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. 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.