We have made it down to the road, near where I was told the horse would be tied to a tree, injured, but they would take care of her, and my husband would be lying nearby. The sweat is stinging, blurring my eyes and it takes a few minutes to see them, the horse standing in heavy brush, cloaked in blood, and my husband sprawled on his back with a canteen near him. He finally raises his head and tries to smile, the blue eyes not quite focused, asking about the horse, ordering me to strip the saddle off and check her while I am noting the blood coming from his head, the torn clothes, and wondering how I will get him into this vehicle, at the same time so thankful I didn’t go horseback today and that I have a vehicle. Most of the blood is the horses I discover as I try to help him to his feet and find he cannot stand, so he begins to crab on his back downhill until he rolls into the vehicle with a final moan of anguish, and a sharper order about the horse, so I begin stripping the horse, move her to a shady spot and make a cursory exam of her. She’ll live I tell him, and I make the 4 dirty, dusty miles to the ranch in record time, load him into a car and begin the hour and a half trip to the hospital, rounding curves on squealing tires, yet coolly watching him out of the blood shot corner of my eye to arrive at the local hospital. His injuries are not as bad as what I had feared, no internal injuries, no skull fracture, just a very badly mangled foot, he and the horse are both healing at the same rate, and I have made it through another ordeal while the sinking feeling lays dormant waiting.