The bronco he bestrode was madly excited and less than half-broken, and it is probable no man could have pulled him up just then.

It may also have been borne in upon Courthorne, that he owed a little to those he had left behind him in the old country, and he had not lost his pride.
There was, it seemed, no escape, but he had at least a choice of endings, and with a little breathless laugh he rode straight for the river.
It was with difficulty Trooper Payne pulled his horse up on the steep bank a minute later.

A white haze was now sliding down the hollow between the two dark walls of trees, and something seemed to move in the midst of it while the ice rang about it.

Then as the trooper pitched up his carbine there was a crash that was followed by a horrible floundering and silence again.

Payne sat still shivering a little in his saddle until the snow that whirled about him blotted out all the birches, and a roaring blast came down.
He knew there was now nothing that he could do, The current had evidently sucked the fugitive under, and, dismounting, he groped his way up the slope, leading the horse by the bridle, and only swung himself into the saddle when he found the trail again.