Smoky the Cowhorse by Will James

The fine, cool, and sunshiny days of fall was making a last stand -- rains begin to come, and as time was a crawling towards early winter, them rains got colder and then turned to a wet snow. Mud was where dust had been, the hard-twist throw ropes had turned stiff as steel cables, saddles and saddle blankets was wet, heavy, and cold, and the shivering ponies met the feel of them with a hump and a buck.

The cowboys, all a packing long, yellow slickers, was beginning to tally up on how much wages would be due 'em. As the end of the fall roundup drawed near, and as they waded thru slush and mud from the chuck wagon to the rope corral, not many was caring. Wet socks, damp beds, two hours of shivering on night guard, saddling ornery ponies in daytime and when a feller can't even get a footing, and then riding 'em a wondering if them ponies will stand up as they beller and buck on the slick and muddy ground, all left a hankering only for a warm dugout somewheres, where there's a stove, a bunk to set on, and a few magazines to read as mother nature does her best to make the outside miserable.