The animal had gone to one of two places to seek grass or water. The three watering holes would have frozen with enough ice to deny the animal a drink. The steer would collapse the ice. The ice was not broken at the first two, but at the third, he heard the tortured bleating of the steer. It was there, trapped up to its haunches. Connor gathered his coat close against the snow. His face showed perspiration. His waxed handlebar mustache was now a firm icicle that stretched from cheek to cheek. He dismounted at the edge of the ice. The wind had cleared the surface and the ice appeared solid to the bottom, yet the steer had broken through and stood in waist-high water. "I'm coming. I'm coming." He spoke gentle words, as he hitched a rope to Sadie's saddle horn and slowly began to edge out onto the ice. The edge held, but as he moved, it began to crack. He lowered himself to the ice and slid toward the distressed animal. If he could get the lariat loop over the animal's head and horns, he could grasp the rope, work his way back to the horse, and pull the steer loose. But the animal had another idea; it reared to shake the rope away. Unable to dodge an oncoming horn, he was gored and collapsed beside the steer, as the water in the hole slowly turned crimson.