The sergeant took a few steps up the
cutting, holding on by the rope. The officer stood out and smiled
quizzically. Jeers came from behind the soldiers' bushes--"Go it, Otto!
Go it, Johnson! Your feet are loaded! If a snow-bird flies, you will
drop dead! Do you need any help? You'd make a hell of a sailor!" and
other gibes.
The gray clouds stretched away monotonously over the waste of snow, and
it was cold. The two men climbed slowly, anon stopping to look at each
other and smile. They were monkeying with death.
At last the sergeant drew himself up, slowly raised his head, and saw
snow and broken rock. Otto lifted himself likewise, and he too saw
nothing Rifle-shots came clearly to their ears from far in front--many
at one time, and scattering at others. Now the soldiers came briskly
forward, dragging up the cliff in single file. The dull noises of the
fight came through the wilderness. The skirmish-line drew quickly
forward and passed into the pine woods, but the Indian trails scattered.
Dividing into sets of four, they followed on the tracks of small
parties, wandering on until night threatened. At length the main trail
of the fugitive band ran across their front, bringing the command
together. It was too late for the officer to get his horses before dark,
nor could he follow with his exhausted men, so he turned to the sergeant
and asked him to pick some men and follow on the trail.
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