But there was no blame ever attached to these human wolves who was killing the horse only for the pleasure they'd get in riding him, and the fine exercise that went with it, most of 'em meant well--Only they didn't know. Cloudy, always true in whatever he done, was so willing, no jab of the spur was needed to make him go, and his willingness to do his best that way, was often if not always mistaken, and took for granted that he was feeling good and rearing to go. They didn't know the difference between a tired, wore out horse and one that's fresh and fit to be rode--Then again, there was many who never stopped to realize, to them, a horse was just a horse, and they didn't know nothing about horses--That kind figgered a horse to be like an automobile, always able to go and as fast as was wanted, and instead of stepping on the gas like is done with a car, just give the horse the whip, and that way keep him right on a going. * * * * * A winter came and scattered the bright fall days four ways. The coming of the long, cold winter, along with the raw winds that swept down from the divide, brought to the folks around a dread of the dreary months that was to follow; them folks wasn't for enjoying being out much any more, and instead found a lot of comfort in being where there was a roof over their heads, and a fire roaring between the four walls. The tourists had all left, and scattered back to where they came. "The town was dead," and many heads was got together a trying to figger ways to break the monotony that'd took hold of the community. For two weeks a cold wind had blowed down off the mountain and once in a while would bring along light flakes of snow that kept a skipping and never seemed to light.--The weather was cussed at by some, while others kept busy bringing in wood and coal, and not any had a good word put in for Old Man Winter, not any excepting one, and that one was only an old livery stable plug. That old plug couldn't of said anything anyway, but he done better, he _felt_ what he couldn't say. He felt that the coming of winter that way and the evaporating of the tourists and the others, as it came, was all that saved what little life he had left. There was saddle sores on his back, and he'd got to where there was nothing to him but a rack of bones on which a hide hung,--that hide was faded from many a sweating, and in spots the hair had wore off and left it bare. His weary legs near buckled under him, and was hardly able to pack the weight he'd reduced to, and another couple of weeks more the old pony would of been done for--he'd long ago been going on his nerve, and that had been fast wearing out on him.