“We’ve sighted an open place, before,” said the lieutenant, gladly. “It’s not more than eight miles. Another day’s march, my men, and I think we’ll be into the prairie and at the end of all this scrambling and tumbling.”
That gave great hope, although they were too tired to cheer.
But on the morrow the river trail fought them harder than ever. Toward noon they had gained only a scant half mile. The horses had been falling again and again, the sledges had stuck fast on the rocks and in the holes, the ice and snow and rocks behind were blood-stained from the wounds of men and animals.
Now they had come to a narrow spot, where a mass of broken rocks, forming a high bar, thrust itself out from the cliff, into the stream, and where the water was flowing over the ice itself. The horses balked and reared, while the men tugged and shoved.
“Over the rocks,” the lieutenant ordered.
That brought more trouble. Stub’s yellow pony, thin and scarred like the rest, was among those that still carried light packs. He was a stout, plucky pony—or had been. Here he lost heart, at last. His hoofs were sore, he was worn out. Terry Miller hauled at his neck-thong, Stub pushed at his braced haunches. The line was in a turmoil, while everybody worked; the canyon echoed to the shouts and blows and frenzied, frightened snorting.
Suddenly the yellow pony’s neck-thong snapped; he recoiled threshing, head over heels, before Stub might dodge from him; and down they went, together, clear into the river. [But Stub never felt the final crash.] On his way he saw a burst of stars, then he plunged into night and kept right on plunging until he woke up.
[BUT STUB NEVER FELT THE FINAL CRASH]
He had landed. No, he was still going. That is, the snow and cliffs at either side were moving, while he sat propped and bewildered, dizzily watching them.