In another few minutes something smooth and level flung back a blink of light, and the timbers of a wooden bridge rattled under his passage.

Then he was racing upwards through the gloom of wind-dwarfed birches on the opposite side listening for the rattle behind him on the bridge, and after a struggle with the horse pulled him up smoking when he did not hear it.
There was a beat of hoofs across the river, but it was slower than when he had last heard it and grew momentarily less audible, and Winston laughed as he watched the steam of the horse and his own breath rise in a thin white cloud.
"The trooper has given it up, and now for Montana," he said..