It seemed like Mother Nature was sure agreeable that day when the little black colt came to the range world and tried to get a footing with his long wobblety legs on the brown prairie sod. Short stems of new green grass was trying to make their way up thru the last year&#39;s faded growth and reaching for the sun&#39;s warm rays. Taking in all that could be seen, felt, and inhaled, there was no day, time, nor place that could beat that spring morning on the sunny side of the low prairie butte where Smoky the colt was foaled.<br />&quot;Smoky&quot; wouldn&#39;t have fitted the colt as a name just then on account he was jet black, but that name wasn&#39;t attached onto him till he was a four-year-old, which was when he first started being useful as a saddle horse. He didn&#39;t see the first light of day thru no box stall window, and there was no human around to make a fuss over him and try to steady him on his feet for them first few steps. Smoky was just a little range colt and all the company he had that first morning of his life was his watchful mammy.