“I suppose this was visited upon us because we were puffed up with pride over our exploits,” said Pennington, “but it’s an awful jolt to us to have the whole Winchester regiment penned up here and driven to hiding by a single brigand.”

“It’s not a jolt,” said Warner, “it’s a tragedy.  Unless we get him we can never live it down.  We may win another Gettysburg all by ourselves, but history and also the voice of legend and ironic song will tell first of the time when Slade, the outlaw, held us all in the cove at the muzzle of his rifle.”

Colonel Winchester, although he did not show it, raged the most of them all.  The great taunt would be for him rather than his young officers and troopers, and the blood burned in his veins as he watched the operations of the sharpshooter on the ridges.  One of his men had been killed, three had been wounded, and all of them were compelled to seek shelter for their lives as none knew where Slade’s bullet would strike next.  In his perplexity he called in Reed, the mountaineer, who fortunately was in camp, and he suggested that they send out a group of men through the entrance, who might stalk him from the far side in the same way that they had crushed his band.

“But how are they to climb on the smooth ice?” asked the colonel.

“Wrap the feet uv the men in blankets, an’ let ’em use their bayonets for a grip in the ice,” replied the mountaineer, “an’ ef you don’t mind, colonel, I’d like to go along with the party.  Mebbe I’d git a shot at that big hat uv Slade’s.”

The idea appealed to the colonel, especially as none other offered, and Warner, to his great delight, received command of the party detailed for the difficult and dangerous duty.  Several of the coarsest and heaviest blankets were cut up, and the feet of the men were wrapped in them in such manner that they would not slip on the ice, although retaining full freedom of movement.  They tried their “snow shoes” behind the house, where they were sheltered from Slade’s bullets, and found that they could make good speed over the ice.

“Now be careful, Warner,” said Colonel Winchester.  “Remember that your party also may present a fair target to him, and we don’t wish to lose another man.”

“I’ll use every precaution possible, sir,” replied Warner, “and I thank you for giving me this responsibility.”

Then keeping to the shelter of trees he led his men out through the pass, and the soul of Warner, despite his calm exterior, was aflame.  Dick had achieved his great task with success, and, in the lesser one, he wished to do as well.  It was not jealousy of his comrade, but emulation, and also a desire to meet his own exacting standards.  As he disappeared with his picked sharpshooters and turned the shoulder of the mountain his blood was still hot, but his Vermont head was as cool as the ice upon which he trod.

Warner heard the distant reports of Slade’s rifle, and also the crackle of the firing in reply.  He knew the colonel would keep Slade so busy that he was not likely to notice the flank movement, and he pressed forward with all the energy of himself and his men.  The heavy cloth around their shoes gave them a secure foothold until they reached the steeper slopes, and there, in accordance with Reed’s suggestion, they used their bayonets as alpenstocks.