"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. He took the saddle and blanket from the dead horse and arranged a comfortable seat for the Colonel, who declared that a broken ankle was nothing; but his face was growing pale as he spoke. "You remember," he said to Broussard, "that story about General Moreau, something more than a hundred years ago, who smoked a cigar while the surgeons were cutting off his leg." "Yes, sir," replied Broussard. "You are not as badly off as General Moreau, and I think I can help you, sir." Broussard proceeded to take off the Colonel's boot and stocking. He rubbed the broken ankle with snow and then, with his handkerchief and a splinter of wood, made a bandage and splints, as soldiers are taught to do. Then Broussard accepted the cigar offered him by the Colonel, and smoked vigorously. A lieutenant does not lead the conversation with a Colonel, and so Broussard said nothing more and devoted himself to keeping the fire going. Colonel Fortescue bore the pain, which was extreme, in grim silence, but Broussard noticed that he stopped smoking and threw away his cigar. It could not soothe him as it did General Moreau. Broussard immediately threw away his cigar, too, which annoyed the Colonel. "Why don't you keep on smoking?" asked the Colonel tartly. "Oh, I don't care about it particularly," shamelessly answered Broussard, who was an inveterate smoker. "When we got out of tobacco in the jungle I kept the men quiet by singing the old song ''Twas Off the Blue Canaries I Smoked My Last Cigar.'"