Clint had underfiggered considerable when he'd said how he thought he'd be all right again in a few days. A week passed and very little strength had gathered from his hips up, his back felt as broke, and he had no power to straighten up again once he'd stoop, he couldn't even pick up a spur. A new rider came one day and took up Clint's work where he'd left it. From that time on Clint hung around the corrals a talking and watching the new "hand" ride, and when he wasn't by the corrals, he could be seen in the shade of the big willows in the creek bottom where Smoky was picketed. Clint had looked at Smoky in a new way since Jeff had come and left. The visit of the old cowboy had brought out things in that little horse which Clint hadn't dreamed of ever being in any horse. He'd been mighty surprised, and then sort of proud that he could raise such a feeling in the gelding--The horse was good as his too,--that put the cap on his worries of losing him, and all was well. * * * * * A month went by, the round up wagons was stringing out for the fall works, and the cow with the big "weaner" calf was hunting a hole. There was twenty-two riders with Jeff Nick's wagon, and amongst 'em a grinning from ear to ear at some joke a cowboy had sprung was Clint, and riding Smoky. Long days of rest had put that cowboy in shape to ride, but not to ride broncs, and when he at last felt that he could make a hand at riding "circle," "herd," and "night guard" Smoky had been saddled and rode to the home ranch, where the wagon was to start from. Smoky'd had a long month's rest before Clint saddled and rode him out that morning, and even tho the rider looked O. K. again to the little horse, there was a feel from the hackamore rein that as much as asked him not to buck. He'd bucked that day when Clint had met too much cow, and far as that goes, he'd bucked some at every saddling, but as the cowboy started him out for open country and the home ranch that morning he was made to feel that he should keep his head up for once and line out without a kink. The home ranch had been reached a couple of days later, and there's where Smoky'd got his first look at a busy cow outfit's main camp. Cowboys was everywhere, and more of 'em than he could keep track of; big corrals full of horses, and more horses under the big sheds. Wagons and tents, and when the round up cook rushed out of a log house to one side and pranced up to try and shake hands with Clint, Smoky let out a snort and shied out of reach. "Daggone it, Clint," says that hombre, "I was told you'd quit riding broncs--what in samhill do you call that spooky thing you're setting on now?" "Some horse," answers Clint, grinning.