From that day on Smoky's heart begin to expand towards natural size once more--But it wasn't the same kind of heart that had once been his,--that first one had died, and this one had took root from abuse, growed from rough treatment to full size, and with hankerings in it only for finding and destroying all that wasn't to his liking. And there was nothing to his liking no more. The breed he hated more than anything in the world, but Smoky, with that new heart of his, wasn't for showing them feelings much. He'd got wise in ways of how and when to do his fighting, and where it'd do most good;--he'd wait for a chance. In the meantime he'd got to eating every stem of what little hay the breed would hand him; he'd have to live to carry out them new ambitions of his. But somehow, a hint of Smoky's new ambitions must of leaked out; anyway the breed had a hunch that it wouldn't be well for him to come too close to that pony's teeth and hoofs. He'd often watch him thru the corral poles and wonder, he'd sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be best to just place a forty-five slug between that pony's ears instead of fooling with him, but the hopes of still being able to sell the horse for a good price would always keep him from drawing his gun. [Illustration: The breed would often watch him thru the corral poles and wonder, he'd sometimes wonder if it wouldn't be best to just place a forty-five slug between that pony's ears instead of fooling with him.] "A good long ride'll fix you," says the breed one morning as he drug his saddle near the corral chute. "And I've got a hell of a long one ahead for you to-day." Smoky was prodded into the chute with a long pole, and saddled where he couldn't move. Then the breed climbed in the saddle, opened the chute gate and started the horse out on a long run. Ten miles of country was covered which Smoky didn't see; his instinct made him dodge badger holes and jump washouts, and his eyes and ears was steady back and on the human he was packing, if he could only reach with his teeth and get him down. The breed's spurs kept a gouging him, and along with the quirt a pounding, Smoky was kept into a high lope. With that kind of tattoo being played on him the pony gradually begin to warm up and getting peeved, it wouldn't be long, if that gait was kept up, when he'd be reaching the boiling point, and then get desperate. A steep bank was reached by the edge of a creek, and there Smoky sorta hesitated a second. His ears and eyes was pointed ahead for that second and looking for a place where the going down wouldn't be so sudden, when the breed, always looking for some reason to deal the horse misery, put the steel and layed the quirt to him at once. That took Smoky by surprise, and the flame that'd been smoldering in his heart loomed up into an active volcano all at once.