The wind had a sweep in that valley and there was a drift of snow across it and across the road.  This drift was well packed by the wind, but when we drove over its top our left-hand runner broke through the coaming and we tumbled into the snow, Hazen and I. We were well entangled in the rugs.  The mare gave a frightened start, but Hazen had held the reins and the whip so that she could not break away.  We got up together, he and I, and we righted the sleigh and set it upon the road again.  I remember that it was becoming bitter cold and the sun was no longer shining.  There was a steel-grey veil drawn across the bay.

When the sleigh was upright Hazen went forward and stood beside the mare.  Some men, blaming the beast without reason, would have beaten her.  They would have cursed, cried out upon her.  That was not the cut of Hazen Kinch.  But I could see that he was angry and I was not surprised when he reached up and gripped the horse’s ear.  He pulled the mare’s head down and twisted the ear viciously.  All in a silence that was deadly.

The mare snorted and tried to rear back and Hazen clapped the butt of his whip across her knees.  She stood still, quivering, and he wrenched at her ear again.

“Now,” he said softly, “keep the road.”

And he returned and climbed to his place beside me in the sleigh.  I said nothing.  I might have interfered, but something had always impelled me to keep back my hand from Hazen Kinch.

We drove on and the mare was lame.  Though Hazen pushed her, we were slow in coming to town and before we reached Hazen’s office the swirling snow was whirling down—­a pressure of driving, swirling flakes like a heavy white hand.

I left Hazen at the stair that led to his office and I went about my business of the day.  He said as I turned away: 

“Be here at three.”

I nodded.  But I did not think we should drive home that afternoon.  I had some knowledge of storms.

That which had brought me to town was not engrossing.  I found time to go to the stable and see Hazen’s mare.  There was an ugly welt across her knees and some blood had flowed.  The stablemen had tended the welt, and cursed Hazen in my hearing.  It was still snowing, and the stable boss, looking out at the driving flakes, spat upon the ground and said to me: 

“Them legs’ll go stiff.  That mare won’t go home to-night.”

“I think you are right,” I agreed.

“The white-whiskered skunk!” he said, and I knew he spoke of Hazen.

At a quarter of three I took myself to Hazen Kinch’s office.  It was not much of an office; not that Hazen could not have afforded a better.  But it was up two flights—­an attic room ill lighted.  A small air-tight stove kept the room stifling hot.  The room was also air-tight.  Hazen had a table and two chairs, and an iron safe in the corner.  He put a pathetic trust in that safe.  I believe I could have opened it with a screwdriver.  I met him as I climbed the stairs.  He said harshly: