The horses bounded upward in
unison. For a moment it looked as if they intended to
work through, instead of over, the drift. A wild shower
of angular snow-slabs swept in upon me. The cutter reared
up and plunged and reared again--and then the view cleared.
The snow proved harder than I had anticipated--which
bespoke the fury of the blow that had piled it. It did
not carry the horses, but neither--once we had reached
a height of five or six feet--did they sink beyond their
bellies and out of sight. I had no eye for anything except
them. What lay to right or left, seemed not to concern
me. I watched them work. They went in bounds, working
beautifully together. Rhythmically they reared, and
rhythmically they plunged. I had dropped back to the
seat, holding them with a firm hand, feet braced against
the dashboard; and whenever they got ready to rear, I
called to them in a low and quiet voice, "Peter--Dan--now!"
And their muscles played with the effort of desperation.
It probably did not take more than five minutes, maybe
considerably less, before we had reached the top, but to
me it seemed like hours of nearly fruitless endeavour.
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