It seemed as though the Indians, in
their desperate effort to carry off the most important or valued of
their charges, were bending all their energies to expediting the
retreat. Time enough to turn on the pursuers when once the rocks had
closed about them,--when the wounded were safe in the fastnesses, and
the pursuers far from supports. But, at the foot of a steep ascent, the
two leading scouts,--rival sergeants of rival troops but devoted friends
for nearly twenty years,--were seen by the next in column, a single
corporal following them at thirty yards' distance, to halt and begin
poking at some dark object by the wayside. Then they pushed on again. A
dead pony, under a quarter inch coverlet of snow, was what met the eyes
of the silently trudging command as it followed. The high-peaked wooden
saddle tree was still "cinched" to the stiffening carcass. Either the
Indians were pushed for time or overstocked with saddlery. Presently
there came a low whistle from the military "middleman" between the
scouts and a little advance guard. "Run ahead," growled the sergeant
commanding to his boy trumpeter. "Give me your reins." And, leaving his
horse, the youngster stumbled along up the winding trail; got his
message and waited.
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