Watson was snow-blind and confused. He had lost all sense of direction, but even the heavy snow could not muffle entirely the sound and shadowy shape of the rider ahead of him. Watson spurred on his mount, kicking back his heels to whip it into frenzy. Snow flakes stung his eyes and whipped across his face like tiny razors - he hunkered down behind the neck of the horse, for what little protection it could offer him as it ploughed on, struggling to speed on through the thick, fallen snow.
Suddenly, the mount of the man ahead stumbled in the deep snow, pitched, and fell with a loud whinny of terror. Watson's own horse could not stop in time. Its fore-legs tangled with those of the fallen beast, and it gave a scream of fear as it fell forwards.
Watson was pitched forwards over its neck; he managed a cry of alarm, before landing heavily in the snow. Bruised and winded, he rolled onto his knees, and stumbled to his feet. Ploughing through shin-deep drifts, Watson fought his way back to the horses. He groaned aloud in despair; his mount was dead, its neck broken from the awkward fall.
The other horse was whickering in pain and fear, its eyes rolling white as it struggled on the ground. Watson could not bear to see anyone or anything in distress – a cursory examination told him that one of the horse's legs was badly broken. He sighed; Sir Henry would be distraught at the loss of two favoured steeds. He cocked the revolver, took steady aim at the horse's temple, and put it out of its misery.
It was only when the blow came from behind that Watson realised that, in his concern for the horse, he had forgotten about its rider.
~*~