But he had to work, and earn what hay and care was handed him, he didn't mind working, but all this aimless chasing around he was took out to do most every day wasn't at all to that pony's liking. He'd been broke to doing something useful, and which _had_ to be done. Afterwards, and with his bucking, there was a reason, but with these _equestrians_, as they was called, they didn't seem to know themselves what they wanted to do, or where they wanted to go. They'd just wander around and handle him with a rein in each hand like he was a plow horse. They'd run him up and down streets where the ground was hard on his feet, and let him walk where the going was soft and level. It was no wonder that the end of the day, and the stall at the stable was looked forward to so much. Never before had that horse appreciated his night's rests as he was now doing. He'd near close his eyes for the peace he'd feel then, and eat his hay and grain slow, the same as tho he was fearing that as soon as it was gone, he'd have to be out again, and going. There'd be a short spell thru the night when he'd close his eyes all the way, and his tired mind, like his tired body, would be at rest, and then after a while, when his eyes would open again, he'd clean up what little hay he'd left the night before, and that way, gather all the strength he could for the day's work that was soon to begin. Near every morning, early, a grey haired man, and sort of stout around the middle, would come. A little "pancake" saddle with flapping iron stirrups, would be put on the pony's back, and after a lot of hard work and puffing, the equestrian would finally get up and on the horse, and the early morning ride would begin. The man was heavy, and set his saddle mighty awkward, but with all his weight and awkwardness, and as Cloudy got acquainted some with the man, he finally sort of took a liking for him. That one seemed to know where he wanted to go, and when he got there, even tho it was no place in perticular, the old feller would always get down off of him, sometimes he'd talk to him, and Cloudy would listen,--it didn't matter if he couldn't make heads or tails of what the talk was about, he just liked the sound of his voice. Them morning rides was always on the outside of town, up some canyon or lane, and Cloudy felt better at them places, besides, he never was rushed, and if he was put into a trot or a lope, it was done proper and in a way both man and horse enjoyed. Seldom would any sweat ever show after the ride was over and the stable was reached again. But the day's work would be just beginning for Cloudy, and the stable was no more than got into sight, when saddles would be changed and another person, fresh, and aching for a _jaunt_, would get on him and start out on another ride. When he'd be brought back at noon, he'd just have time to eat his grain, when another equestrian would darken the stable door, and ask for Cloudy. "I enjoy riding that horse so, don't you know."