"Here's where we'd better look out," Scout Gruard sharply warned. "That fellow has found our trail, and they'll be after us in five minutes." "What's the best thing to do, then?" coolly asked Lieutenant Sibley. The scouts knew the country, and in a pinch their advice was good. "Well, we've just one chance of escape. That is, to make into the mountains and try to cross them. But we'll have to prepare for the worst." There was no escape into the open; the Sioux blocked the way. They had the detachment pocketed against the mountains, fifty miles from help. To attempt a running fight, or a stand, would result in a surround, with the enemy pouring in a fire from every rise or else cutting off the water supply. "Very well," the lieutenant agreed. They went down to where the troopers and Packer John Becker were waiting and wondering. Lieutenant Sibley spoke briefly. They had read bad news in his grave young face. "Men, the Indians have discovered us. We'll have to do some fighting. If we can make an honorable escape, all together, we'll do it. But if that proves impossible, let no man surrender. Die in your tracks, for these Indians will show no mercy." The bronzed countenances of a few of the men paled a trifle; but as soldiers they were ready to do their best, obey orders and trust in their leaders. "All right, sir." That was all they said. "Mount." Away they trotted at a smart pace, Scout Gruard guiding, west by north, directly for the nearest slope of the first range. Carbines thumped, bridles jingled, leather squeaked, the horses' hoofs clattered on the sandstone ledges. They emerged from the last of the reddish defiles and proceeded to climb--up, up, up into the pines. The going was steep, and the horses puffed and groaned. Gazing back, they might see the Sioux a mile behind, and below, bunched in council, and looking and gesturing. They appeared uncertain whether to pursue. Soon Frank turned into an old, narrow pony trail, pointing still westward as if to cross the first range. "This is an old Sioux hunting trail," he called, over his shoulder, to the lieutenant and Reporter Finerty. "It leads clear to the snowy range. If we can get there our chances are pretty fair." The trail was good. They pushed on at a trot, never sparing the horses. They began to feel more hopeful. The Sioux were out of sight; there were no sounds of pursuit; was it possible that they had been let off? As everybody knew, the Plains Indians rarely ventured far into the mountains, except on quick forays against enemies who did not expect them. After five miles more, Scouts Gruard and Big Bat stopped. The column had climbed almost to the top of the first range. "Do you want to rest the horses, lieutenant?" "Yes, if it's safe. What do you think?"