Chap­ter 26: How it End­ed begins with a qui­et unease in the still­ness of night. Black Beau­ty, stand­ing alone and wound­ed, hears the dis­tant but unmis­tak­able rhythm of hooves draw­ing clos­er. As the sound nears, he rec­og­nizes Ginger’s pace attached to a dog-cart, a glim­mer of hope spark­ing in the dark­ness. Beau­ty, though weak­ened and sore, lets out a soft neigh. To his relief, Gin­ger responds, fol­lowed by the urgent voic­es of men. They arrive at the scene to find Reuben lying on the ground, cold and life­less. His head is blood­ied, and there is no sign of breath or move­ment. The chill in his limbs and the still­ness of his form con­firm what no one wish­es to say aloud—Reuben is dead. His fall had been sud­den and vio­lent, the result of a mis­step like­ly caused by Beauty’s stum­ble.

As they assess the sit­u­a­tion, the men note Beauty’s dam­aged hoof and his own bruised body. The miss­ing shoe and scuffed knees sug­gest a fall occurred dur­ing the dri­ve. Whis­pers begin about Reuben’s state before the ride. Though known as a steady man, it’s hint­ed that he may have been drink­ing. A few remem­ber Susan’s wor­ried expres­sion ear­li­er that evening—her pale face and anx­ious voice per­haps a sign that she feared for her husband’s con­di­tion. No one speaks too harsh­ly, but the truth lingers in the silence: this could have been avoid­ed. The weight of respon­si­bil­i­ty set­tles over them as they make prepa­ra­tions to return. Robert, the young groom, takes the lead, gen­tly guid­ing Beau­ty home despite the horse’s clear pain. Ned, mean­while, is giv­en the grim duty of escort­ing Reuben’s body, a somber pas­sen­ger in the cart once meant for dai­ly trav­el.

The jour­ney back is slow and care­ful. Beau­ty, limp­ing and sore, press­es on with qui­et deter­mi­na­tion, while Gin­ger, sur­pris­ing­ly calm, walks beside him with­out fuss. Robert speaks gen­tly to the hors­es, sooth­ing them with his pres­ence, even as grief weighs heavy in the air. When they reach the sta­ble, Robert doesn’t wait for orders. He tends to Beauty’s injuries using what sup­plies he can find—saltwater, cloth, and cool rags. His actions are sim­ple but full of care, reflect­ing the bond between human and horse in its truest form. Beau­ty, though aching, sens­es the kind­ness. He stands still, trust­ing the boy’s touch. The pain, though sharp, is eased by the calm­ness in Robert’s voice and the steadi­ness of his hands.

Over the fol­low­ing days, the sever­i­ty of Black Beauty’s injuries becomes clear. The fall left him with deep scrapes and sore­ness that would take weeks to mend. Despite Robert’s efforts and the farrier’s atten­tion, the scars would nev­er ful­ly fade. His once-glossy knees now bore patch­es of rough, dis­col­ored skin—a reminder of that ter­ri­ble night. The sta­ble, once filled with rou­tine, now car­ried a heav­i­ness that didn’t lift. Reuben’s absence was felt in every cor­ner. Susan griev­ed qui­et­ly, her face drawn and silent. The oth­ers avoid­ed long con­ver­sa­tions, unsure what words could soft­en such a blow. At the inquest, it was con­firmed: Reuben had been drink­ing. Wit­ness­es described his unusu­al mood and the scent on his breath. The lost shoe from Beauty’s hoof, found near the scene, sup­port­ed the the­o­ry of a stum­ble made worse by unsteady han­dling.

What lingers most in this chap­ter isn’t just the acci­dent, but the qui­et rip­ple of its con­se­quences. Reuben, once reli­able, made one poor deci­sion with dev­as­tat­ing results. Beau­ty, who trust­ed his rid­er, bore both the phys­i­cal pain and the last­ing marks of that night. Yet even in tragedy, there is care—Robert’s gen­tle tend­ing, Ginger’s unspo­ken sup­port, and the community’s sub­dued response all show how deeply inter­twined the lives of humans and hors­es can be. This chap­ter becomes a med­i­ta­tion on respon­si­bil­i­ty, both for one­self and for the crea­tures placed in one’s care. A moment’s reck­less­ness can leave a per­ma­nent imprint—not only on the body, but on the heart. Through Beauty’s eyes, read­ers wit­ness not just loss, but the qui­et strength it takes to recov­er.