The sergeant
picked Otto Borde-son, who still affirmed that he would go anywhere that
Johnson went, and they started. They were old hunting companions, having
confidence in each other's sense and shooting. They ploughed through the
snow, deeper and deeper into the pines, then on down a canon where the
light was failing. The sergeant was sweating freely; he raised his hand
to press his fur cap backward from his forehead. He drew it quickly
away; he stopped and started, caught Otto by the sleeve, and drew a long
breath. Still holding his companion, he put his glove again to his nose,
sniffed at it again, and with a mighty tug brought the startled Swede to
his knees, whispering, "I smell Indians; I can sure smell 'em,
Otto--can you?" Otto sniffed, and whispered back, "Yes, plain!" "We are
ambushed! Drop!" and the two soldiers sunk in the snow. A few feet in
front of them lay a dark thing; crawling to it, they found a large
calico rag, covered with blood.
"Let's do something, Carter; we's in a fix." "If we go down, Otto, we
are gone; if we go back, we are gone; let's go forward," hissed the
sergeant.
Slowly they crawled from tree to tree.
"Don't you see the Injuns?" said the Swede, as he pointed to the rocks
in front, where lay their dark forms. The still air gave no sound. The
cathedral of nature, with its dark pine trunks starting from gray snow
to support gray sky, was dead. Only human hearts raged, for the forms
which held them lay like black bowlders.
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