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. [Illustration: 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. [Illustration: 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.] But all them good points of Smoky's was nothing as compared to the rest of what that horse really had been _as a horse_, and there's where Smoky had got under Clint's hide, as a horse, one in a thousand. The last of the wagons had trailed into the home ranch, and the next day, the remuda was hazed out to the winter range.--Clint wasn't along that fall to see the ponies turned loose. Instead he was in the big bunk house at the home ranch, and busy stuffing his saddle into a gunny sack. A railroad map was spread on the floor and which the cowboy had been studying. Jeff opened the door of the bunk house and took in at a glance what all Clint was up to;--he noticed the railroad map laying by his foot and smiled. "I figgered you would," he says, "now that Smoky is not with the outfit no more."