Some were sent back to Moffat in
charge of the lads who rode the extra tracers used in snowy weather for
the few miles of heavy collar-work out of Moffat; of the rest, loaded
with the mail-bags, MacGeorge led one, Goodfellow, the coachman,
another; and the two set off for Tweedshaws, accompanied by a man named
Marchbanks, the Moffat roadman, who had been a passenger on the coach.
It was but four miles to Tweedshaws, yet before they had struggled
through half the distance the horses had come to a standstill, utterly
blown and exhausted; nothing could get them to stir forward, or longer
to face the drift. Marchbanks suggested that now at length they might
reasonably turn and fight their way back. Goodfellow hesitated.
"What say ye, Jamie?" he asked of MacGeorge.
"Come ye or bide ye, I go on," answered the stern old soldier. "I can
carry the bags mysel'."
"Then that settles the maitter. If ye gang, I gang."
So the horses were turned adrift to find their own way home, and the two
men went off into the mirk, carrying the bags; whilst Marchbanks, on
their urgent advice, turned to force his arduous way back to Moffat.
Snow still fell in the morning, but the worst of the storm seemed over
when Marchbanks again started to try for Tweedshaws to ascertain if
MacGeorge and Goodfellow had won their way through.
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