Chapter Seven in “Decades with the Squad” by William Palmer Jervey, Jr.

This occurred at dusk. That dangerous time when headlights do little good and all colors blend into an ever-deepening shade of gray. There were three horses being ridden and were clustered close together when a large truck plowed through. Two horses were killed instantly and horribly. The destruction was unbelievable. The third simply had one broken leg and was standing forlornly on the shoulder of the road when we arrived. Miraculously, none of the three young riders received any serious injury. Only assorted cuts and scrapes which were treated on the spot.

The owner of the surviving horse, a big strapping fellow of around forty years of age, soon arrived and asked the state trooper to put the injured animal out of its misery. This the trooper did with one well-placed shot from his revolver. When the horse’s owner passed our group on the way to his truck the tears were flowing freely, and he was dabbing at them ineffectively with the back of his hand. Upon seeing this, one of the rescue squad members, a small lady, rushed up to the man and silently offered her handkerchief. He took it with an incoherent murmur of gratitude and disappeared into the night, wiping his eyes with the tiny square of lace.

No doubt this comes under comforting the bereaved.