Clint had took it onto hisself to be one of them riders,--he wanted to get another look at Smoky before letting him go to the winter range and find out for sure just what condition that range would be in. The outskirts of it was reached that noon and as Clint rode along back of the remuda he was more than satisfied to notice the tall feed that the six inches of snow couldn't hide, he noticed the breaks and the shelter they would give, then the thick growth of willows along the creek bottom and which meant more shelter. Clint stopped his horse and the two hundred ponies was left to scatter. His eyes run over the well known backs for a last time, he wouldn't be seeing them again till spring round up started and he watched 'em slowly graze away. Many was in that bunch that he'd broke and named, and starting from the meanest fighting bronc of the rough string, and taking all the ponies on up to the best cowhorse of the foreman's string there wasn't one that Clint didn't know and know mighty well as to tricks and good or bad points. A big old sorrel with a kinked neck and by the name of Boar Hound caught his eye, and Clint remembered how that pony tried to commit suicide rather than be rode and how he'd now changed to wanting to commit murder instead and kill a few cowboys. Then a smile spread over his face as he spotted a tall roman nosed gruller who'd never made a jump till a rope got under his tail. He'd took a sudden liking to bucking from then on and made hisself a reputation at that which scattered over four counties. Every horse Clint looked at brought to memory some kind of a story, and there was a variety of expressions which changed with every horse that came under his eye. A big shaggy black looked his way and snorted and with the sight of him Clint remembered how that horse had reached ahead one time and kicked to pieces a cowboy that'd been unsaddling him. His expression was mighty solemn at the thought of that, but it didn't last long. Like a ray of sunshine, something shot out and scattered that dark cloud of memories four ways,--Smoky had showed himself from behind other horses and not over fifty feet from where Clint was setting on his horse. The cowboy's face lit up with a smile at the sight of the pony, and getting down off his saddle he made tracks his way, but he didn't have to go all the way, for soon as Smoky spotted him he left Pecos, his running pardner behind, and nickering came to meet Clint. "A feller would think to see you act that you're a sure enough sugar eater," Clint remarked as the little horse came up to him and stopped. He rubbed a hand on the pony's head and went on. "Well, anyway, Smoky, I'm glad to see that you've got a mighty fine winter range to run on; with all the feed I see here and the shelter that's with it you hadn't ought to lose an ounce of fat," Clint felt for the pony's ribs and grinning resumed, "and if you ever get any fatter than you are now you'll be plum worthless."