After cogitating, the officer concluded not to order his men forward, but he himself stepped boldly out into the open and climbed up. Sergeant Johnson immediately followed, while an old Swedish soldier by the name of Otto Bordeson fell in behind them. They walked briskly up the hill, and placing their backs against the wall of rock, stood gazing at the Indian. With a grin the officer directed the men to advance. The sergeant, seeing that he realized their serious predicament, said: “I think, lieutenant, you had better leave them where they are; we are holding this rock up pretty hard.” [Illustration: 13 THE HORSES ASSEMBLED IN A SIDE CANYON] They stood there and looked at each other. “We's in a fix,” said Otto. “I want volunteers to climb this rock,” finally demanded the officer. The sergeant looked up the steps, pulled at the lariat, and commented: “Only one man can go at a time; if there are Indians up there, an old squaw can kill this command with a hatchet; and if there are no Indians, we can all go up.” The impatient officer started up, but the sergeant grabbed him by the belt. He turned, saying, “If I haven't got men to go, I will climb myself.” “Stop, lieutenant. It wouldn't look right for the officer to go. I have noticed a pine-tree, the branches of which spread over the top of the rock,” and the sergeant pointed to it. “If you will make the men cover the top of the rim-rock with their rifles, Bordeson and I will go up;” and turning to the Swede, “Will you go, Otto?” “I will go anywhere the sergeant does,” came his gallant reply. “Take your choice, then, of the steps or the pine-tree,” continued the Virginian; and after a rather short but sharp calculation the Swede declared for the tree, although both were death if the Indians were on the rim-rock. He immediately began sidling along the rock to the tree, and slowly commenced the ascent. 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.