Broussard ran to him; he was lying upon his back and said as coolly as if on dress parade: "I had a pretty close shave, but I don't think I'm hurt, except my ankle." Broussard, having had experience with injured men, thumped and punched the Colonel only to find that he was not injured in any way except the broken ankle; but a man with a broken ankle, six miles away from the fort, with night coming on, and the thermometer below zero, presents problems.
"What a pity neither of us has a pistol," said Colonel Fortescue, when Broussard had got him up from the frozen earth and arranged a rude seat from the branches of the fir tree for him.

"We could kill my poor horse and end his sufferings." "He's already dead, thank God," replied Broussard, going over and looking at the horse, lying as still and helpless as the rock that lay upon his neck.

Gamechick, the broken rein hanging upon his neck, stood trembling and snorting with terror.
"I think you had better ride back to the post and get help," said Colonel Fortescue.
Broussard walked toward Gamechick, but the horse, stricken with panic, backed away and before Broussard could catch him, he whirled about wildly and galloped down the mountain road at breakneck speed.

The sound of his iron hoofs pounding the icy road as he fled, driven by fear and anguish, cut the silence like a knife.

The two men listened to the clear metallic sound borne upon the clear atmosphere by the winter wind.
"He's a good messenger," said Broussard, "he is making straight for the post." "If he gets there before he breaks his neck," replied the Colonel coolly, taking out his cigar case and striking a light.
Broussard listened attentively until the last echo had died away in the distance.
"He has got down all right and is now on the open road, and will get to the fort in thirty minutes," he said.
Then Broussard, gathering the broken branches of the fir tree, made a fire which not only warmed them, but the blue smoke curling upward was a signal for those who would come to search for them.