"Don't bunch. Spread out right and left," were the only
cautions, and then in long, irregular line, up the mountain steep they
clambered, hope and duty still leading on, the last faint light of the
November evening showing them their rocky way. Now, renegadoes, it is
fight or flee for your lives!
Perhaps a hundred yards farther up the jagged face the leaders came
upon an incline so steep that, like the Tontos above them, they were
forced to edge around to the southward, whither their comrades
followed. Presently, issuing from the shelter of the pines, they came
upon a bare and bowlder-dotted patch to cross which brought them
plainly into view of the heights above, and almost instantly under
fire. Shot after shot, to which they could make no reply, spat and
flattened on the rocks about them, but, dodging and ducking
instinctively, they pressed swiftly on. Once more within the partial
shelter of the pines across the open, they again resumed the climb,
coming suddenly upon a sight that fairly spurred them. There, feet
upward among the bowlders, stiff and swollen in death, lay all that
the lynxes had left of a cavalry horse. Close at hand was the battered
troop saddle. Caught in the bushes a few rods above was the folded
blanket, and, lodged in a crevice, still higher, lay the felt-covered
canteen, stenciled with the number and letter of Wren's own troop.
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