rses were
held by a third soldier a few yards back behind the spur, for Winsor was
"side scouting" up the heights.

The snowfall had ceased for a time. The light was growing broader every
moment, and presently a soft whistle sounded somewhere up the steep, and
Schreiber answered. "He wants us, sir," was all he said, and in five
minutes they had found him, sprawled on his stomach on a projecting
ledge, and pointing southeastward, where, boldly outlined against the
gray of the morning sky, a black and beetling precipice towered from
the mist-wreathed pines at its base. Bear Cliff beyond a doubt!

"How far, sergeant?" asked the captain, never too reliant on his powers
of judging distance.

"Five miles, sir, at least; yet some three or four Indians have turned
off here and gone--somewhere up there." And, rolling half over, Winsor
pointed again toward a wooded bluff, perhaps three hundred feet higher
and half a mile away. "That's probably the best lookout this side of the
cliff itself!" he continued, in explanation, as he saw the puzzled look
on the captain's face. "From there, likely, they can see the trail over
the divide--the one Little Bat is leading the major and, if they've made
any time at all, the squadron should be at Bear Cliff now."

They were crawling to him by this time, Blake and Schreiber, among the
stunted cedars that grew thickly along the rocky ledge. Winsor, flat
again on his stomach, sprawled like a squirrel close to the brink. Every
moment as the skies grew brighter the panorama before them became more
extensive, a glorious sweep of highland scenery, of boldly tossing
ridges east and south and west--the slopes all mantled, the trees all
tipped, with nature's ermine, and studded now with myriad gems, taking
fire at the first touch of the day god's messenger, as the mighty king
himself burst his halo of circling cloud and came peering over the low
curtain far at the eastward horizon. Chill and darkness and shrouding
vapor vanished all in a breath as he rose, dominant over countless
leagues of wild, unbroken, yet magnificent mountain landscape.

"Worth every hour of watch and mile of climb!" muttered Blake. "But it's
Indians, not scenery, we're after. What are we here for, Winsor?" and
narrowly he eyed Ray's famous right bower.

"If the major got there first, sir,--and I believe he did,--they have to
send the prisoners and wounded back this way."

"Then we've got 'em!" broke in Schreiber, low-toned,