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