In places the slope was almost precipitous, and it behooved him to be careful of the horses, which could not be replaced.
Without them he could not plow in spring, and his life did not appear of any especial value in comparison with theirs just then.
The team, however, were evidently bent on getting home as soon as possible, and Winston's fingers were too stiff to effectively grasp the reins.

A swinging bough also struck one of the horses, and when it plunged and flung up its head the man reeled a little in his seat.
Before he recovered the team were going down-hill at a gallop.

Winston flung himself bodily backwards with tense muscles and the reins slipping a trifle in his hands, knowing that though he bore against them with all his strength the team were leaving the trail.

Then the wagon jolted against a tree, one horse stumbled, picked up its stride, and went on at a headlong gallop.

The man felt the wind rush past him and saw the dim trees whirl by, but he could only hold on and wonder what would take place when they came to the bottom.