"I'll tend to you some more," he hollered at Smoky, and getting on the other horse he'd let the bunch out and started 'em on the trail. Two hundred miles of that trail was covered, and in the time it took to cover that distance, Smoky had fed on hate for the breed till that hate growed to a disease. Killing the breed would be all that could cure it. Every blow that human had pounded on his head that day, a couple of weeks past, had left a scar, a scar that healed on the surface, but which went to his heart instead, spread there, and stayed raw. Then one day, on the edge of a big desert flat and amongst the junipers the breed spotted a high, strong, corral. A log cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney was off to one side a ways, and standing in the door was a man, the first man the breed had seen since starting out with the stolen horses. But he felt safe, five hundred miles had been covered, the brands on the horses had all been "picked"[3] and besides, as he figgered, it'd be a good place to stop a while and recuperate; and as he seen the place was a cow camp, he thought maybe he could get the cowboy to help him some with that mouse colored horse he was still wanting to "tend" to and packing a grudge against. [Footnote 3: Changed for a time by just cutting the hair.] The cowboy wasn't much for the breed the minute that hombre rode up, but as company was scarce, he kinda stood him, and even agreed to help him with the horse. Smoky watched the two walk in the corral the next day, and knowed something was up. His ears layed back at the sight of the breed and hate showed from every part of him;--he was ready to fight, and if anything he was glad of the chance. But Smoky had no chance, too many ropes settled on him at once, and the first thing he knowed, he was flat on his side and tied down before he could use either hoof or teeth. The horse was no more than down and helpless, when the breed, seeing his victim within reach and where he couldn't get away, begin to get rid of what'd been on his chest for so long, and when Smoky even tho tied down, reached over and near pulled the shirt off of him with his teeth, was when the breed figgered he had an excuse to beat that horse to a pulp even tho the horse had no chance. The cowboy, not understanding the breed's tactics for a spell, stood off a ways, and watched. There was all about the horse to show that he'd been right in his first dislike for the dark faced hombre. At first he was for interfering and shove the club the breed was using right down his throat. Then as he noticed how the pony would like to do the damaging instead, he thought of a better way and walked up. "Listen, feller," he says to the breed, "what's the use of beating a horse up that way. Why don't you give him a chance and try to do it _while you're setting on him_?" "Maybe you think I can't do it," says that hombre, bleary-eyed and mad clear thru.