“Don't shoot the woman, Otto. Keep that hole covered; the place is alive with Indians;” and both lay still. A buck rose quickly, looked at the sergeant, and dropped back. The latter could see that he had him located, for he slowly poked his rifle up without showing his head. Johnson rolled swiftly to one side, aiming with his deadly revolver. Up popped the Indian's head, crack went the six-shooter; the head turned slowly, leaving the top exposed. Crack again went the alert gun of the soldier, the ball striking the head just below the scalp-lock and instantly jerking the body into a kneeling position. Then all was quiet in the gloomy woods. After a time the sergeant addressed his voice to the lonely place in Sioux, telling the women to come out and surrender--to leave the bucks, etc. An old squaw rose sharply to her feet, slapped her breast, shouted “Lelah washatah,” and gathering up a little girl and a bundle, she strode forward to the soldiers. Three other women followed, two of them in the same blanket. “Are there any more bucks?” roared the sergeant, in Sioux. “No more alive,” said the old squaw, in the same tongue. “Keep your rifle on the hole between the rocks; watch these people; I will go up,” directed the sergeant, as he slowly mounted to the ledge, and with levelled six-shooter peered slowly over. He stepped in and stood looking down on the dead warriors. A yelling in broken English smote the startled sergeant. “Tro up your hands, you d---- Injun! I'll blow the top off you!” came through the quiet. The sergeant sprang down to see the Swede standing with carbine levelled at a young buck confronting him with a drawn knife in his hands, while his blanket lay back on the snow. “He's a buck--he ain't no squaw; he tried to creep on me with a knife. I'm going to kill him,” shouted the excited Bordeson. “No, no, don't kill him. Otto, don't you kill him,” expostulated Johnson, as the Swede's finger clutched nervously at the trigger, and turning, he roared, “Throw away that knife, you d------Indian!”