He had stepped in some hole and the bone was broken
cleanly across.
The rider slipped from the saddle and stood facing the roan, which
pricked its ears forward and struggled once more to regain its feet.
The effort was hopeless, and Pierre took the broken leg and felt the
rough edges of the splintered bone through the skin. The animal, as if
it sensed that the man was trying to do it some good, nosed his
shoulder and whinnied softly.
Pierre stepped back and drew his revolver. The bullet would do quickly
what the cold would accomplish after lingering hours of torture, yet,
facing those pricking ears and the trust of the eyes, he was blinded
by a mist and could not aim. He had to place the muzzle of the gun
against the roan's temple and pull the trigger. When he turned his
back he was the only living thing within the white arms of the hills.
Yet, when the next hill was behind him, he had already forgotten the
second life which he put out that night, for regret is the one sorrow
which never dodges the footsteps of the hunted.
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