The team, however, were evidently bent on getting home as soon as possible, and Winston’s fingers were too stiff to effectively grasp the reins.  A swinging bough also struck one of the horses, and when it plunged and flung up its head the man reeled a little in his seat.  Before he recovered the team were going down-hill at a gallop.  Winston flung himself bodily backwards with tense muscles and the reins slipping a trifle in his hands, knowing that though he bore against them with all his strength the team were leaving the trail.  Then the wagon jolted against a tree, one horse stumbled, picked up its stride, and went on at a headlong gallop.  The man felt the wind rush past him and saw the dim trees whirl by, but he could only hold on and wonder what would take place when they came to the bottom.  The bridge the trail went round by was some distance to his right, and because the frost had just set in he knew the ice on the river would not bear the load even if the horses could keep their footing.

He had not, however, long to wonder.  Once more a horse stumbled, there was a crash, and a branch hurled Winston backwards into the wagon, which came to a standstill suddenly.  When he rose something warm was running down his face, and there was a red smear on the hand he lighted the lantern with.  When that was done he flung himself down from the wagon dreading what he would find.  The flickering radiance showed him that the pole had snapped, and while one bronco still stood trembling on its feet the other lay inert amidst a tangle of harness.  The man’s face grew a trifle grimmer as he threw the light upon it, and then stooping glanced at one doubled leg.  It was evident that fate which did nothing by halves had dealt him a crushing blow.  The last faint hope he clung to had vanished now.

He was, however, a humane man, and considerate of the beasts that worked for him, and accordingly thrust his hand inside the old fur coat when he had loosed the uninjured horse, and drew out a long-bladed knife.  Then he knelt, and setting down the lantern, felt for the place to strike.  When he found it his courage almost deserted him, and meeting the eyes that seemed to look up at him with dumb appeal, turned his head away.  Still, he was a man who would not shirk a painful duty, and shaking off the sense of revulsion turned again and stroked the beast’s head.

“It’s all I can do for you,” he said.

Then his arm came down and a tremor ran through the quivering frame, while Winston set his lips tightly as his hand grew warm.  The thing was horrible to him, but the life he led had taught him the folly of weakness, and he was too pitiful to let his squeamishness overcome him.

Still, he shivered when it was done, and rubbing the knife in the withered leaves, rose, and made shift to gird a rug about the uninjured horse.  Then he cut the reins and tied them, and mounting without stirrups rode towards the bridge.  The horse went quietly enough now, and the man allowed it to choose its way.  He was going home to find shelter from the cold, because his animal instincts prompted him, but otherwise almost without volition, in a state of dispassionate indifference.  Nothing more, he fancied, could well befall him.