Everybody preferred Cloudy to any horse the stable man had, and being that feller wasn't running that business for his health, he rented him out every chance he got, and fed him an extra feed of grain so the horse could stand up under the work. Sometimes that horse would be rode till away into the night, then brought in dripping with sweat and often staggering. But the next day his work went on just the same. Folks of all ages, sizes, built, and packing from none to a big amount of brains, came and rode Cloudy. Once in a while he'd be handled right and like it was known that a horse has feelings, and brains, but most of the time, his feelings wasn't at all considered, no thought would be given that the horse might of already went a long ways, or that he might be tired. But amongst all that rode him, the boys was the worst, and fast running the old pony downhill and towards the end. The most of 'em would start the horse on a high lope, and from the time they got on him till he was brought back, that high lope, instead of being let up on, would most always wind up into a high run. Up and down the side streets they'd race him, loan him to other boys to race him some more, and each would do their best to show off on how fast they could make the tired horse go. There was times as the spur, a quirt was layed on the old horse, to make him go faster; when The Cougar heart which had died in him near showed signs of coming back to life again, but the pony's spirit had dwindled down as the years accumulated, and he couldn't back the way he felt. He was weary both in mind and body, and no chance was ever given him so as to let either rest, and if once in a while the heart of The Cougar did make a try at coming back it wasn't for long, the flame would only sputter and go out, and another wrap with the quirt would only make him try to do his best once again, as just plain Cloudy, the livery stable plug. The boys, girls, and grown ups kept a setting on the old horse, and not knowing, but sure and steady was riding and dragging him down to a death that'd be away ahead of the time when it should come--They'd compared well with a pack of wolves, for like that kind, none of 'em would ever wanted to come within a hundred yards of the horse when he was up and a fighting. None of 'em would ever dreamed of wanting to set on his back when he was The Cougar and hankering to fight and kill, but now, and at last he was down, there was no fight in him no more, and like the pack of wolves they compared so well with, they all closed in on him. The only difference was, the wolf pack killed their victim quick, they don't leave the life drag on for days, weeks and months, nor let the victim suffer to finally die slow and by degrees--Then again, the wolf killed to eat and live.