“Then you ought to be!” said Stanton, too startled to congratulate him on his escape. “But where’s Wandle?”
Prescott seemed unable to answer and the trooper, looking round, saw Wandle lying in the snow; but before he could reach him the man began to raise himself on his elbow. This was disconcerting, for Stanton had thought him dead.
“Well,” the trooper said stupidly, “what’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t know,” Wandle replied weakly. “Don’t feel like talking; let me alone.”
Stanton had no fear of his escaping, so he went back to the horses. One of them stood trembling, attached to the rig by the deranged harness; the other still lay kicking, while the big Clydesdale rolled to and fro, with its leg through a wrenched-off wheel. It was astonishing that none of them was killed. Prescott apparently needed no assistance, and Stanton felt that he required some occupation to calm himself. Accordingly, he freed the Clydesdale of the broken wheel, narrowly escaping a kick which would have broken his ribs. The horse was a valuable one and must not be left in danger, and after a few minutes of severe exertion Stanton got it on its feet. Then he turned to the fallen driving horse and began, at some risk, to cut away its harness. Prescott came to help him, and together they raised the beast. Then Stanton sat down heavily on the wreckage.
“Well,” he remarked, “that was the blamedest fool trick, your riding down the grade; they wouldn’t expect that kind of work from us in the service! What I can’t account for is that you look none the worse.”
Prescott, standing shakily in the moonlight, smiled. “It is surprising; but hadn’t you better look after Wandle? He seems to be getting up.”
Wandle was cautiously getting on his feet, and the trooper watched him until he moved a pace or two.
“You don’t look very broke up,” he said. “Do you feel as if you could walk?”
“I believe I could ride,” Wandle answered sullenly.