the best horse he had and hit out for where Smoky had been wintering. The last big storm had let up a few days before, and many fresh tracks covered the horse range, Clint trailed and trailed, he found and went thru many bunches of ponies, but no Smoky. Even the bunch that pony was running with when last seen had seemed to evaporate into thin air, and there Clint wondered. He wondered if somebody'd stole him and the bunch, but he put that off, figgering that no horse thief would steal horses packing as well known a brand as the Rocking R, unless he was a daggone fool, or a daggone good one. Anyway, as worried as Clint was, he felt some relieved in not finding the bunch Smoky had been with, for if he'd found them and no Smoky that'd been proof enough that the pony had went and died somewheres. The other ponies he'd seen that day still looked good and strong, and that was proof enough that Smoky must be the same. "Most likely him and his bunch just drifted with that last storm and went back to their home range," Clint thought, as he headed his horse back for the ranch, but the hunch that was still with him didn't seem to agree with that thought none at all.