From up the line came the roar of a terrific blast that made the ground tremble and sent rumbling echoes through the valley. A whole train-load of logs were dumped into the millpond with a crash that sent the water in a hissing wave that struck the opposite shore and exploded in a seething mass of dirty white foam. The air seemed charged with a dynamic energy which caused the blood to tingle in the veins.
In the yard of a stable a number of horses lay on the ground or stood weakly with drooping heads.
“Horse hospital,” informed Gillis, to Donald’s inquiry.
Donald moved to the fence, his heart filled with pity. Two men, one carrying a rifle, entered the enclosure and walked to the side of a handsome big Clydesdale that stood on slayed legs, his head lowered and his eyes filled with mute agony. One foreleg was terribly swollen, and a long, livid wound showed on one powerful hip.
“Sorry, Pete, but Doc. sez he’s got to go,” said the man with the rifle regretfully, as he slipped a halter over the stricken animal’s head.
The man addressed as Pete patted the horse’s head affectionately. “I bin drivin’ old Bob for about six years, Bill. We knows each other like a book.” He pressed his face roughly to the horse’s muzzle. “Don’t we, old pal?” he finished in a muffled tone.
Pulling and coaxing they urged the doomed animal through the gate.
“You needn’t go, Pete,” said the man with the gun.
His companion stopped near Donald and stood staring after the painfully limping animal. Nearing the woods the horse stopped short, lifted his head high on his arched neck, and sent out a clarion call that was answered by weak nickers from his mates within the corral.
A few men glanced up casually, then turned to their tasks. Work went on as usual. The mill clattered, drivers shouted, engine bells clanged—only a horse that was no more useful being led to his death. An everyday occurrence in a construction camp.
For a short interval the noble animal held his majestic pose, then, swaying awkwardly, he disappeared from view. At the sharp crack of the rifle the man by Donald’s side winced as though the bullet had seared his own flesh. Brushing the sleeve of his coarse mackinaw shirt hastily across his eyes, he muttered a curse, then turned and ran with stumbling steps to his waiting team, mounted the seat and clucked gently to his four horses. The big animals strained against their collars. The huge load moved slowly at first, then, gathering momentum, rolled swiftly up the road.