VANISHED ARIZONA

Recollections of the Army Life by a New England Woman

by Martha Summerhayes

TO MY SON HARRY SUMMERHAYES WHO SHARED THE VICISSITUDES OF MY LIFE INARIZONA, THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

Preface

I have written this story of my army life at the urgent and ceaselessrequest of my children. 

For whenever I allude to those early days, and tell to them the talesthey have so often heard, they always say: "Now, mother, will you writethese stories for us? Please, mother, do; we must never forget them. "

Then, after an interval, "Mother, have you written those stories ofArizona yet?" until finally, with the aid of some old letters writtenfrom those very places (the letters having been preserved, with otherpapers of mine, by an uncle in New England long since dead), I have beenable to give a fairly connected story. 

I have not attempted to commemorate my husband's brave career in theCivil War, as I was not married until some years after the close of thatwar, nor to describe the many Indian campaigns in which he took part, nor to write about the achievements of the old Eighth Infantry. I leaveall that to the historian. I have given simply the impressions made uponthe mind of a young New England woman who left her comfortable homein the early seventies, to follow a second lieutenant into the wildestencampments of the American army. 

Hoping the story may possess some interest for the younger women of thearmy, and possibly for some of our old friends, both in the army and incivil life, I venture to send it forth. 

POSTCRIPT (second edition). 

The appendix to this, the second edition of my book, will tell somethingof the kind manner in which the first edition was received by my friendsand the public at large. 

But as several people had expressed a wish that I should tell more of myarmy experiences I have gone carefully over the entire book, adding somedetail and a few incidents which had come to my mind later. 

I have also been able, with some difficulty and much patient effort, to secure several photographs of exceptional interest, which have beenadded to the illustrations. 

January, 1911. 

CONTENTS

 PREFACE

 CHAPTER I. GERMANY AND THE ARMY II. I JOINED THE ARMY III. ARMY HOUSE-KEEPING IV. DOWN THE PACIFIC COAST V. THE SLUE VI. UP THE RIO COLORADO VII. THE MOJAVE DESERT VIII. LEARNING HOW TO SOLDIER IX. ACROSS THE MOGOLLONS X. A PERILOUS ADVENTURE XI. CAMP APACHE XII. LIFE AMONGST THE APACHES XIII. A NEW RECRUIT XIV. A MEMORABLE JOURNEY XV. FORDING THE LITTLE COLORADO XVI. STONEMAN'S LAKE XVII. THE COLORADO DESERT XVIII. EHRENBERG ON THE COLORADO XIX. SUMMER AT EHRENBERG XX. MY DELIVERER XXI. WINTER IN EHRENBERG XXII. RETURN TO THE STATES XXIII. BACK TO ARIZONA XXIV. UP THE VALLEY OF THE GILA XXV. OLD CAMP MACDOWELL XXVI. A SUDDEN ORDER XXVII. THE EIGHTH FOOT LEAVES ARIZONA XXVIII. CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA XXIX. CHANGING STATION XXX. FORT NIOBRARA XXXI. SANTA FE XXXII. TEXAS XXXIII. DAVID'S ISLAND

 APPENDIX

VANISHED ARIZONA

CHAPTER I. GERMANY AND THE ARMY

The stalwart men of the Prussian army, the Lancers, the Dragoons, theHussars, the clank of their sabres on the pavements, their brilliantuniforms, all made an impression upon my romantic mind, and I listenedeagerly, in the quiet evenings, to tales of Hanover under King George, to stories of battles lost, and the entry of the Prussians into the oldResidenz-stadt; the flight of the King, and the sorrow and chagrin whichprevailed. 

For I was living in the family of General Weste, the formerstadt-commandant of Hanover, who had served fifty years in the army andhad accompanied King George on his exit from the city. He was a gallantveteran, with the rank of General-Lieutenant, ausser Dienst. A charmingand dignified man, accepting philosophically the fact that Hanover hadbecome Prussian, but loyal in his heart to his King and to old Hanover;pretending great wrath when, on the King's birthday, he found yellowand white sand strewn before his door, but unable to conceal the joyfulgleam in his eye when he spoke of it. 

The General's wife was the daughter of a burgomaster and had beenbrought up in a neighboring town. She was a dear, kind soul. 

The house-keeping was simple, but stately and precise, as befittedthe rank of this officer. The General was addressed by the servants asExcellenz and his wife as Frau Excellenz. A charming unmarried daughterlived at home, making, with myself, a family of four. 

Life was spent quietly, and every evening, after our coffee (served inthe living-room in winter, and in the garden in summer), Frau Generalinwould amuse me with descriptions of life in her old home, and of howgirls were brought up in her day; how industry was esteemed by hermother the greatest virtue, and idleness was punished as the mostbeguiling sin. She was never allowed, she said, to read, even on Sunday, without her knitting-work in her hands; and she would often sigh, andsay to me, in German (for dear Frau Generalin spoke no other tongue), "Ach, Martha, you American girls are so differently brought up"; and Iwould say, "But, Frau Generalin, which way do you think is the better?"She would then look puzzled, shrug her shoulders, and often say, "Ach!times are different I suppose, but my ideas can never change. "

Now the dear Frau Generalin did not speak a word of English, and as Ihad had only a few lessons in German before I left America, I had theutmost difficulty at first in comprehending what she said. She spokerapidly and I would listen with the closest attention, only to give upin despair, and to say, "Gute Nacht, " evening after evening, with myhead buzzing and my mind a blank. 

After a few weeks, however, I began to understand everything she said, altho' I could not yet write or read the language, and I listened withthe greatest interest to the story of her marriage with young LieutenantWeste, of the bringing up of her four children, and of the old days inHanover, before the Prussians took possession. 

She described to me the brilliant Hanoverian Court, the endlessfestivities and balls, the stately elegance of the old city, and thecruel misfortunes of the King. And how, a few days after the King'sflight, the end of all things came to her; for she was politelyinformed one evening, by a big Prussian major, that she must seek otherlodgings--he needed her quarters. At this point she always wept, and Isympathized. 

Thus I came to know military life in Germany, and I fell in love withthe army, with its brilliancy and its glitter, with its strugglesand its romance, with its sharp contrasts, its deprivations, and itschivalry. 

I came to know, as their guest, the best of old military society. Theywere very old-fashioned and precise, and Frau Generalin often told methat American girls were too ausgelassen in their manners. She oftenreproved me for seating myself upon the sofa (which was only for oldpeople) and also for looking about too much when walking on the streets. Young girls must keep their eyes more cast down, looking up onlyoccasionally. (I thought this dreadfully prim, as I was eager to seeeverything). I was expected to stop and drop a little courtesy onmeeting an older woman, and then to inquire after the health of eachmember of the family. It seemed to take a lot of time, but all the othergirls did it, and there seemed to be no hurry about anything, ever, in that elegant old Residenz-stadt. Surely a contrast to our bustlingAmerican towns. 

A sentiment seemed to underlie everything they did. The Emperor meantso much to them, and they adored the Empress. A personal feeling, anaffection, such as I had never heard of in a republic, caused me to stopand wonder if an empire were not the best, after all. And one day, when the Emperor, passing through Hanover en route, drove down theGeorgen-strasse in an open barouche and raised his hat as he glanced atthe sidewalk where I happened to be standing, my heart seemed to stopbeating, and I was overcome by a most wonderful feeling--a feeling thatin a man would have meant chivalry and loyalty unto death. 

In this beautiful old city, life could not be taken any other thanleisurely. Theatres with early hours, the maid coming for me with alantern at nine o'clock, the frequent Kaffee-klatsch, the delightfulafternoon coffee at the Georgen-garten, the visits to the Zoologicalgardens, where we always took our fresh rolls along with ourknitting-work in a basket, and then sat at a little table in the open, and were served with coffee, sweet cream, and butter, by a strappingHessian peasant woman--all so simple, yet so elegant, so peaceful. 

We heard the best music at the theatre, which was managed with the sameprecision, and maintained by the Government with the same generosity, as in the days of King George. No one was allowed to enter after theoverture had begun, and an absolute hush prevailed. 

The orchestra consisted of sixty or more pieces, and the audience wascritical. The parquet was filled with officers in the gayest uniforms;there were few ladies amongst them; the latter sat mostly in the boxes, of which there were several tiers, and as soon as the curtain fell, between the acts, the officers would rise, turn around, and level theirglasses at the boxes. Sometimes they came and visited in the boxes. 

As I had been brought up in a town half Quaker, half Puritan, the customof going to the theatre Sunday evenings was rather a questionable onein my mind. But I soon fell in with their ways, and found that on Sundayevenings there was always the most brilliant audience and the best playswere selected. With this break-down of the wall of narrow prejudice, Igave up others equally as narrow, and adopted the German customs with mywhole heart. 

I studied the language with unflinching perseverance, for this was theopportunity I had dreamed about and longed for in the barren winterevenings at Nantucket when I sat poring over Coleridge's translations ofSchiller's plays and Bayard Taylor's version of Goethe's Faust. 

Should I ever read these intelligently in the original?

And when my father consented for me to go over and spend a year and livein General Weste's family, there never was a happier or more gratefulyoung woman. Appreciative and eager, I did not waste a moment, and mykeen enjoyment of the German classics repaid me a hundred fold for allmy industry. 

Neither time nor misfortune, nor illness can take from me the memory ofthat year of privileges such as is given few American girls to enjoy, when they are at an age to fully appreciate them. 

And so completely separated was I from the American and English colonythat I rarely heard my own language spoken, and thus I lived, ate, listened, talked, and even dreamed in German. 

There seemed to be time enough to do everything we wished; and, as theFranco-Prussian war was just over (it was the year of 1871), and manytroops were in garrison at Hanover, the officers could always join us atthe various gardens for after-dinner coffee, which, by the way, was nottaken in the demi-tasse, but in good generous coffee-cups, with plentyof rich cream. Every one drank at least two cups, the officers smoked, the women knitted or embroidered, and those were among the pleasantesthours I spent in Germany. 

The intrusion of unwelcome visitors was never to be feared, as, bycommon consent, the various classes in Hanover kept by themselves, thusenjoying life much better than in a country where everybody is strivingafter the pleasures and luxuries enjoyed by those whom circumstanceshave placed above them. 

The gay uniforms lent a brilliancy to every affair, however simple. Officers were not allowed to appear en civile, unless on leave ofabsence. 

I used to say, "Oh, Frau General, how fascinating it all is!" "Hush, Martha, " she would say; "life in the army is not always so brilliant asit looks; in fact, we often call it, over here, 'glaenzendes Elend. '"

These bitter words made a great impression upon my mind, and in afteryears, on the American frontier, I seemed to hear them over and overagain. 

When I bade good-bye to the General and his family, I felt a tighteningabout my throat and my heart, and I could not speak. Life in Germany hadbecome dear to me, and I had not known how dear until I was leaving itforever. 

CHAPTER II. I JOINED THE ARMY

I was put in charge of the captain of the North German Lloyd S. S. "Donau, " and after a most terrific cyclone in mid-ocean, in which wenearly foundered, I landed in Hoboken, sixteen days from Bremen. 

My brother, Harry Dunham, met me on the pier, saying, as he took me inhis arms, "You do not need to tell me what sort of a trip you have had;it is enough to look at the ship--that tells the story. "

As the vessel had been about given up for lost, her arrival was somewhatof an agreeable surprise to all our friends, and to none more so thanmy old friend Jack, a second lieutenant of the United States army, whoseemed so glad to have me back in America, that I concluded the onlything to do was to join the army myself. 

A quiet wedding in the country soon followed my decision, and we setout early in April of the year 1874 to join his regiment, which wasstationed at Fort Russell, Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. 

I had never been west of New York, and Cheyenne seemed to me, incontrast with the finished civilization of Europe, which I had sorecently left, the wildest sort of a place. 

Arriving in the morning, and alighting from the train, two gallantofficers, in the uniform of the United States infantry, approachedand gave us welcome; and to me, the bride, a special "welcome to theregiment" was given by each of them with outstretched hands. 

Major Wilhelm said, "The ambulance is right here; you must come to ourhouse and stay until you get your quarters. "

Such was my introduction to the army--and to the army ambulance, inwhich I was destined to travel so many miles. 

Four lively mules and a soldier driver brought us soon to the post, and Mrs. Wilhelm welcomed us to her pleasant and comfortable-lookingquarters. 

I had never seen an army post in America. I had always lived in placeswhich needed no garrison, and the army, except in Germany, was anunknown quantity to me. 

Fort Russell was a large post, and the garrison consisted of manycompanies of cavalry and infantry. It was all new and strange to me. 

Soon after luncheon, Jack said to Major Wilhelm, "Well, now, I must goand look for quarters: what's the prospect?"

"You will have to turn some one out, " said the Major, as they left thehouse together. 

About an hour afterwards they returned, and Jack said, "Well, I haveturned out Lynch; but, " he added, "as his wife and child are away, I donot believe he'll care very much. "

"Oh, " said I, "I'm so sorry to have to turn anybody out!"

The Major and his wife smiled, and the former remarked, "You must nothave too much sympathy: it's the custom of the service--it's alwaysdone--by virtue of rank. They'll hate you for doing it, but if youdon't do it they'll not respect you. After you've been turned out onceyourself, you will not mind turning others out. "

The following morning I drove over to Cheyenne with Mrs. Wilhelm, andas I passed Lieutenant Lynch's quarters and saw soldiers removingMrs. Lynch's lares and penates, in the shape of a sewing machine, lamp-shades, and other home-like things, I turned away in pity that suchcustoms could exist in our service. 

To me, who had lived my life in the house in which I was born, movingwas a thing to be dreaded. 

But Mrs. Wilhelm comforted me, and assured me it was not such a seriousmatter after all. Army women were accustomed to it, she said. 

CHAPTER III. ARMY HOUSE-KEEPING

Not knowing before I left home just what was needed for house-keeping inthe army, and being able to gather only vague ideas on the subject fromJack, who declared that his quarters were furnished admirably, Ihad taken out with me but few articles in addition to the silver andlinen-chests. 

I began to have serious doubts on the subject of my menage, afterinspecting the bachelor furnishings which had seemed so ample to myhusband. But there was so much to be seen in the way of guard mount, cavalry drill, and various military functions, besides the drives totown and the concerts of the string orchestra, that I had little time tothink of the practical side of life. 

Added to this, we were enjoying the delightful hospitality of theWilhelms, and the Major insisted upon making me acquainted with the"real old-fashioned army toddy" several times a day, --a new beverageto me, brought up in a blue-ribbon community, where wine-bibbing andwhiskey drinking were rated as belonging to only the lowest classes. To be sure, my father always drank two fingers of fine cognac beforedinner, but I had always considered that a sort of medicine for a manadvanced in years. 

Taken all in all, it is not to be wondered at if I saw not much in thosefew days besides bright buttons, blue uniforms, and shining swords. 

Everything was military and gay and brilliant, and I forgot the veryexistence of practical things, in listening to the dreamy strains ofItalian and German music, rendered by our excellent and painstakingorchestra. For the Eighth Infantry loved good music, and had importedits musicians direct from Italy. 

This came to an end, however, after a few days, and I was obliged todescend from those heights to the dead level of domestic economy. 

My husband informed me that the quarters were ready for our occupancyand that we could begin house-keeping at once. He had engaged a soldiernamed Adams for a striker; he did not know whether Adams was much ofa cook, he said, but he was the only available man just then, as thecompanies were up north at the Agency. 

Our quarters consisted of three rooms and a kitchen, which formedone-half of a double house. 

I asked Jack why we could not have a whole house. I did not think Icould possibly live in three rooms and a kitchen. 

"Why, Martha, " said he, "did you not know that women are not reckonedin at all at the War Department? A lieutenant's allowance of quarters, according to the Army Regulations, is one room and a kitchen, acaptain's allowance is two rooms and a kitchen, and so on up, until acolonel has a fairly good house. " I told him I thought it an outrage;that lieutenants' wives needed quite as much as colonels' wives. 

He laughed and said, "You see we have already two rooms over our properallowance; there are so many married officers, that the Government hashad to stretch a point. "

After indulging in some rather harsh comments upon a government whichcould treat lieutenants' wives so shabbily, I began to investigate mysurroundings. 

Jack had placed his furnishings (some lace curtains, camp chairs, and acarpet) in the living-room, and there was a forlorn-looking bedstead inthe bedroom. A pine table in the dining-room and a range in the kitchencompleted the outfit. A soldier had scrubbed the rough floors with astraw broom: it was absolutely forlorn, and my heart sank within me. 

But then I thought of Mrs. Wilhelm's quarters, and resolved to try mybest to make ours look as cheerful and pretty as hers. A chaplain wasabout leaving the post and wished to dispose of his things, so webought a carpet of him, a few more camp chairs of various designs, and acheerful-looking table-cover. We were obliged to be very economical, asJack was a second lieutenant, the pay was small and a little in arrears, after the wedding trip and long journey out. We bought white Hollandshades for the windows, and made the three rooms fairly comfortable andthen I turned my attention to the kitchen. 

Jack said I should not have to buy anything at all; the QuartermasterDepartment furnished everything in the line of kitchen utensils; and, ashis word was law, I went over to the quartermaster store-house to selectthe needed articles. 

After what I had been told, I was surprised to find nothing smaller thantwo-gallon tea-kettles, meat-forks a yard long, and mess-kettles deepenough to cook rations for fifty men! I rebelled, and said I would notuse such gigantic things. 

My husband said: "Now, Mattie, be reasonable; all the army women keephouse with these utensils; the regiment will move soon, and then whatshould we do with a lot of tin pans and such stuff? You know a secondlieutenant is allowed only a thousand pounds of baggage when he changesstation. " This was a hard lesson, which I learned later. 

Having been brought up in an old-time community, where women deferred totheir husbands in everything, I yielded, and the huge things were sentover. I had told Mrs. Wilhelm that we were to have luncheon in our ownquarters. 

So Adams made a fire large enough to roast beef for a company ofsoldiers, and he and I attempted to boil a few eggs in the deepmess-kettle and to make the water boil in the huge tea-kettle. 

But Adams, as it turned out, was not a cook, and I must confess that myown attention had been more engrossed by the study of German auxiliaryverbs, during the few previous years, than with the art of cooking. 

Of course, like all New England girls of that period, I knew how to makequince jelly and floating islands, but of the actual, practical side ofcooking, and the management of a range, I knew nothing. 

Here was a dilemma, indeed!

The eggs appeared to boil, but they did not seem to be done when we tookthem off, by the minute-hand of the clock. 

I declared the kettle was too large; Adams said he did not understand itat all. 

I could have wept with chagrin! Our first meal a deux!

I appealed to Jack. He said, "Why, of course, Martha, you ought to knowthat things do not cook as quickly at this altitude as they do down atthe sea level. We are thousands of feet above the sea here in Wyoming. "(I am not sure it was thousands, but it was hundreds at least. )

So that was the trouble, and I had not thought of it!

My head was giddy with the glamour, the uniform, the guard-mount, themilitary music, the rarefied air, the new conditions, the new interestsof my life. Heine's songs, Goethe's plays, history and romance werefloating through my mind. Is it to be wondered at that I and Adamstogether prepared the most atrocious meals that ever a new husband hadto eat? I related my difficulties to Jack, and told him I thoughtwe should never be able to manage with such kitchen utensils as werefurnished by the Q. M. D. 

"Oh, pshaw! You are pampered and spoiled with your New Englandkitchens, " said he; "you will have to learn to do as other army womendo--cook in cans and such things, be inventive, and learn to do withnothing. " This was my first lesson in army house-keeping. 

After my unpractical teacher had gone out on some official business, Iran over to Mrs. Wilhelm's quarters and said, "Will you let me see yourkitchen closet?"

She assented, and I saw the most beautiful array of tin-ware, shiningand neat, placed in rows upon the shelves and hanging from hooks on thewall. 

"So!" I said; "my military husband does not know anything about thesethings;" and I availed myself of the first trip of the ambulance overto Cheyenne, bought a stock of tin-ware and had it charged, and madeno mention of it--because I feared that tin-ware was to be our bone ofcontention, and I put off the evil day. 

The cooking went on better after that, but I did not have muchassistance from Adams. 

I had great trouble at first with the titles and the rank: but I soonlearned that many of the officers were addressed by the brevet titlebestowed upon them for gallant service in the Civil War, and I beganto understand about the ways and customs of the army of Uncle Sam. Incontrast to the Germans, the American lieutenants were not addressed bytheir title (except officially); I learned to "Mr. " all the lieutenantswho had no brevet. 

One morning I suggested to Adams that he should wash the front windows;after being gone a half hour, to borrow a step-ladder, he entered theroom, mounted the ladder and began. I sat writing. Suddenly, hefaced around, and addressing me, said, "Madam, do you believe inspiritualism?"

"Good gracious! Adams, no; why do you ask me such a question?"

This was enough; he proceeded to give a lecture on the subject worthy ofa man higher up on the ladder of this life. I bade him come to an endas soon as I dared (for I was not accustomed to soldiers), and suggestedthat he was forgetting his work. 

It was early in April, and the snow drifted through the crevices of theold dried-out house, in banks upon our bed; but that was soon mended, and things began to go smoothly enough, when Jack was ordered to joinhis company, which was up at the Spotted Tail Agency. It was expectedthat the Sioux under this chief would break out at any minute. They hadbecome disaffected about some treaty. I did not like to be left alonewith the Spiritualist, so Jack asked one of the laundresses, whosehusband was out with the company, to come and stay and take care ofme. Mrs. Patten was an old campaigner; she understood everything aboutofficers and their ways, and she made me absolutely comfortable forthose two lonely months. I always felt grateful to her; she was a dearold Irish woman. 

All the families and a few officers were left at the post, and, with thedaily drive to Cheyenne, some small dances and theatricals, my time waspleasantly occupied. 

Cheyenne in those early days was an amusing but unattractive frontiertown; it presented a great contrast to the old civilization I hadso recently left. We often saw women in cotton wrappers, high-heeledslippers, and sun-bonnets, walking in the main streets. Cows, pigs, andsaloons seemed to be a feature of the place. 

In about six weeks, the affairs of the Sioux were settled, and thetroops returned to the post. The weather began to be uncomfortably hotin those low wooden houses. I missed the comforts of home and the freshsea air of the coast, but I tried to make the best of it. 

Our sleeping-room was very small, and its one window looked out over theboundless prairie at the back of the post. On account of the great heat, we were obliged to have this window wide open at night. I heard thecries and wails of various animals, but Jack said that was nothing--theyalways heard them. 

Once, at midnight, the wails seemed to be nearer, and I was terrified;but he told me 'twas only the half-wild cats and coyotes which prowledaround the post. I asked him if they ever came in. "Gracious, no!" hesaid; "they are too wild. "

I calmed myself for sleep--when like lightning, one of the hugecreatures gave a flying leap in at our window, across the bed, andthrough into the living-room. 

"Jerusalem!" cried the lieutenant, and flew after her, snatching hissword, which stood in the corner, and poking vigorously under the divan. 

I rolled myself under the bed-covers, in the most abject terror lestshe might come back the same way; and, true enough, she did, with a mostpiercing cry. I never had much rest after that occurrence, as we had noprotection against these wild-cats. 

The regiment, however, in June was ordered to Arizona, that dreaded andthen unknown land, and the uncertain future was before me. I saw theother women packing china and their various belongings. I seemed to behelpless. Jack was busy with things outside. He had three large armychests, which were brought in and placed before me. "Now, " he said, "allour things must go into those chests"--and I supposed they must. 

I was pitifully ignorant of the details of moving, and I stooddespairingly gazing into the depths of those boxes, when the jollyand stout wife of Major von Hermann passed my window. She glanced in, comprehended the situation, and entered, saying, "You do not understandhow to pack? Let me help you: give me a cushion to kneel upon--now bringeverything that is to be packed, and I can soon show you how to do it. "With her kind assistance the chests were packed, and I found that we hada great deal of surplus stuff which had to be put into rough cases, orrolled into packages and covered with burlap. Jack fumed when he saw it, and declared we could not take it all, as it exceeded our allowance ofweight. I declared we must take it, or we could not exist. 

With some concessions on both sides we were finally packed up, andleft Fort Russell about the middle of June, with the first detachment, consisting of head-quarters and band, for San Francisco, over the UnionPacific Railroad. 

For it must be remembered, that in 1874 there were no railroads inArizona, and all troops which were sent to that distant territory eithermarched over-land through New Mexico, or were transported by steamerfrom San Francisco down the coast, and up the Gulf of California to FortYuma, from which point they marched up the valley of the Gila to thesouthern posts, or continued up the Colorado River by steamer, toother points of disembarkation, whence they marched to the posts in theinterior, or the northern part of the territory. 

Much to my delight, we were allowed to remain over in San Francisco, andgo down with the second detachment. We made the most of the time, whichwas about a fortnight, and on the sixth of August we embarked with sixcompanies of soldiers, Lieutenant Colonel Wilkins in command, on the oldsteamship "Newbern, " Captain Metzger, for Arizona. 

CHAPTER IV. DOWN THE PACIFIC COAST

Now the "Newbern" was famous for being a good roller, and she livedup to her reputation. For seven days I saw only the inside of ourstateroom. At the end of that time we arrived off Cape St. Lucas (theextreme southern point of Lower California), and I went on deck. 

We anchored and took cattle aboard. I watched the natives tow them off, the cattle swimming behind their small boats, and then saw the poorbeasts hoisted up by their horns to the deck of our ship. 

I thought it most dreadfully cruel, but was informed that it had beendone from time immemorial, so I ceased to talk about it, knowing thatI could not reform those aged countries, and realizing, faintly perhaps(for I had never seen much of the rough side of life), that just ascruel things were done to the cattle we consume in the North. 

Now that Mr. Sinclair, in his great book "The Jungle, " has brought themultiplied horrors of the great packing-houses before our very eyes, wemight witness the hoisting of the cattle over the ship's side withoutfeeling such intense pity, admitting that everything is relative, evencruelty. 

It was now the middle of August, and the weather had become insufferablyhot, but we were out of the long swell of the Pacific Ocean; we hadrounded Cape St. Lucas, and were steaming up the Gulf of California, towards the mouth of the Great Colorado, whose red and turbulent watersempty themselves into this gulf, at its head. 

I now had time to become acquainted with the officers of the regiment, whom I had not before met; they had come in from other posts and joinedthe command at San Francisco. 

The daughter of the lieutenant-colonel was on board, the beautiful andgraceful Caroline Wilkins, the belle of the regiment; and Major Worth, to whose company my husband belonged. I took a special interest in thelatter, as I knew we must face life together in the wilds of Arizona. Ihad time to learn something about the regiment and its history; and thatMajor Worth's father, whose monument I had so often seen in New York, was the first colonel of the Eighth Infantry, when it was organized inthe State of New York in 1838. 

The party on board was merry enough, and even gay. There was CaptainOgilby, a great, genial Scotchman, and Captain Porter, a graduate ofDublin, and so charmingly witty. He seemed very devoted to Miss Wilkins, but Miss Wilkins was accustomed to the devotion of all the officers ofthe Eighth Infantry. In fact, it was said that every young lieutenantwho joined the regiment had proposed to her. She was most attractive, and as she had too kind a heart to be a coquette, she was a universalfavorite with the women as well as with the men. 

There was Ella Bailey, too, Miss Wilkins' sister, with her young andhandsome husband and their young baby. 

Then, dear Mrs. Wilkins, who had been so many years in the army that sheremembered crossing the plains in a real ox-team. She represented thebest type of the older army woman--and it was so lovely to see herwith her two daughters, all in the same regiment. A mother of grown-updaughters was not often met with in the army. 

And Lieutenant-Colonel Wilkins, a gentleman in the truest sense ofthe word--a man of rather quiet tastes, never happier than when hehad leisure for indulging his musical taste in strumming all sorts ofSpanish fandangos on the guitar, or his somewhat marked talent with thepencil and brush. 

The heat of the staterooms compelled us all to sleep on deck, so ourmattresses were brought up by the soldiers at night, and spread about. The situation, however, was so novel and altogether ludicrous, and ourfear of rats which ran about on deck so great, that sleep was well-nighout of the question. 

Before dawn, we fled to our staterooms, but by sunrise we were glad todress and escape from their suffocating heat and go on deck again. Black coffee and hard-tack were sent up, and this sustained us until thenine-o'clock breakfast, which was elaborate, but not good. There was nomilk, of course, except the heavily sweetened sort, which I could notuse: it was the old-time condensed and canned milk; the meats werebeyond everything, except the poor, tough, fresh beef we had seenhoisted over the side, at Cape St. Lucas. The butter, poor at thebest, began to pour like oil. Black coffee and bread, and a baked sweetpotato, seemed the only things that I could swallow. 

The heat in the Gulf of California was intense. Our trunks were broughtup from the vessel's hold, and we took out summer clothing. But howinadequate and inappropriate it was for that climate! Our faces burnedand blistered; even the parting on the head burned, under the awningswhich were kept spread. The ice-supply decreased alarmingly, the meatsturned green, and when the steward went down into the refrigerator, which was somewhere below the quarter-deck, to get provisions for theday, every woman held a bottle of salts to her nose, and the officersfled to the forward part of the ship. The odor which ascended fromthat refrigerator was indescribable: it lingered and would not go. Itfollowed us to the table, and when we tasted the food we tasted theodor. We bribed the steward for ice. Finally, I could not go below atall, but had a baked sweet potato brought on deck, and lived severaldays upon that diet. 

On the 14th of August we anchored off Mazatlan, a picturesque andancient adobe town in old Mexico. The approach to this port wasstrikingly beautiful. Great rocks, cut by the surf into arches andcaverns, guarded the entrance to the harbor. We anchored two miles out. A customs and a Wells-Fargo boat boarded us, and many natives came alongside, bringing fresh cocoanuts, bananas, and limes. Some Mexicans boundfor Guaymas came on board, and a troupe of Japanese jugglers. 

While we were unloading cargo, some officers and their wives went onshore in one of the ship's boats, and found it a most interesting place. It was garrisoned by Mexican troops, uniformed in white cotton shirtsand trousers. They visited the old hotel, the amphitheatre where thebull-fights were held, and the old fort. They told also about thecock-pits--and about the refreshing drinks they had. 

My thirst began to be abnormal. We bought a dozen cocoanuts, and I drankthe milk from them, and made up my mind to go ashore at the next port;for after nine days with only thick black coffee and bad warm water todrink, I was longing for a cup of good tea or a glass of fresh, sweetmilk. 

A day or so more brought us to Guaymas, another Mexican port. Mrs. Wilkins said she had heard something about an old Spaniard there, who used to cook meals for stray travellers. This was enough. I wasdesperately hungry and thirsty, and we decided to try and find him. Mrs. Wilkins spoke a little Spanish, and by dint of inquiries we found theman's house, a little old, forlorn, deserted-looking adobe casa. 

We rapped vigorously upon the old door, and after some minutes a small, withered old man appeared. 

Mrs. Wilkins told him what we wanted, but this ancient Delmonicodeclined to serve us, and said, in Spanish, the country was "a desert";he had "nothing in the house"; he had "not cooked a meal in years"; hecould not; and, finally, he would not; and he gently pushed the door toin our faces. But we did not give it up, and Mrs. Wilkins continued topersuade. I mustered what Spanish I knew, and told him I would pay himany price for a cup of coffee with fresh milk. He finally yielded, andtold us to return in one hour. 

So we walked around the little deserted town. I could think only of thebreakfast we were to have in the old man's casa. And it met and exceededour wildest anticipations, for, just fancy! We were served with adelicious boullion, then chicken, perfectly cooked, accompanied by somedish flavored with chile verde, creamy biscuit, fresh butter, and goldencoffee with milk. There were three or four women and several officers inthe party, and we had a merry breakfast. We paid the old man generously, thanked him warmly, and returned to the ship, fortified to endure thesight of all the green ducks that came out of the lower hold. 

You must remember that the "Newbern" was a small and old propeller, not fitted up for passengers, and in those days the great refrigeratingplants were unheard of. The women who go to the Philippines on our greattransports of to-day cannot realize and will scarcely believe what weendured for lack of ice and of good food on that never-to-be-forgottenvoyage down the Pacific coast and up the Gulf of California in thesummer of 1874. 

CHAPTER V. THE SLUE

At last, after a voyage of thirteen days, we came to anchor a mile or sooff Port Isabel, at the mouth of the Colorado River. A narrow but deepslue runs up into the desert land, on the east side of the river'smouth, and provides a harbor of refuge for the flat-bottomedstern-wheelers which meet the ocean steamers at this point. Hurricanesare prevalent at this season in the Gulf of California, but we had beenfortunate in not meeting with any on the voyage. The wind now freshened, however, and beat the waves into angry foam, and there we lay for threedays on the "Newbern, " off Port Isabel, before the sea was calm enoughfor the transfer of troops and baggage to the lighters. 

This was excessively disagreeable. The wind was like a breath from afurnace; it seemed as though the days would never end, and the windnever stop blowing. Jack's official diary says: "One soldier diedto-day. "

Finally, on the fourth day, the wind abated, and the transfer was begun. We boarded the river steamboat "Cocopah, " towing a barge loaded withsoldiers, and steamed away for the slue. I must say that we welcomed thechange with delight. Towards the end of the afternoon the "Cocopah" puther nose to the shore and tied up. It seemed strange not to see piersand docks, nor even piles to tie to. Anchors were taken ashore and theboat secured in that manner: there being no trees of sufficient size tomake fast to. 

The soldiers went into camp on shore. The heat down in that low, flatplace was intense. Another man died that night. 

What was our chagrin, the next morning, to learn that we must go back tothe "Newbern, " to carry some freight from up-river. There was nothingto do but stay on board and tow that dreary barge, filled with hot, red, baked-looking ore, out to the ship, unload, and go back up the slue. Jack's diary records: "Aug. 23rd. Heat awful. Pringle died to-day. " Hewas the third soldier to succumb. It seemed to me their fate was a hardone. To die, down in that wretched place, to be rolled in a blanket andburied on those desert shores, with nothing but a heap of stones to marktheir graves. 

The adjutant of the battalion read the burial service, and thetrumpeters stepped to the edge of the graves and sounded "Taps, " whichechoed sad and melancholy far over those parched and arid lands. My eyesfilled with tears, for one of the soldiers was from our own company, andhad been kind to me. 

Jack said: "You mustn't cry, Mattie; it's a soldier's life, and when aman enlists he must take his chances. "

"Yes, but, " I said, "somewhere there must be a mother or sister, or someone who cares for these poor men, and it's all so sad to think of. "

"Well, I know it is sad, " he replied, soothingly, "but listen! It is allover, and the burial party is returning. "

I listened and heard the gay strains of "The girl I left behind me, "which the trumpeters were playing with all their might. "You see, " saidJack, "it would not do for the soldiers to be sad when one of themdies. Why, it would demoralize the whole command. So they play these gaythings to cheer them up. "

And I began to feel that tears must be out of place at a soldier'sfuneral. I attended many a one after that, but I had too muchimagination, and in spite of all my brave efforts, visions of the poorboy's mother on some little farm in Missouri or Kansas perhaps, or insome New England town, or possibly in the old country, would come beforeme, and my heart was filled with sadness. 

The Post Hospital seemed to me a lonesome place to die in, although thesurgeon and soldier attendants were kind to the sick men. There were nowomen nurses in the army in those days. 

The next day, the "Cocopah" started again and towed a barge out to theship. But the hot wind sprang up and blew fiercely, and we lay off andon all day, until it was calm enough to tow her back to the slue. Bythat time I had about given up all hope of getting any farther, and ifthe weather had only been cooler I could have endured with equanimitythe idle life and knocking about from the ship to the slue, and fromthe slue to the ship. But the heat was unbearable. We had to unpack ourtrunks again and get out heavy-soled shoes, for the zinc which coveredthe decks of these river-steamers burned through the thin slippers wehad worn on the ship. 

That day we had a little diversion, for we saw the "Gila" come down theriver and up the slue, and tie up directly alongside of us. She had onboard and in barges four companies of the Twenty-third Infantry, whowere going into the States. We exchanged greetings and visits, and fromthe great joy manifested by them all, I drew my conclusions as to whatlay before us, in the dry and desolate country we were about to enter. 

The women's clothes looked ridiculously old-fashioned, and I wondered ifI should look that way when my time came to leave Arizona. 

Little cared they, those women of the Twenty-third, for, joy upon joys!They saw the "Newbern" out there in the offing, waiting to take themback to green hills, and to cool days and nights, and to those they hadleft behind, three years before. 

On account of the wind, which blew again with great violence, the"Cocopah" could not leave the slue that day. The officers and soldierswere desperate for something to do. So they tried fishing, and caughtsome "croakers, " which tasted very fresh and good, after all the curriedand doctored-up messes we had been obliged to eat on board ship. 

We spent seven days in and out of that slue. Finally, on August the26th, the wind subsided and we started up river. Towards sunset wearrived at a place called "Old Soldier's Camp. " There the "Gila" joinedus, and the command was divided between the two river-boats. We wereassigned to the "Gila, " and I settled myself down with my belongings, for the remainder of the journey up river. 

We resigned ourselves to the dreadful heat, and at the end of two moredays the river had begun to narrow, and we arrived at Fort Yuma, whichwas at that time the post best known to, and most talked about by armyofficers of any in Arizona. No one except old campaigners knew muchabout any other post in the Territory. 

It was said to be the very hottest place that ever existed, and from thetime we left San Francisco we had heard the story, oft repeated, of thepoor soldier who died at Fort Yuma, and after awhile returned to beg forhis blankets, having found the regions of Pluto so much cooler than theplace he had left. But the fort looked pleasant to us, as we approached. It lay on a high mesa to the left of us and there was a little greengrass where the post was built. 

None of the officers knew as yet their destination, and I found myselfwishing it might be our good fortune to stay at Fort Yuma. It seemedsuch a friendly place. 

Lieutenant Haskell, Twelfth Infantry, who was stationed there, came downto the boat to greet us, and brought us our letters from home. He thenextended his gracious hospitality to us all, arranging for us to come tohis quarters the next day for a meal, and dividing the party as best hecould accommodate us. It fell to our lot to go to breakfast with Majorand Mrs. Wells and Miss Wilkins. 

An ambulance was sent the next morning, at nine o'clock, to bring us upthe steep and winding road, white with heat, which led to the fort. 

I can never forget the taste of the oatmeal with fresh milk, the eggsand butter, and delicious tomatoes, which were served to us in hislatticed dining-room. 

After twenty-three days of heat and glare, and scorching winds, and stale food, Fort Yuma and Mr. Haskell's dining-room seemed likeParadise. 

Of course it was hot; it was August, and we expected it. But the heatof those places can be much alleviated by the surroundings. There wereshower baths, and latticed piazzas, and large ollas hanging in theshade of them, containing cool water. Yuma was only twenty days from SanFrancisco, and they were able to get many things direct by steamer. Ofcourse there was no ice, and butter was kept only by ingenious devicesof the Chinese servants; there were but few vegetables, but what was tobe had at all in that country, was to be had at Fort Yuma. 

We staid one more day, and left two companies of the regiment there. When we departed, I felt, somehow, as though we were saying good-bye tothe world and civilization, and as our boat clattered and tugged awayup river with its great wheel astern, I could not help looking backlongingly to old Fort Yuma. 

CHAPTER VI. UP THE RIO COLORADO

And now began our real journey up the Colorado River, that river unknownto me except in my early geography lessons--that mighty and untamedriver, which is to-day unknown except to the explorer, or the few peoplewho have navigated its turbulent waters. Back in memory was the pictureof it on the map; here was the reality, then, and here we were, on thesteamer "Gila, " Captain Mellon, with the barge full of soldiers towingon after us, starting for Fort Mojave, some two hundred miles above. 

The vague and shadowy foreboding that had fluttered through my mindbefore I left Fort Russell had now also become a reality and crowded outevery other thought. The river, the scenery, seemed, after all, but anillusion, and interested me but in a dreamy sort of way. 

We had staterooms, but could not remain in them long at a time, onaccount of the intense heat. I had never felt such heat, and no one elseever had or has since. The days were interminable. We wandered aroundthe boat, first forward, then aft, to find a cool spot. We hung up ourcanteens (covered with flannel and dipped in water), where they wouldswing in the shade, thereby obtaining water which was a trifle coolerthan the air. There was no ice, and consequently no fresh provisions. AChinaman served as steward and cook, and at the ringing of a bell we allwent into a small saloon back of the pilothouse, where the meals wereserved. Our party at table on the "Gila" consisted of several unmarriedofficers, and several officers with their wives, about eight or nine inall, and we could have had a merry time enough but for the awful heat, which destroyed both our good looks and our tempers. The fare wasmeagre, of course; fresh biscuit without butter, very salt boiled beef, and some canned vegetables, which were poor enough in those days. Piesmade from preserved peaches or plums generally followed this delectablecourse. Chinamen, as we all know, can make pies under conditions thatwould stagger most chefs. They may have no marble pastry-slab, and thelard may run like oil, still they can make pies that taste good to thehungry traveller. 

But that dining-room was hot! The metal handles of the knives wereuncomfortably warm to the touch; and even the wooden arms of the chairsfelt as if they were slowly igniting. After a hasty meal, and a fewremarks upon the salt beef, and the general misery of our lot, we wouldseek some spot which might be a trifle cooler. A siesta was out of thequestion, as the staterooms were insufferable; and so we dragged out theweary days. 

At sundown the boat put her nose up to the bank and tied up for thenight. The soldiers left the barges and went into camp on shore, tocook their suppers and to sleep. The banks of the river offered no veryattractive spot upon which to make a camp; they were low, flat, andcovered with underbrush and arrow-weed, which grew thick to the water'sedge. I always found it interesting to watch the barge unload the men atsundown. 

At twilight some of the soldiers came on board and laid our mattressesside by side on the after deck. Pajamas and loose gowns were soon enevidence, but nothing mattered, as they were no electric lights todisturb us with their glare. Rank also mattered not; Lieutenant-ColonelWilkins and his wife lay down to rest, with the captains and lieutenantsand their wives, wherever their respective strikers had placed theirmattresses (for this was the good old time when the soldiers wereallowed to wait upon officers 'families). 

Under these circumstances, much sleep was not to be thought of; thesultry heat by the river bank, and the pungent smell of the arrow-weedwhich lined the shores thickly, contributed more to stimulate than tosoothe the weary nerves. But the glare of the sun was gone, and afterawhile a stillness settled down upon this company of Uncle Sam'sservants and their followers. (In the Army Regulations, wives are notrated except as "camp followers. ")

But even this short respite from the glare of the sun was soon to end;for before the crack of dawn, or, as it seemed to us, shortly aftermidnight, came such a clatter with the fires and the high-pressureengine and the sparks, and what all they did in that wild and recklessland, that further rest was impossible, and we betook ourselves withour mattresses to the staterooms, for another attempt at sleep, which, however, meant only failure, as the sun rose incredibly early on thatriver, and we were glad to take a hasty sponge from a basin of ratherthick looking river-water, and go again out on deck, where we couldalways get a cup of black coffee from the Chinaman. 

And thus began another day of intolerable glare and heat. Conversationlagged; no topic seemed to have any interest except the thermometer, which hung in the coolest place on the boat; and one day when MajorWorth looked at it and pronounced it one hundred and twenty-two in theshade, a grim despair seized upon me, and I wondered how much more heathuman beings could endure. There was nothing to relieve the monotony ofthe scenery. On each side of us, low river banks, and nothing betweenthose and the horizon line. On our left was Lower [*] California, and onour right, Arizona. Both appeared to be deserts. 

 * This term is here used (as we used it at Ehrenberg) to designate the low, flat lands west of the river, without any reference to Lower California proper, --the long peninsula belonging to Mexico. 

As the river narrowed, however, the trip began to be enlivened by theconstant danger of getting aground on the shifting sand-bars which areso numerous in this mighty river. Jack Mellon was then the most famouspilot on the Colorado, and he was very skilful in steering clear of thesand-bars, skimming over them, or working his boat off, when once fastupon them. The deck-hands, men of a mixed Indian and Mexican race, stoodready with long poles, in the bow, to jump overboard, when we strucka bar, and by dint of pushing, and reversing the engine, the boat wouldswing off. 

On approaching a shallow place, they would sound with their poles, andin a sing-song high-pitched tone drawl out the number of feet. Sometimestheir sleepy drawling tones would suddenly cease, and crying loudly, "Noalli agua!" they would swing themselves over the side of the boat intothe river, and begin their strange and intricate manipulations with thepoles. Then, again, they would carry the anchor away off and by means ofgreat spars, and some method too complicated for me to describe, CaptainMellon would fairly lift the boat over the bar. 

But our progress was naturally much retarded, and sometimes we wereaground an hour, sometimes a half day or more. Captain Mellon wasalways cheerful. River steamboating was his life, and sand-bars were hisexcitement. On one occasion, I said, "Oh! Captain, do you think weshall get off this bar to-day?" "Well, you can't tell, " he said, with atwinkle in his eye; "one trip, I lay fifty-two days on a bar, " and then, after a short pause, "but that don't happen very often; we sometimes laya week, though; there is no telling; the bars change all the time. "

Sometimes the low trees and brushwood on the banks parted, and a youngsquaw would peer out at us. This was a little diversion, and picturesquebesides. They wore very short skirts made of stripped bark, and asthey held back the branches of the low willows, and looked at us withcuriosity, they made pictures so pretty that I have never forgottenthem. We had no kodaks then, but even if we had had them, they could nothave reproduced the fine copper color of those bare shoulders and arms, the soft wood colors of the short bark skirts, the gleam of the sun upontheir blue-black hair, and the turquoise color of the wide bead-bandswhich encircled their arms. 

One morning, as I was trying to finish out a nap in my stateroom, Jack came excitedly in and said: "Get up, Martha, we are coming toEhrenberg!" Visions of castles on the Rhine, and stories of themiddle ages floated through my mind, as I sprang up, in pleasurableanticipation of seeing an interesting and beautiful place. Alas! for myignorance. I saw but a row of low thatched hovels, perched on the edgeof the ragged looking river-bank; a road ran lengthwise along, andopposite the hovels I saw a store and some more mean-looking huts ofadobe. 

"Oh! Jack!" I cried, "and is that Ehrenberg? Who on earth gave such aname to the wretched place?"

"Oh, some old German prospector, I suppose; but never mind, the placeis all right enough. Come! Hurry up! We are going to stop here and landfreight. There is an officer stationed here. See those low white walls?That is where he lives. Captain Bernard of the Fifth Cavalry. It's quitea place; come out and see it. "

But I did not go ashore. Of all dreary, miserable-looking settlementsthat one could possibly imagine, that was the worst. An unfriendly, dirty, and Heaven-forsaken place, inhabited by a poor class of Mexicansand half-breeds. It was, however, an important shipping station forfreight which was to be sent overland to the interior, and there wasalways one army officer stationed there. 

Captain Bernard came on board to see us. I did not ask him how he likedhis station; it seemed to me too satirical; like asking the Prisoner ofChillon, for instance, how he liked his dungeon. 

I looked over towards those low white walls, which enclosed theGovernment corral and the habitation of this officer, and thanked mystars that no such dreadful detail had come to my husband. I did notdream that in less than a year this exceptionally hard fate was to be myown. 

We left Ehrenberg with no regrets, and pushed on up river. 

On the third of September the boilers "foamed" so that we had to tie upfor nearly a day. This was caused by the water being so very muddy. TheRio Colorado deserves its name, for its swift-flowing current sweeps bylike a mass of seething red liquid, turbulent and thick and treacherous. It was said on the river, that those who sank beneath its surface werenever seen again, and in looking over into those whirlpools and swirlingeddies, one might well believe this to be true. 

From there on, up the river, we passed through great canons and thescenery was grand enough; but one cannot enjoy scenery with the mercuryranging from 107 to 122 in the shade. The grandeur was quite lost uponus all, and we were suffocated by the scorching heat radiating fromthose massive walls of rocks between which we puffed and clatteredalong. 

I must confess that the history of this great river was quite unknown tome then. I had never read of the early attempts made to explore it, bothfrom above and from its mouth, and the wonders of the "Grand Canon" wereas yet unknown to the world. I did not realize that, as we steamed alongbetween those high perpendicular walls of rock, we were really seeingthe lower end of that great chasm which now, thirty years later, hasbecome one of the most famous resorts of this country and, in fact, ofthe world. 

There was some mention made of Major Powell, that daring adventurer, who, a few years previously, had accomplished the marvellous feat ofgoing down the Colorado and through the Grand Canon, in a small boat, hebeing the first man who had at that time ever accomplished it, many menhaving lost their lives in the attempt. 

At last, on the 8th of September, we arrived at Camp Mojave, on theright bank of the river; a low, square enclosure, on the low level ofthe flat land near the river. It seemed an age since we had left Yumaand twice an age since we had left the mouth of the river. But it wasonly eighteen days in all, and Captain Mellon remarked: "A quick trip!"and congratulated us on the good luck we had had in not being detainedon the sandbars. "Great Heavens, " I thought, "if that is what they calla quick trip!" But I do not know just what I thought, for those eighteendays on the Great Colorado in midsummer, had burned themselves into mymemory, and I made an inward vow that nothing would ever force me intosuch a situation again. I did not stop to really think; I only felt, andmy only feeling was a desire to get cool and to get out of the Territoryin some other way and at some cooler season. How futile a wish, and howfutile a vow!

 Dellenbaugh, who was with Powell in 1869 in his second expedition down the river in small boats, has given to the world a most interesting account of this wonderful river and the canons through which it cuts its tempestuous way to the Gulf of California, in two volumes entitled "The Romance of the Great Colorado" and "A Canon Voyage". 

We bade good-bye to our gallant river captain and watched the greatstern-wheeler as she swung out into the stream, and, heading up river, disappeared around a bend; for even at that time this venturesome pilothad pushed his boat farther up than any other steam-craft had evergone, and we heard that there were terrific rapids and falls and unknownmysteries above. The superstition of centuries hovered over the "greatcut, " and but few civilized beings had looked down into its awfuldepths. Brave, dashing, handsome Jack Mellon! What would I give andwhat would we all give, to see thee once more, thou Wizard of the GreatColorado!

We turned our faces towards the Mojave desert, and I wondered, whatnext?

The Post Surgeon kindly took care of us for two days and nights, and weslept upon the broad piazzas of his quarters. 

We heard no more the crackling and fizzing of the stern-wheeler'shigh-pressure engines at daylight, and our eyes, tired with gazing atthe red whirlpools of the river, found relief in looking out upon thegrey-white flat expanse which surrounded Fort Mojave, and merged itselfinto the desert beyond. 

CHAPTER VII. THE MOJAVE DESERT

Thou white and dried-up sea! so old! So strewn with wealth, so sownwith gold! Yes, thou art old and hoary white With time and ruin ofall things, And on thy lonesome borders Night Sits brooding o'er withdrooping wings. --JOAQUIN MILLER. 

The country had grown steadily more unfriendly ever since leaving FortYuma, and the surroundings of Camp Mojave were dreary enough. 

But we took time to sort out our belongings, and the officers arrangedfor transportation across the Territory. Some had bought, in SanFrancisco, comfortable travelling-carriages for their families. Theywere old campaigners; they knew a thing or two about Arizona; welieutenants did not know, we had never heard much about this part of ourcountry. But a comfortable large carriage, known as a Dougherty wagon, or, in common army parlance, an ambulance, was secured for me to travelin. This vehicle had a large body, with two seats facing each other, anda seat outside for the driver. The inside of the wagon could be closedif desired by canvas sides and back which rolled up and down, and by acurtain which dropped behind the driver's seat. So I was enabled to havesome degree of privacy, if I wished. 

We repacked our mess-chest, and bought from the Commissary at Mojave theprovisions necessary for the long journey to Fort Whipple, which was thedestination of one of the companies and the headquarters officers. 

On the morning of September 10th everything in the post was astir withpreparations for the first march. It was now thirty-five days since weleft San Francisco, but the change from boat to land travelling offeredan agreeable diversion after the monotony of the river. I watched withinterest the loading of the great prairie-schooners, into which went thesoldiers' boxes and the camp equipage. Outside was lashed a good deal ofthe lighter stuff; I noticed a barrel of china, which looked much likeour own, lashed directly over one wheel. Then there were the massiveblue army wagons, which were also heavily loaded; the laundresses withtheir children and belongings were placed in these. 

At last the command moved out. It was to me a novel sight. The wagonsand schooners were each drawn by teams of six heavy mules, while a teamof six lighter mules was put to each ambulance and carriage. Thesewere quite different from the draught animals I had always seen in theEastern States; these Government mules being sleek, well-fed and trainedto trot as fast as the average carriage-horse. The harnesses were quitesmart, being trimmed off with white ivory rings. Each mule was "Lize"or "Fanny" or "Kate", and the soldiers who handled the lines wereaccustomed to the work; for work, and arduous work, it proved to be, aswe advanced into the then unknown Territory of Arizona. 

The main body of the troops marched in advance; then came the ambulancesand carriages, followed by the baggage-wagons and a small rear-guard. When the troops were halted once an hour for rest, the officers, whomarched with the soldiers, would come to the ambulances and chat awhile, until the bugle call for "Assembly" sounded, when they would join theircommands again, the men would fall in, the call "Forward" was sounded, and the small-sized army train moved on. 

The first day's march was over a dreary country; a hot wind blew, andeverything was filled with dust. I had long ago discarded my hat, as anunnecessary and troublesome article; consequently my head wa snow a massof fine white dust, which stuck fast, of course. I was covered from headto foot with it, and it would not shake off, so, although our steamboattroubles were over, our land troubles had begun. 

We reached, after a few hours' travel, the desolate place where we wereto camp. 

In the mean time, it had been arranged for Major Worth, who had nofamily, to share our mess, and we had secured the services of a soldierbelonging to his company whose ability as a camp cook was known to bothofficers. 

I cannot say that life in the army, as far as I had gone, presented anyvery great attractions. This, our first camp, was on the river, a littleabove Hardyville. Good water was there, and that was all; I had not yetlearned to appreciate that. There was not a tree nor a shrub to giveshade. The only thing I could see, except sky and sand, was a ruinedadobe enclosure, with no roof. I sat in the ambulance until our tent waspitched, and then Jack came to me, followed by a six-foot soldier, andsaid: "Mattie, this is Bowen, our striker; now I want you to tell himwhat he shall cook for our supper; and--don't you think it would benice if you could show him how to make some of those good New Englanddoughnuts? I think Major Worth might like them; and after all theawful stuff we have had, you know, " et caetera, et caetera. I met thesituation, after an inward struggle, and said, weakly, "Where are theeggs?" "Oh, " said he, "you don't need eggs; you're on the frontier now;you must learn to do without eggs. "

Everything in me rebelled, but still I yielded. You see I had beenmarried only six months; the women at home, and in Germany also, hadalways shown great deference to their husbands' wishes. But at thatmoment I almost wished Major Worth and Jack and Bowen and the mess-chestat the bottom of the Rio Colorado. However, I nerved myself for theeffort, and when Bowen had his camp-fire made, he came and called me. 

At the best, I never had much confidence in my ability as a cook, butas a camp cook! Ah, me! Everything seemed to swim before my eyes, and Ifancied that the other women were looking at me from their tents. Bowenwas very civil, turned back the cover of the mess-chest and propped itup. That was the table. Then he brought me a tin basin, and some flour, some condensed milk, some sugar, and a rolling-pin, and then he hung acamp-kettle with lard in it over the fire. I stirred up a mixture inthe basin, but the humiliation of failure was spared me, for just then, without warning, came one of those terrific sandstorms which prevailon the deserts of Arizona, blowing us all before it in its fury, andfilling everything with sand. 

We all scurried to the tents; some of them had blown down. There was notmuch shelter, but the storm was soon over, and we stood collectingour scattered senses. I saw Mrs. Wilkins at the door of her tent. Shebeckoned to me; I went over there, and she said: "Now, my dear, I amgoing to give you some advice. You must not take it unkindly. I am anold army woman and I have made many campaigns with the Colonel; you havebut just joined the army. You must never try to do any cooking at thecamp-fire. The soldiers are there for that work, and they know lots moreabout it than any of us do. "

"But, Jack, " I began--

"Never mind Jack, " said she; "he does not know as much as I do about it;and when you reach your post, " she added, "you can show him what you cando in that line. "

Bowen cleared away the sandy remains of the doubtful dough, and preparedfor us a very fair supper. Soldiers' bacon, and coffee, and biscuitsbaked in a Dutch oven. 

While waiting for the sun to set, we took a short stroll over to theadobe ruins. Inside the enclosure lay an enormous rattlesnake, coiled. It was the first one I had ever seen except in a cage, and I wasfascinated by the horror of the round, grayish-looking heap, so near thecolor of the sand on which it lay. Some soldiers came and killed it. But I noticed that Bowen took extra pains that night, to spread buffalorobes under our mattresses, and to place around them a hair lariat. "Snakes won't cross over that, " he said, with a grin. 

Bowen was a character. Originally from some farm in Vermont, he hadserved some years with the Eighth Infantry, and for a long time in thesame company under Major Worth, and had cooked for the bachelors' mess. He was very tall, and had a good-natured face, but he did not have muchopinion of what is known as etiquette, either military or civil; heseemed to consider himself a sort of protector to the officers ofCompany K, and now, as well, to the woman who had joined the company. He took us all under his wing, as it were, and although he had to besharply reprimanded sometimes, in a kind of language which he seemed toexpect, he was allowed more latitude than most soldiers. 

This was my first night under canvas in the army. I did not like thosedesert places, and they grew to have a horror for me. 

At four o'clock in the morning the cook's call sounded, the mules werefed, and the crunching and the braying were something to awaken theheaviest sleepers. Bowen called us. I was much upset by the dreadfuldust, which was thick upon everything I touched. We had to hasten ourtoilet, as they were striking tents and breaking camp early, in orderto reach before noon the next place where there was water. Sitting oncamp-stools, around the mess-tables, in the open, before the break ofday, we swallowed some black coffee and ate some rather thick slicesof bacon and dry bread. The Wilkins' tent was near ours, and I said tothem, rather peevishly: "Isn't this dust something awful?"

Miss Wilkins looked up with her sweet smile and gentle manner andreplied: "Why, yes, Mrs. Summerhayes, it is pretty bad, but you must notworry about such a little thing as dust. "

"How can I help it?" I said; "my hair, my clothes, everything full ofit, and no chance for a bath or a change: a miserable little basin ofwater and--"

I suppose I was running on with all my grievances, but she stopped meand said again: "Soon, now, you will not mind it at all. Ella and I arearmy girls, you know, and we do not mind anything. There's no use infretting about little things. "

Miss Wilkins' remarks made a tremendous impression upon my mind and Ibegan to study her philosophy. 

At break of day the command marched out, their rifles on theirshoulders, swaying along ahead of us, in the sunlight and the heat, which continued still to be almost unendurable. The dry white dust ofthis desert country boiled and surged up and around us in suffocatingclouds. 

I had my own canteen hung up in the ambulance, but the water in it gotvery warm and I learned to take but a swallow at a time, as it could notbe refilled until we reached the next spring--and there is always someuncertainty in Arizona as to whether the spring or basin has gone dry. So water was precious, and we could not afford to waste a drop. 

At about noon we reached a forlorn mud hut, known as Packwood's ranch. But the place had a bar, which was cheerful for some of the poor men, as the two days' marches had been rather hard upon them, being so "soft"from the long voyage. I could never begrudge a soldier a bit of cheerafter the hard marches in Arizona, through miles of dust and burningheat, their canteens long emptied and their lips parched and dry. Iwatched them often as they marched along with their blanket-rolls, theirhaversacks, and their rifles, and I used to wonder that they did notcomplain. 

About that time the greatest luxury in the entire world seemed to meto be a glass of fresh sweet milk, and I shall always remember Mr. Packwood's ranch, because we had milk to drink with our supper, and somedelicious quail to eat. 

Ranches in that part of Arizona meant only low adobe dwellings occupiedby prospectors or men who kept the relays of animals for stage routes. Wretched, forbidding-looking places they were! Never a tree or a bush togive shade, never a sign of comfort or home. 

Our tents were pitched near Packwood's, out in the broiling sun. Theywere like ovens; there was no shade, no coolness anywhere; we would havegladly slept, after the day's march, but instead we sat broiling in theambulances, and waited for the long afternoon to wear away. 

The next day dragged along in the same manner; the command marchingbravely along through dust and heat and thirst, as Kipling's soldiersings:

"With its best foot first And the road a-sliding past, An' everybloomin' campin'-ground Exactly like the last". 

Beal's Springs did not differ from the other ranch, except that possiblyit was even more desolate. But a German lived there, who must have hadsome knowledge of cooking, for I remember that we bought a peach piefrom him and ate it with a relish. I remember, too, that we gave him agood silver dollar for it. 

The only other incident of that day's march was the suicide of MajorWorth's pet dog "Pete. " Having exhausted his ability to endure, thisbeautiful red setter fixed his eye upon a distant range of mountains, and ran without turning, or heeding any call, straight as the crowflies, towards them and death. We never saw him again; a ranchman toldus he had known of several other instances where a well-bred dog hadgiven up in this manner, and attempted to run for the hills. We had alarge greyhound with us, but he did not desert. 

Major Worth was much affected by the loss of his dog, and did not joinus at supper that night. We kept a nice fat quail for him, however, andat about nine o'clock, when all was still and dark, Jack entered theMajor's tent and said: "Come now, Major, my wife has sent you this nicequail; don't give up so about Pete, you know. "

The Major lay upon his camp-bed, with his face turned to the wall of histent; he gave a deep sigh, rolled himself over and said: "Well, put iton the table, and light the candle; I'll try to eat it. Thank your wifefor me. "

So the Lieutenant made a light, and lo! and behold, the plate was there, but the quail was gone! In the darkness, our great kangaroo hound hadstolen noiselessly upon his master's heels, and quietly removed thebird. The two officers were dumbfounded. Major Worth said: "D--n myluck;" and turned his face again to the wall of his tent. 

Now Major Worth was just the dearest and gentlest sort of a man, but hehad been born and brought up in the old army, and everyone knows thattimes and customs were different then. 

Men drank more and swore a good deal, and while I do not wish my storyto seem profane, yet I would not describe army life or the officers asI knew them, if I did not allow the latter to use an occasional strongexpression. 

The incident, however, served to cheer up the Major, though he continuedto deplore the loss of his beautiful dog. 

For the next two days our route lay over the dreariest and most desolatecountry. It was not only dreary, it was positively hostile in itsattitude towards every living thing except snakes, centipedes andspiders. They seemed to flourish in those surroundings. 

Sometimes either Major Worth or Jack would come and drive along a fewmiles in the ambulance with me to cheer me up, and they allowed me toabuse the country to my heart's content. It seemed to do me much good. The desert was new to me then. I had not read Pierre Loti's wonderfulbook, "Le Desert, " and I did not see much to admire in the desolatewaste lands through which we were travelling. I did not dream of thepower of the desert, nor that I should ever long to see it again. Butas I write, the longing possesses me, and the pictures then indeliblyprinted upon my mind, long forgotten amidst the scenes and events ofhalf a lifetime, unfold themselves like a panorama before my vision andcall me to come back, to look upon them once more. 

CHAPTER VIII. LEARNING HOW TO SOLDIER

"The grasses failed, and then a mass Of dry red cactus ruled the land:The sun rose right above and fell, As falling molten from the skies, Andno winged thing was seen to pass. " Joaquin Miller. 

We made fourteen miles the next day, and went into camp at a placecalled Freeze-wash, near some old silver mines. A bare and lonesomespot, where there was only sand to be seen, and some black, burnt-looking rocks. From under these rocks, crept great tarantulas, notforgetting lizards, snakes, and not forgetting the scorpion, which ranalong with its tail turned up ready to sting anything that came in itsway. The place furnished good water, however, and that was now the mostimportant thing. 

The next day's march was a long one. The guides said: "Twenty-eightmiles to Willow Grove Springs. "

The command halted ten minutes every hour for rest, but the sun poureddown upon us, and I was glad to stay in the ambulance. It was at thesetimes that my thoughts turned back to the East and to the blue sea andthe green fields of God's country. I looked out at the men, who weregetting pretty well fagged, and at the young officers whose uniformswere white with dust, and Frau Weste's words about glaenzendes Elendcame to my mind. I fell to thinking: was the army life, then, only"glittering misery, " and had I come to participate in it?

Some of the old soldiers had given out, and had to be put on the armywagons. I was getting to look rather fagged and seedy, and was muchannoyed at my appearance. Not being acquainted with the vicissitudes ofthe desert, I had not brought in my travelling-case a sufficient numberof thin washbodices. The few I had soon became black beyond recognition, as the dust boiled (literally) up and into the ambulance and coveredme from head to foot. But there was no help for it, and no one was muchbetter off. 

It was about that time that we began to see the outlines of a greatmountain away to the left and north of us. It seemed to grow nearer andnearer, and fascinated our gaze. 

Willow Grove Springs was reached at four o'clock and the small clusterof willow trees was most refreshing to our tired eyes. The next day'smarch was over a rolling country. We began to see grass, and to feelthat, at last, we were out of the desert. The wonderful mountain stillloomed up large and clear on our left. I thought of the old Spanishexplorers and wondered if they came so far as this, when they journeyedthrough that part of our country three hundred years before. I wonderedwhat beautiful and high-sounding name they might have given it. Iwondered a good deal about that bare and isolated mountain, rising outof what seemed an endless waste of sand. I asked the driver if he knewthe name of it: "That is Bill Williams' mountain, ma'am, " he replied, and relapsed into his customary silence, which was unbroken except by anoccasional remark to the wheelers or the leaders. 

I thought of the Harz Mountains, which I had so recently tramped over, and the romantic names and legends connected with them, and I sighed tothink such an imposing landmark as this should have such a prosaic name. I realized that Arizona was not a land of romance; and when Jack cameto the ambulance, I said, "Don't you think it a pity that such monstrousthings are allowed in America, as to call that great fine mountain 'BillWilliams' mountain'?"

"Why no, " he said; "I suppose he discovered it, and I dare say he had ahard enough time before he got to it. "

We camped at Fort Rock, and Lieutenant Bailey shot an antelope. It wasthe first game we had seen; our spirits revived a bit; the sight ofgreen grass and trees brought new life to us. 

Anvil Rock and old Camp Hualapais were our next two stopping places. We drove through groves of oaks, cedars and pines, and the days beganhopefully and ended pleasantly. To be sure, the roads were very roughand our bones ached after a long day's travelling. But our tents werenow pitched under tall pine trees and looked inviting. Soldiers have aknack of making a tent attractive. 

"Madame, the Lieutenant's compliments, and your tent is ready. "

I then alighted and found my little home awaiting me. The tent-flapstied open, the mattresses laid, the blankets turned back, the camp-tablewith candle-stick upon it, and a couple of camp-chairs at the door ofthe tent. Surely it is good to be in the army I then thought; and aftera supper consisting of soldiers' hot biscuit, antelope steak broiledover the coals, and a large cup of black coffee, I went to rest, listening to the soughing of the pines. 

My mattress was spread always upon the ground, with a buffalo robe underit and a hair lariat around it, to keep off the snakes; as it is saidthey do not like to cross them. I found the ground more comfortable thanthe camp cots which were used by some of the officers, and most of thewomen. 

The only Indians we had seen up to that time were the peaceful tribesof the Yumas, Cocopahs and Mojaves, who lived along the Colorado. We hadnot yet entered the land of the dread Apache. 

The nights were now cool enough, and I never knew sweeter rest than cameto me in the midst of those pine groves. 

Our road was gradually turning southward, but for some days BillWilliams was the predominating feature of the landscape; turn whicheverway we might, still this purple mountain was before us. It seemed topervade the entire country, and took on such wonderful pink colors atsunset. Bill Williams held me in thrall, until the hills and valleys inthe vicinity of Fort Whipple shut him out from my sight. But he seemedto have come into my life somehow, and in spite of his name, I loved himfor the companionship he had given me during those long, hot, weary andinterminable days. 

About the middle of September, we arrived at American ranch, some tenmiles from Fort Whipple, which was the headquarters station. ColonelWilkins and his family left us, and drove on to their destination. Someofficers of the Fifth Cavalry rode out to greet us, and Lieutenant EarlThomas asked me to come into the post and rest a day or two at theirhouse, as we then had learned that K Company was to march on to CampApache, in the far eastern part of the Territory. 

We were now enabled to get some fresh clothing from our trunks, whichwere in the depths of the prairie-schooners, and all the officers' wiveswere glad to go into the post, where we were most kindly entertained. Fort Whipple was a very gay and hospitable post, near the town ofPrescott, which was the capital city of Arizona. The country beingmountainous and fertile, the place was very attractive, and I felt sorrythat we were not to remain there. But I soon learned that in the army, regrets were vain. I soon ceased to ask myself whether I was sorry orglad at any change in our stations. 

On the next day the troops marched in, and camped outside the post. Themarried officers were able to join their wives, and the three days wespent there were delightful. There was a dance given, several informaldinners, drives into the town of Prescott, and festivities of variouskinds. General Crook commanded the Department of Arizona then; he wasout on some expedition, but Mrs. Crook gave a pleasant dinner for us. After dinner, Mrs. Crook came and sat beside me, asked kindly about ourlong journey, and added: "I am truly sorry the General is away; I shouldlike for him to meet you; you are just the sort of woman he likes. " Afew years afterwards I met the General, and remembering this remark, I was conscious of making a special effort to please. The indifferentcourtesy with which he treated me, however, led me to think that womenare often mistaken judges of their husband's tastes. 

The officers' quarters at Fort Whipple were quite commodious, and afterseven weeks' continuous travelling, the comforts which surrounded me atMrs. Thomas' home seemed like the veriest luxuries. I was much affectedby the kindness shown me by people I had never met before, and Ikept wondering if I should ever have an opportunity to return theircourtesies. "Don't worry about that, Martha, " said Jack, "your turn willcome. "

He proved a true prophet, for sooner or later, I saw them all again, and was able to extend to them the hospitality of an army home. Nevertheless, my heart grows warm whenever I think of the people whofirst welcomed me to Arizona, me a stranger in the army, and in thegreat southwest as well. 

At Fort Whipple we met also some people we had known at Fort Russell, who had gone down with the first detachment, among them Major and Mrs. Wilhelm, who were to remain at headquarters. We bade good-bye to theColonel and his family, to the officers of F, who were to stay behind, and to our kind friends of the Fifth Cavalry. 

We now made a fresh start, with Captain Ogilby in command. Two days tookus into Camp Verde, which lies on a mesa above the river from which ittakes its name. 

Captain Brayton, of the Eight Infantry, and his wife, who were alreadysettled at Camp Verde, received us and took the best care of us. Mrs. Brayton gave me a few more lessons in army house-keeping, and I couldnot have had a better teacher. I told her about Jack and the tinware;her bright eyes snapped, and she said: "Men think they know everything, but the truth is, they don't know anything; you go right ahead and haveall the tinware and other things; all you can get, in fact; and when thetime comes to move, send Jack out of the house, get a soldier to come inand pack you up, and say nothing about it. "

"But the weight--"

"Fiddlesticks! They all say that; now you just not mind their talk, buttake all you need, and it will get carried along, somehow. "

Still another company left our ranks, and remained at Camp Verde. Thecommand was now getting deplorably small, I thought, to enter an Indiancountry, for we were now to start for Camp Apache. Several routes werediscussed, but, it being quite early in the autumn, and the ApacheIndians being just then comparatively quiet, they decided to march thetroops over Crook's Trail, which crossed the Mogollon range and wasconsidered to be shorter than any other. It was all the same to me. Ihad never seen a map of Arizona, and never heard of Crook's Trail. Maps never interested me, and I had not read much about life in theTerritories. At that time, the history of our savage races was a blankpage to me. I had been listening to the stories of an old civilization, and my mind did not adjust itself readily to the new surroundings. 

CHAPTER IX. ACROSS THE MOGOLLONS

It was a fine afternoon in the latter part of September, when our smalldetachment, with Captain Ogilby in command, marched out of Camp Verde. There were two companies of soldiers, numbering about a hundred menin all, five or six officers, Mrs. Bailey and myself, and a coupleof laundresses. I cannot say that we were gay. Mrs. Bailey had saidgood-bye to her father and mother and sister at Fort Whipple, andalthough she was an army girl, she did not seem to bear the parting veryphilosophically. Her young child, nine months old, was with her, andher husband, as stalwart and handsome an officer as ever woreshoulder-straps. But we were facing unknown dangers, in a far country, away from mother, father, sister and brother--a country infested withroving bands of the most cruel tribe ever known, who tortured beforethey killed. We could not even pretend to be gay. 

The travelling was very difficult and rough, and both men and animalswere worn out by night. But we were now in the mountains, the air wascool and pleasant, and the nights so cold that we were glad to have asmall stove in our tents to dress by in the mornings. The scenery waswild and grand; in fact, beyond all that I had ever dreamed of; morethan that, it seemed so untrod, so fresh, somehow, and I do not supposethat even now, in the day of railroads and tourists, many people havehad the view of the Tonto Basin which we had one day from the top of theMogollon range. 

I remember thinking, as we alighted from our ambulances and stoodlooking over into the Basin, "Surely I have never seen anything tocompare with this--but oh! would any sane human being voluntarily gothrough with what I have endured on this journey, in order to look uponthis wonderful scene?"

The roads had now become so difficult that our wagon-train could notmove as fast as the lighter vehicles or the troops. Sometimes at acritical place in the road, where the ascent was not only dangerous, butdoubtful, or there was, perhaps, a sharp turn, the ambulances waited tosee the wagons safely over the pass. Each wagon had its six mules; eachambulance had also its quota of six. 

At the foot of one of these steep places, the wagons would halt, theteamsters would inspect the road, and calculate the possibilities ofreaching the top; then, furiously cracking their whips, and pouringforth volley upon volley of oaths, they would start the team. Each mulegot its share of dreadful curses. I had never heard or conceived ofany oaths like those. They made my blood fairly curdle, and I am notspeaking figuratively. The shivers ran up and down my back, and I halfexpected to see those teamsters struck down by the hand of the Almighty. 

For although the anathemas hurled at my innocent head, duringthe impressionable years of girlhood, by the pale and determinedCongregational ministers with gold-bowed spectacles, who held forthin the meeting-house of my maternal ancestry (all honor to theirsincerity), had taken little hold upon my mind, still, the vital dropof the Puritan was in my blood, and the fear of a personal God and Hiswrath still existed, away back in the hidden recesses of my heart. 

This swearing and lashing went on until the heavily-loadedprairie-schooner, swaying, swinging, and swerving to the edge of thecut, and back again to the perpendicular wall of the mountain, wouldfinally reach the top, and pass on around the bend; then another woulddo the same. Each teamster had his own particular variety of oaths, eachmule had a feminine name, and this brought the swearing down to a sortof personal basis. I remonstrated with Jack, but he said: teamstersalways swore; "the mules wouldn't even stir to go up a hill, if theyweren't sworn at like that. "

By the time we had crossed the great Mogollon mesa, I had becomeaccustomed to those dreadful oaths, and learned to admire the skill, persistency and endurance shown by those rough teamsters. I actuallygot so far as to believe what Jack had told me about the swearing beingnecessary, for I saw impossible feats performed by the combination. 

When near camp, and over the difficult places, we drove on ahead andwaited for the wagons to come in. It was sometimes late evening beforetents could be pitched and supper cooked. And oh! to see the poor jadedanimals when the wagons reached camp! I could forget my own discomfortand even hunger, when I looked at their sad faces. 

One night the teamsters reported that a six-mule team had rolled downthe steep side of a mountain. I did not ask what became of the poorfaithful mules; I do not know, to this day. In my pity and real distressover the fate of these patient brutes, I forgot to inquire what boxeswere on the unfortunate wagon. 

We began to have some shooting. Lieutenant Bailey shot a young deer, and some wild turkeys, and we could not complain any more of the lack offresh food. 

It did not surprise us to learn that ours was the first wagon-trainto pass over Crook's Trail. For miles and miles the so-called road wasnothing but a clearing, and we were pitched and jerked from side to sideof the ambulance, as we struck large rocks or tree-stumps; in some steepplaces, logs were chained to the rear of the ambulance, to keep it frompitching forward onto the backs of the mules. At such places I got outand picked my way down the rocky declivity. 

We now began to hear of the Apache Indians, who were always out, ineither large or small bands, doing their murderous work. 

One day a party of horseman tore past us at a gallop. Some of themraised their hats to us as they rushed past, and our officers recognizedGeneral Crook, but we could not, in the cloud of dust, distinguishofficers from scouts. All wore the flannel shirt, handkerchief tiedabout the neck, and broad campaign hat. 

After supper that evening, the conversation turned upon Indians ingeneral, and Apaches in particular. We camped always at a basin, or atank, or a hole, or a spring, or in some canon, by a creek. Always fromwater to water we marched. Our camp that night was in the midst of aprimeval grove of tall pine trees; verily, an untrodden land. We had abig camp-fire, and sat around it until very late. There were only fiveor six officers, and Mrs. Bailey and myself. 

The darkness and blackness of the place were uncanny. We all sat lookinginto the fire. Somebody said, "Injuns would not have such a big fire asthat. "

"No; you bet they wouldn't, " was the quick reply of one of the officers. 

Then followed a long pause; we all sat thinking, and gazing into thefire, which crackled and leaped into fitful blazes. 

"Our figures must make a mighty good outline against that fire, "remarked one of officers, nonchalantly; "I dare say those stealthy sonsof Satan know exactly where we are at this minute, " he added. 

"Yes, you bet your life they do!" answered one of the younger men, lapsing into the frontiersman's language, from the force of hisconvictions. 

"Look behind you at those trees, Jack, " said Major Worth. "Can you seeanything? No! And if there were an Apache behind each one of them, weshould never know it. "

We all turned and peered into the black darkness which surrounded us. 

Another pause followed; the silence was weird--only the cracking of thefire was heard, and the mournful soughing of the wind in the pines. 

Suddenly, a crash! We started to our feet and faced around. 

"A dead branch, " said some one. 

Major Worth shrugged his shoulders, and turning to Jack, said, in a lowtone, "D---- d if I don't believe I'm getting nervous, " and saying "goodnight, " he walked towards his tent. 

No element of doubt pervaded my mind as to my own state. The weirdfeeling of being up in those remote mountain passes, with but a handfulof soldiers against the wary Apaches, the mysterious look of those blacktree-trunks, upon which flickered the uncertain light of the camp-firenow dying, and from behind each one of which I imagined a red devilmight be at that moment taking aim with his deadly arrow, all inspiredme with fear such as I had never before known. 

In the cyclone which had overtaken our good ship in mid-Atlantic, wherewe lay tossing about at the mercy of the waves for thirty-six longhours, I had expected to yield my body to the dark and grewsome depthsof the ocean. I had almost felt the cold arms of Death about me; butcompared to the sickening dread of the cruel Apache, my fears then hadbeen as naught. Facing the inevitable at sea, I had closed my eyes andsaid good-bye to Life. But in this mysterious darkness, every nerve, every sense, was keenly alive with terror. 

Several of that small party around the camp-fire have gone from amongstus, but I venture to say that, of the few who are left, not one will denythat he shared in the vague apprehension which seized upon us. 

Midnight found us still lingering around the dead ashes of the fire. After going to our tent, Jack saw that I was frightened. He said: "Don'tworry, Martha, an Apache never was known to attack in the night, " andafter hearing many repetitions of this assertion, upon which I made himtake his oath, I threw myself upon the bed. After our candle was out, Isaid: "When do they attack?" Jack who, with the soldiers' indifferenceto danger, was already half asleep, replied: "Just before daylight, usually, but do not worry, I say; there aren't any Injuns in thisneighborhood. Why! Didn't you meet General Crook to-day? You ought tohave some sense. If there'd been an Injun around here he would havecleaned him out. Now go to sleep and don't be foolish. " But I was takingmy first lessons in campaigning, and sleep was not so easy. 

Just before dawn, as I had fallen into a light slumber, the flaps of thetent burst open, and began shaking violently to and fro. I sprang to myfeet, prepared for the worst. Jack started up: "What is it?" he cried. 

"It must have been the wind, I think, but it frightened me, " I murmured. The Lieutenant fastened the tent-flaps together, and lay down to sleepagain; but my heart beat fast, and I listened for every sound. 

The day gradually dawned, and with it my fears of the night wereallayed. But ever after that, Jack's fatal answer, "Just beforedaylight, " kept my eyes wide open for hours before the dawn. 

CHAPTER X. A PERILOUS ADVENTURE

One fine afternoon, after a march of twenty-two miles over a rocky road, and finding our provisions low, Mr. Bailey and Jack went out to shootwild turkeys. As they shouldered their guns and walked away. CaptainOgilby called out to them, "Do not go too far from camp. "

Jack returned at sundown with a pair of fine turkeys! but Bailey failedto come in. However, as they all knew him to be an experienced woodsman, no one showed much anxiety until darkness had settled over the camp. Then they began to signal, by discharging their rifles; the officerswent out in various directions, giving "halloos, " and firing atintervals, but there came no sound of the missing man. 

The camp was now thoroughly alarmed. This was too dangerous a placefor a man to be wandering around in all night, and search-partiesof soldiers were formed. Trees were burned, and the din of rifles, constantly discharged, added to the excitement. One party after anothercame in. They had scoured the country--and not a trace of Bailey. 

The young wife sat in her tent, soothing her little child; everybodyexcept her, gave up hope; the time dragged on; our hearts grew heavy;the sky was alight with blazing trees. 

I went into Mrs. Bailey's tent. She was calm and altogether lovely, andsaid: "Charley can't get lost, and unless something has happened to him, he will come in. "

Ella Bailey was a brave young army woman; she was an inspiration to theentire camp. 

Finally, after hours of the keenest anxiety, a noise of gladsome shoutsrang through the trees, and in came a party of men with the youngofficer on their shoulders. His friend Craig had been untiring in thesearch, and at last had heard a faint "halloo" in the distance, and oneshot (the only cartridge poor Bailey had left). 

After going over almost impassable places, they finally found him, lyingat the bottom of a ravine. In the black darkness of the evening, he hadwalked directly over the edge of the chasm and fallen to the bottom, dislocating his ankle. 

He was some miles from camp, and had used up all his ammunition exceptthe one cartridge. He had tried in vain to walk or even crawl out ofthe ravine, but had finally been overcome by exhaustion and lay therehelpless, in the wild vastnesses of the mountains. 

A desperate situation, indeed! Some time afterwards, he told me how hefelt, when he realized how poor his chances were, when he saw he hadonly one cartridge left and found that he had scarce strength to answera "halloo, " should he hear one. But soldiers never like to talk muchabout such things. 

CHAPTER XI. CAMP APACHE

By the fourth of October we had crossed the range, and began to seesomething which looked like roads. Our animals were fagged to a stateof exhaustion, but the travelling was now much easier and there was goodgrazing, and after three more long day's marches, we arrived at CampApache. We were now at our journey's end, after two months' continuoustravelling, and I felt reasonably sure of shelter and a fireside for thewinter at least. I knew that my husband's promotion was expected, butthe immediate present was filled with an interest so absorbing, that aconsideration of the future was out of the question. 

At that time (it was the year of 1874) the officers' quarters at CampApache were log cabins, built near the edge of the deep canon throughwhich the White Mountain River flows, before its junction with BlackRiver. 

We were welcomed by the officers of the Fifth Cavalry, who werestationed there. It was altogether picturesque and attractive. Inaddition to the row of log cabins, there were enormous stables andGovernment buildings, and a cutler's store. We were entertained fora day or two, and then quarters were assigned to us. The secondlieutenants had rather a poor choice, as the quarters were scarce. Wewere assigned a half of a log cabin, which gave us one room, a smallsquare hall, and a bare shed, the latter detached from the house, to beused for a kitchen. The room on the other side of the hall was occupiedby the Post Surgeon, who was temporarily absent. 

Our things were unloaded and brought to this cabin. I missed the barrelof china, and learned that it had been on the unfortunate wagon whichrolled down the mountain-side. I had not attained that state of mindwhich came to me later in my army life. I cared then a good deal aboutmy belongings, and the annoyance caused by the loss of our china wasquite considerable. I knew there was none to be obtained at Camp Apache, as most of the merchandise came in by pack-train to that isolated place. 

Mrs. Dodge, of the Twenty-third Infantry, who was about to leave thepost, heard of my predicament, and offered me some china plates andcups, which she thought not worth the trouble of packing (so she said), and I was glad to accept them, and thanked her, almost with tears in myeyes. 

Bowen nailed down our one carpet over the poor board floor (after havingfirst sprinkled down a thick layer of clean straw, which he brought fromthe quartermaster stables). Two iron cots from the hospital were broughtover, and two bed-sacks filled with fresh, sweet straw, were laid uponthem; over these were laid our mattresses. Woven-wire springs were thenunheard of in that country. 

We untied our folding chairs, built a fire on the hearth, captured anold broken-legged wash-stand and a round table from somewhere, and thatwas our living-room. A pine table was found for the small hall, whichwas to be our dinning-room, and some chairs with raw-hide seats werebrought from the barracks, some shelves knocked up against one wall, toserve as sideboard. Now for the kitchen!

A cooking-stove and various things were sent over from the Q. M. Store-house, and Bowen (the wonder of it!) drove in nails, and hung upmy Fort Russell tin-ware, and put up shelves and stood my pans in rows, and polished the stove, and went out and stole a table somewhere (Bowenwas invaluable in that way), polished the zinc under the stove, and lo!and behold, my army kitchen! Bowen was indeed a treasure; he said hewould like to cook for us, for ten dollars a month. We readily acceptedthis offer. There were no persons to be obtained, in these distantplaces, who could do the cooking in the families of officers, so itwas customary to employ a soldier; and the soldier often displayedremarkable ability in the way of cooking, in some cases, in fact, morethan in the way of soldiering. They liked the little addition to theirpay, if they were of frugal mind; they had also their own quiet roomto sleep in, and I often thought the family life, offering as it did acontrast to the bareness and desolation of the noisy barracks, appealedto the domestic instinct, so strong in some men's natures. At allevents, it was always easy in those days to get a man from the company, and they sometimes remained for years with an officer's family; in somecases attending drills and roll-calls besides. 

Now came the unpacking of the chests and trunks. In our one diminutiveroom, and small hall, was no closet, there were no hooks on the barewalls, no place to hang things or lay things, and what to do I did notknow. I was in despair; Jack came in, to find me sitting on the edge ofa chest, which was half unpacked, the contents on the floor. I was verymournful, and he did not see why. 

"Oh! Jack! I've nowhere to put things!"

"What things?" said this impossible man. 

"Why, all our things, " said I, losing my temper; "can't you see them?''

"Put them back in the chests, --and get them out as you need them, "said this son of Mars, and buckled on his sword. "Do the best you can, Martha, I have to go to the barracks; be back again soon. " I lookedaround me, and tried to solve the problem. There was no bureau, nothing;not a nook or corner where a thing might be stowed. I gazed at themotley collection of bed-linen, dust-pans, silver bottles, bootjacks, saddles, old uniforms, full dress military hats, sword-belts, riding-boots, cut glass, window-shades, lamps, work-baskets, and books, and I gave it up in despair. You see, I was not an army girl, and I didnot know how to manage. 

There was nothing to be done, however, but to follow Jack's advice, soI threw the boots, saddles and equipments under the bed, and laid theother things back in the chests, closed the lids and went out to take alook at the post. Towards evening, a soldier came for orders for beef, and I learned how to manage that. I was told that we bought our meatsdirect from the contractor; I had to state how much and what cuts Iwished. Another soldier came to bring us milk, and I asked Jack who wasthe milkman, and he said, blessed if he knew; I learned, afterwards, that the soldiers roped some of the wild Texas cows that were kept inone of the Government corrals, and tied them securely to keep themfrom kicking; then milked them, and the milk was divided up among theofficers' families, according to rank. We received about a pint everynight. I declared it was not enough; but I soon discovered that howevermuch education, position and money might count in civil life, rankseemed to be the one and only thing in the army, and Jack had not muchof that just then. 

The question of getting settled comfortably still worried me, andafter a day of two, I went over to see what Mrs. Bailey had done. To mysurprise, I found her out playing tennis, her little boy asleep in thebaby-carriage, which they had brought all the way from San Francisco, near the court. I joined the group, and afterwards asked her adviceabout the matter. She laughed kindly, and said: "Oh! you'll get used toit, and things will settle themselves. Of course it is troublesome, but you can have shelves and such things--you'll soon learn, " and stillsmiling, she gave her ball a neat left-hander. 

I concluded that my New England bringing up had been too serious, andwondered if I had made a dreadful mistake in marrying into the army, orat least in following my husband to Arizona. I debated the question withmyself from all sides, and decided then and there that young army wivesshould stay at home with their mothers and fathers, and not go into suchwild and uncouth places. I thought my decision irrevocable. 

Before the two small deep windows in our room we hung some Turkey redcotton, Jack built in his spare moments a couch for me, and graduallyour small quarters assumed an appearance of comfort. I turned myattention a little to social matters. We dined at Captain Montgomery's(the commanding officer's) house; his wife was a famous Washingtonbeauty. He had more rank, consequently more rooms, than we had, andtheir quarters were very comfortable and attractive. 

There was much that was new and interesting at the post. The Indians wholived on this reservation were the White Mountain Apaches, a fierce andcruel tribe, whose depredations and atrocities had been carried on foryears, in and around, and, indeed, far away from their mountain homes. But this tribe was now under surveillance of the Government, and guardedby a strong garrison of cavalry and infantry at Camp Apache. They weredivided into bands, under Chiefs Pedro, Diablo, Patone and Cibiano;they came into the post twice a week to be counted, and to receive theirrations of beef, sugar, beans, and other staples, which Uncle Sam'scommissary officer issued to them. 

In the absence of other amusement, the officers' wives walked over towitness this rather solemn ceremony. At least, the serious expression onthe faces of the Indians, as they received their rations, gave an air ofsolemnity to the proceeding. 

Large stakes were driven into the ground; at each stake, sat or stoodthe leader of a band; a sort of father to his people; then the restof them stretched out in several long lines, young bucks and old ones, squaws and pappooses, the families together, about seventeen hundredsouls in all. I used to walk up and down between the lines, with theother women, and the squaws looked at our clothes and chuckled, andmade some of their inarticulate remarks to each other. The bucks lookedadmiringly at the white women, especially at the cavalry beauty, Mrs. Montgomery, although I thought that Chief Diablo cast a special eye atour young Mrs. Bailey, of the infantry. 

Diablo was a handsome fellow. I was especially impressed by hisextraordinary good looks. 

This tribe was quiet at that time, only a few renegades escaping intothe hills on their wild adventures: but I never felt any confidence inthem and was, on the whole, rather afraid of them. The squaws were shy, and seldom came near the officers' quarters. Some of the younger girlswere extremely pretty; they had delicate hands, and small feet encasedin well-shaped moccasins. They wore short skirts made of stripped bark, which hung gracefully about their bare knees and supple limbs, andusually a sort of low-necked camisa, made neatly of coarse, unbleachedmuslin, with a band around the neck and arms, and, in cold weather apretty blanket was wrapped around their shoulders and fastened at thebreast in front. In summer the blanket was replaced by a square ofbright calico. Their coarse, black hair hung in long braids in frontover each shoulder, and nearly all of them wore an even bang or fringeover the forehead. Of course hats were unheard of. The Apaches, both menand women, had not then departed from the customs of their ancestors, and still retained the extraordinary beauty and picturesqueness of theiraboriginal dress. They wore sometimes a fine buckskin upper garment, andif of high standing in the tribe, necklaces of elks teeth. 

The young lieutenants sometimes tried to make up to the prettiestones, and offered them trinkets, pretty boxes of soap, beads, and smallmirrors (so dear to the heart of the Indian girl), but the young maidswere coy enough; it seemed to me they cared more for men of their ownrace. 

Once or twice, I saw older squaws with horribly disfigured faces. Isupposed it was the result of some ravaging disease, but I learned thatit was the custom of this tribe, to cut off the noses of those women whowere unfaithful to their lords. Poor creatures, they had my pity, forthey were only children of Nature, after all, living close to the earth, close to the pulse of their mother. But this sort of punishment seemedto be the expression of the cruel and revengeful nature of the Apache. 

CHAPTER XII. LIFE AMONGST THE APACHES

Bowen proved to be a fairly good cook, and I ventured to ask people todinner in our little hall dining-room, a veritable box of a place. Oneday, feeling particularly ambitious to have my dinner a success, Imade a bold attempt at oyster patties. With the confidence of youth andinexperience, I made the pastry, and it was a success; I took a can ofBaltimore oysters, and did them up in a fashion that astonished myself, and when, after the soup, each guest was served with a hot oyster patty, one of the cavalry officers fairly gasped. "Oyster patty, if I'm alive!Where on earth--Bless my stars! And this at Camp Apache!"

"And by Holy Jerusalem! they are good, too, " claimed Captain Reilly, andturning to Bowen, he said: "Bowen, did you make these?"

Bowen straightened himself up to his six foot two, clapped his heelstogether, and came to "attention, " looked straight to the front, andreplied: "Yes, sir. "

I thought I heard Captain Reilly say in an undertone to his neighbor, "The hell he did, " but I was not sure. 

At that season, we got excellent wild turkeys there, and good Southdownmutton, and one could not complain of such living. 

But I could never get accustomed to the wretched small space of one roomand a hall; for the kitchen, being detached, could scarcely be countedin. I had been born and brought up in a spacious house, with plentyof bedrooms, closets, and an immense old-time garret. The forlornmakeshifts for closets, and the absence of all conveniences, annoyedme and added much to the difficulties of my situation. Added to this, Isoon discovered that my husband had a penchant for buying and collectingthings which seemed utterly worthless to me, and only added to thenumber of articles to be handled and packed away. I begged him torefrain, and to remember that he was married, and that we had not themoney to spend in such ways. He really did try to improve, and deniedhimself the taking of many an alluring share in raffles for old saddles, pistols, guns, and cow-boy's stuff, which were always being held at thecutler's store. 

But an auction of condemned hospital stores was too much for him, andhe came in triumphantly one day, bringing a box of antiquated dentist'sinstruments in his hand. 

"Good gracious!" I cried, "what can you ever do with those forceps?"

"Oh! they are splendid, " he said, "and they will come in mighty handysome time. "

I saw that he loved tools and instruments, and I reflected, why not?There are lots of things I have a passion for, and love, just as heloves those things and I shall never say any more about it. "Only, " Iadded, aloud, "do not expect me to pack up such trash when we come tomove; you will have to look out for it yourself. "

So with that spiteful remark from me, the episode of the forceps wasended, for the time at least. 

As the winter came on, the isolation of the place had a ratherdepressing effect upon us all. The officers were engaged in theirvarious duties: drill, courts-martial, instruction, and other militaryoccupations. They found some diversion at "the store, " where theranchmen assembled and told frontier stories and played exciting gamesof poker. Jack's duties as commissary officer kept him much away fromme, and I was very lonely. 

The mail was brought in twice a week by a soldier on horseback. When hefailed to come in at the usual time, much anxiety was manifested, and Ilearned that only a short time before, one of the mail-carriers hadbeen killed by Indians and the mail destroyed. I did not wonder that onmail-day everybody came out in front of the quarters and asked: "Is themail-carrier in?" And nothing much was done or thought of on that day, until we saw him come jogging in, the mail-bag tied behind his saddle. Our letters were from two to three weeks old. The eastern mail camevia Santa Fe to the terminus of the railroad, and then by stage; forin 1874, the railroads did not extend very far into the Southwest. Ata certain point on the old New Mexico road, our man met the San Carloscarrier, and received the mail for Apache. 

"I do not understand, " I said, "how any soldier can be found to takesuch a dangerous detail. "

"Why so?" said Jack. "They like it. "

"I should think that when they got into those canons and narrow defiles, they would think of the horrible fate of their predecessor, " said I. 

"Perhaps they do, " he answered; "but a soldier is always glad to get adetail that gives him a change from the routine of post life. "

I was getting to learn about the indomitable pluck of our soldiers. Theydid not seem to be afraid of anything. At Camp Apache my opinion of theAmerican soldier was formed, and it has never changed. In the longmarch across the Territory, they had cared for my wants and performeduncomplainingly for me services usually rendered by women. Those werebefore the days of lineal promotion. Officers remained with theirregiments for many years. A feeling of regimental prestige held officersand men together. I began to share that feeling. I knew the names of themen in the company, and not one but was ready to do a service for the"Lieutenant's wife. " "K" had long been a bachelor company; and now ayoung woman had joined it. I was a person to be pampered and cared for, and they knew besides that I was not long in the army. 

During that winter I received many a wild turkey and other nice thingsfor the table, from the men of the company. I learned to know and tothoroughly respect the enlisted man of the American army. 

And now into the varied kaleidoscope of my army life stepped the IndianAgent. And of all unkempt, unshorn, disagreeable-looking personages whohad ever stepped foot into our quarters, this was the worst. 

"Heaven save us from a Government which appoints such men as that towatch over and deal with Indians, " cried I, as he left the house. "Is itpossible that his position here demands social recognition?" I added. 

"Hush!" said the second lieutenant of K company. "It's the InteriorDepartment that appoints the Indian Agents, and besides, " he added, "it's not good taste on your part, Martha, to abuse the Government whichgives us our bread and butter. "

"Well, you can say what you like, and preach policy all you wish, noGovernment on earth can compel me to associate with such men as those!"With that assertion, I left the room, to prevent farther argument. 

And I will here add that in my experience on the frontier, whichextended over a long period, it was never my good fortune to meet withan Indian Agent who impressed me as being the right sort of a man todeal with those children of nature, for Indians are like children, andtheir intuitions are keen. They know and appreciate honesty and fairdealing, and they know a gentleman when they meet one. 

The winter came on apace, but the weather was mild and pleasant. Oneday some officers came in and said we must go over to the "Ravine" thatevening, where the Indians were going to have a rare sort of a dance. 

There was no one to say to me: "Do not go, " and, as we welcomed anylittle excitement which would relieve the monotony of our lives, we castaside all doubts of the advisability of my going. So, after dinner, wejoined the others, and sallied forth into the darkness of an Arizonanight. We crossed the large parade-ground, and picked our way over arough and pathless country, lighted only by the stars above. 

Arriving at the edge of the ravine, what a scene was before us! Welooked down into a natural amphitheatre, in which blazed great fires;hordes of wild Apaches darted about, while others sat on logs beatingtheir tomtoms. 

I was afraid, and held back, but the rest of the party descended intothe ravine, and, leaning on a good strong arm, I followed. We all satdown on the great trunk of a fallen tree, and soon the dancers came intothe arena. 

They were entirely naked, except for the loin-cloth; their bodies werepainted, and from their elbows and knees stood out bunches of feathers, giving them the appearance of huge flying creatures; jingling thingswere attached to their necks and arms. Upon their heads were largeframes, made to resemble the branching horns of an elk, and as theydanced, and bowed their heads, the horns lent them the appearance ofsome unknown animal, and added greatly to their height. Their featherswaved, their jingles shook, and their painted bodies twisted and turnedin the light of the great fire, which roared and leaped on high. Atone moment they were birds, at another animals, at the next they weredemons. 

The noise of the tomtoms and the harsh shouts of the Indians grew wilderand wilder. It was weird and terrifying. Then came a pause; the arenawas cleared, and with much solemnity two wicked-looking creatures cameout and performed a sort of shadow dance, brandishing knives as theyglided through the intricate figures. 

It was a fascinating but unearthly scene, and the setting completed theillusion. Fright deprived me of the power of thought, but in a sort ofsubconscious way I felt that Orpheus must have witnessed just suchmad revels when he went down into Pluto's regions. Suddenly the shoutsbecame war whoops, the demons brandished their knives madly, and noddedtheir branching horns; the tomtoms were beaten with a dreadful din, andterror seized my heart. What if they be treacherous, and had lured oursmall party down into this ravine for an ambush! The thing could wellbe, I thought. I saw uneasiness in the faces of the other women, andby mutual consent we got up and slowly took our departure. I barely hadstrength to climb up the steep side of the hollow. I was thankful toescape from its horrors. 

Scarce three months after that some of the same band of Indians firedinto the garrison and fled to the mountains. I remarked to Jack, that Ithought we were very imprudent to go to see that dance, and he said hesupposed we were. But I had never regarded life in such a light way ashe seemed to. 

Women usually like to talk over their trials and their wonderfuladventures, and that is why I am writing this, I suppose. Men simplywill not talk about such things. 

The cavalry beauty seemed to look at this frontier lifephilosophically--what she really thought about it, I never knew. Mrs. Bailey was so much occupied by the care of her young child and variousout-door amusements, that she did not, apparently, think much aboutthings that happened around us. At all events, she never seemed inclinedto talk about them. There was no one else to talk to; the soil wasstrange, and the atmosphere a foreign one to me; life did not seem tobe taken seriously out there, as it was back in New England, where theyalways loved to sit down and talk things over. I was downright lonesomefor my mother and sisters. 

I could not go out very much at that time, so I occupied myself a gooddeal with needle-work. 

One evening we heard firing across the canon. Jack caught up his sword, buckling on his belt as he went out. "Injuns fighting on the other sideof the river, " some soldier reported. Finding that it did not concernus, Jack said, "Come out into the back yard, Martha, and look over thestockade, and I think you can see across the river. " So I hurried out tothe stockade, but Jack, seeing that I was not tall enough, picked upan empty box that stood under the window of the room belonging to theDoctor, when, thud! fell something out onto the ground, and rolled away. I started involuntarily. It was dark in the yard. I stood stock still. "What was that?" I whispered. 

"Nothing but an old Edam cheese, " said this true-hearted soldier ofmine. I knew it was not a cheese, but said no more. I stood up on thebox, watched the firing like a man, and went quietly back into thequarters. After retiring, I said, "You might just a swell tell me now, you will have to sooner or later, what was in the box--it had a dreadfulsound, as it rolled away on the ground. "

"Well, " said he, "if you must know, it was an Injun's head that theDoctor had saved, to take to Washington with him. It had a sort of amalformed skull or jaw-bone or something. But he left it behind--I guessit got a leetle to old for him to carry, " he laughed. "Somebody told methere was a head in the yard, but I forgot all about it. Lucky thing youdidn't see it, wasn't it? I suppose you'd been scared--well, I must tellthe fatigue party to-morrow to take it away. Now don't let me forgetit, " and this soldier of many battles fell into the peaceful slumberwhich comes to those who know not fear. 

The next day I overheard him telling Major Worth what had happened, and adding that he would roast that Doctor if he ever came back. Iwas seeing the rugged side of life, indeed, and getting accustomed toshocks. 

Now the cavalry beauty gave a dinner. It was lovely; but in the midst ofit, we perceived a sort of confusion of moccasined footsteps outsidethe dining-room. My nerves were, by this time, always on the alert. I glanced through the large door opening out into the hall, and sawa group of Indian scouts; they laid a coffee-sack down by the cornerfire-place, near the front door. The commanding officer left the tablehastily; the portiere was drawn. 

I had heard tales of atrocious cruelties committed by a band of Indianswho had escaped from the reservation and were ravaging the countryaround. I had heard how they maimed poor sheep and cut off the legs ofcattle at the first joint, leaving them to die; how they tortured women, and burned their husbands and children before their eyes; I had heardalso that the Indian scouts were out after them, with orders to bringthem in, dead or alive. 

The next day I learned that the ringleader's head was in the bag that Ihad seen, and that the others had surrendered and returned. The scoutswere Apaches in the pay of the Government, and I always heard that, aslong as they were serving as scouts, they showed themselves loyal andwould hunt down their nearest relative. 

Major Worth got tired of the monotony of a bachelor's life at CampApache and decided to give a dance in his quarters, and invite thechiefs. I think the other officers did not wholly approve of it, although they felt friendly enough towards them, as long as they werenot causing disturbances. But to meet the savage Apache on a basis ofsocial equality, in an officer's quarters, and to dance in a quadrillewith him! Well, the limit of all things had been reached!

However, Major Worth, who was actually suffering from the ennui offrontier life in winter, and in time of peace, determined to carry outhis project, so he had his quarters, which were quite spacious, clearedand decorated with evergreen boughs. From his company, he secured somemen who could play the banjo and guitar, and all the officers and theirwives, and the chiefs with their harems, came to this novel fete. Aquadrille was formed, in which the chiefs danced opposite the officers. The squaws sat around, as they were too shy to dance. These chiefs werepainted, and wore only their necklaces and the customary loin-cloth, throwing their blankets about their shoulders when they had finisheddancing. I noticed again Chief Diablo's great good looks. 

Conversation was carried on principally by signs and nods, and throughthe interpreter (a white man named Cooley). Besides, the officers hadpicked up many short phrases of the harsh and gutteral Apache tongue. 

Diablo was charmed with the young, handsome wife of one of the officers, and asked her husband how many ponies he would take for her, and Pedroasked Major Worth, if all those white squaws belonged to him. 

The party passed off pleasantly enough, and was not especiallysubversive to discipline, although I believe it was not repeated. 

Afterwards, long afterwards, when we were stationed at David's Island, New York Harbor, and Major Worth was no longer a bachelor, but adignified married man and had gained his star in the Spanish War, we used to meet occasionally down by the barge office or taking aFenster-promenade on Broadway, and we would always stand awhile and chatover the old days at Camp Apache in '74. Never mind how pressing ourmutual engagements were, we could never forego the pleasure of talkingover those wild days and contrasting them with our then presentsurroundings. "Shall you ever forget my party?" he said, the last timewe met. 

CHAPTER XIII. A NEW RECRUIT

In January our little boy arrived, to share our fate and to gladden ourhearts. As he was the first child born to an officer's family in CampApache, there was the greatest excitement. All the sheep-ranchers andcattlemen for miles around came into the post. The beneficent canteen, with its soldiers' and officers' clubrooms did not exist then. So theyall gathered at the cutler's store, to celebrate events with a round ofdrinks. They wanted to shake hands with and congratulate the new father, after their fashion, upon the advent of the blond-haired baby. Theirgreat hearts went out to him, and they vied with each other in doing thehandsome thing by him, in a manner according to their lights, and theirideas of wishing well to a man; a manner, sometimes, alas! disastrous inits results to the man! However, by this time, I was getting used to allsides of frontier life. 

I had no time to be lonely now, for I had no nurse, and the only personwho was able to render me service was a laundress of the Fifth Cavalry, who came for about two hours each day, to give the baby his bath andto arrange things about the bed. I begged her to stay with me, but, ofcourse, I knew it was impossible. 

So here I was, inexperienced and helpless, alone in bed, with an infanta few days old. Dr. Loring, our excellent Post Surgeon, was both kindand skillful, but he was in poor health and expecting each day tobe ordered to another station. My husband was obliged to be at theCommissary Office all day, issuing rations to troops and scouts, andattending to the duties of his position. 

But, realizing in a measure the utter helplessness of my situation, hesent a soldier up to lead a wire cord through the thick wall at the headof my bed and out through the small yard into the kitchen. To this theyattached a big cow-bell, so, by making some considerable effort to reachup and pull this wire, I could summon Bowen, that is, if Bowen happenedto be there. But Bowen seemed always to be out at drill or over at thecompany quarters, and frequently my bell brought no response. When hedid come, however, he was just as kind and just as awkward as it waspossible for a great big six-foot farmer-soldier to be. 

But I grew weaker and weaker with trying to be strong, and one daywhen Jack came in and found both the baby and myself crying, he said, man-like, "What's the matter?" I said, "I must have some one to takecare of me, or we shall both die. "

He seemed to realize that the situation was desperate, and mounted menwere sent out immediately in all directions to find a woman. 

At last, a Mexican girl was found in a wood-chopper's camp, and wasbrought to me. She was quite young and very ignorant and stupid, andspoke nothing but a sort of Mexican "lingo, " and did not understand aword of English. But I felt that my life was saved; and Bowen fixed upa place on the couch for her to sleep, and Jack went over to theunoccupied room on the other side of the cabin and took possession ofthe absent doctor's bed. 

I begged Jack to hunt up a Spanish dictionary, and fortunately onewas found at the cutler's store, which, doubtless the cutler or hispredecessor had brought into the country years before. 

The girl did not know anything. I do not think she had ever been insidea casa before. She had washed herself in mountain streams, and did notknow what basins and sponges were for. So it was of no use to point tothe objects I wanted. 

I propped myself up in bed and studied the dictionary, and, having someidea of the pronunciation of Latin languages, I essayed to call for warmwater and various other necessary articles needed around a sick bed. Sometimes I succeeded in getting an idea through her impervious brain, but more often she would stand dazed and immovable and I would let thedictionary drop from my tired hands and fall back upon the pillow in asweat of exhaustion. Then Bowen would be called in, and with the help ofsome perfunctory language and gestures on his part, this silent creatureof the mountains would seem to wake up and try to understand. 

And so I worried through those dreadful days--and the nights! Ah! we hadbetter not describe them. The poor wild thing slept the sleep of deathand could not hear my loudest calls nor desperate shouts. 

So Jack attached a cord to her pillow, and I would tug and tug at thatand pull the pillow from under her head. It was of no avail. She sleptpeacefully on, and it seemed to me, as I lay there staring at her, thatnot even Gabriel's trump would ever arouse her. 

In desperation I would creep out of bed and wait upon myself and thenconfess to Jack and the Doctor next day. 

Well, we had to let the creature go, for she was of no use, and theSpanish dictionary was laid aside. 

I struggled along, fighting against odds; how I ever got well at all isa wonder, when I think of all the sanitary precautions taken now-a-dayswith young mothers and babies. The Doctor was ordered away and anotherone came. I had no advice or help from any one. Calomel or quinine arethe only medicines I remember taking myself or giving to my child. 

But to go back a little. The seventh day after the birth of the baby, adelegation of several squaws, wives of chiefs, came to pay me a formalvisit. They brought me some finely woven baskets, and a beautifulpappoose-basket or cradle, such as they carry their own babies in. Thiswas made of the lightest wood, and covered with the finest skin offawn, tanned with birch bark by their own hands, and embroidered in bluebeads; it was their best work. I admired it, and tried to express tothem my thanks. These squaws took my baby (he was lying beside me on thebed), then, cooing and chuckling, they looked about the room, until theyfound a small pillow, which they laid into the basket-cradle, then putmy baby in, drew the flaps together, and laced him into it; then stoodit up, and laid it down, and laughed again in their gentle manner, andfinally soothed him to sleep. I was quite touched by the friendliness ofit all. They laid the cradle on the table and departed. Jack went outto bring Major Worth in, to see the pretty sight, and as the two enteredthe room, Jack pointed to the pappoose-basket. 

Major Worth tip-toed forward, and gazed into the cradle; he did notspeak for some time; then, in his inimitable way, and half under hisbreath, he said, slowly, "Well, I'll be d--d!" This was all, but when heturned towards the bedside, and came and shook my hand, his eyes shonewith a gentle and tender look. 

And so was the new recruit introduced to the Captain of Company K. 

And now there must be a bath-tub for the baby. The cutler rummaged hisentire place, to find something that might do. At last, he sent me afreshly scoured tub, that looked as if it might, at no very remote date, have contained salt mackerel marked "A One. " So then, every morning atnine o'clock, our little half-window was black with the heads of thecurious squaws and bucks, trying to get a glimpse of the fair baby'sbath. A wonderful performance, it appeared to them. 

Once a week this room, which was now a nursery combined with bedroom andliving-room, was overhauled by the stalwart Bowen. The baby was put tosleep and laced securely into the pappoose-basket. He was then carriedinto the kitchen, laid on the dresser, and I sat by with a book orneedle-work watching him, until Bowen had finished the room. On one ofthese occasions, I noticed a ledger lying upon one of the shelves. Ilooked into it, and imagine my astonishment, when I read: "Aunt Hepsey'sMuffins, " "Sarah's Indian Pudding, " and on another page, "Hasty's LemonTarts, " "Aunt Susan's Method of Cooking a Leg of Mutton, " and "JosieWell's Pressed Calf Liver. " Here were my own, my very own familyrecipes, copied into Bowen's ledger, in large illiterate characters;and on the fly-leaf, "Charles Bowen's Receipt Book. " I burst into a goodhearty laugh, almost the first one I had enjoyed since I arrived at CampApache. 

The long-expected promotion to a first lieutenancy came at aboutthis time. Jack was assigned to a company which was stationed at CampMacDowell, but his departure for the new post was delayed until thespring should be more advanced and I should be able to undertake thelong, rough trip with our young child. 

The second week in April, my baby just nine weeks old, we began to packup. I had gained a little in experience, to be sure, but I had lost myhealth and strength. I knew nothing of the care of a young infant, anddepended entirely upon the advice of the Post Surgeon, who happened atthat time to be a young man, much better versed in the sawing off ofsoldiers' legs than in the treatment of young mothers and babies. 

The packing up was done under difficulties, and with much help from ourfaithful Bowen. It was arranged for Mrs. Bailey, who was to spend thesummer with her parents at Fort Whipple, to make the trip at the sametime, as our road to Camp MacDowell took us through Fort Whipple. Therewere provided two ambulances with six mules each, two baggage-wagons, anescort of six calvarymen fully armed, and a guide. Lieutenant Bailey wasto accompany his wife on the trip. 

I was genuinely sorry to part with Major Worth, but in the excitementand fatigue of breaking up our home, I had little time to think of myfeelings. My young child absorbed all my time. Alas! for the ignoranceof young women, thrust by circumstances into such a situation! I hadmiscalculated my strength, for I had never known illness in my life, and there was no one to tell me any better. I reckoned upon my superblyhealthy nature to bring me through. In fact, I did not think much aboutit; I simply got ready and went, as soldiers do. 

I heard them say that we were not to cross the Mogollon range, but wereto go to the north of it, ford the Colorado Chiquito at Sunset Crossing, and so on to Camp Verde and Whipple Barracks by the Stoneman's Lakeroad. It sounded poetic and pretty. Colorado Chiquito, Sunset Crossing, and Stoneman's Lake road! I thought to myself, they were prettier thanany of the names I had heard in Arizona. 

CHAPTER XIV. A MEMORABLE JOURNEY

How broken plunged the steep descent! How barren! Desolate and rent Byearthquake shock, the land lay dead, Like some proud king in old-timeslain. An ugly skeleton, it gleamed In burning sands. The fiery rainOf fierce volcanoes here had sown Its ashes. Burnt and black and seamedWith thunder-strokes and strewn With cinders. Yea, so overthrown, Thatwilder men than we had said, On seeing this, with gathered breath, "Wecome on the confines of death!"--JOAQUIN MILLER. 

Six good cavalrymen galloped along by our side, on the morning of April24th, 1875, as with two ambulances, two army wagons, and a Mexicanguide, we drove out of Camp Apache at a brisk trot. 

The drivers were all armed, and spare rifles hung inside the ambulances. I wore a small derringer, with a narrow belt filled with cartridges. Anincongruous sight, methinks now, it must have been. A young mother, paleand thin, a child of scarce three months in her arms, and a pistol beltaround her waist!

I scarcely looked back at Camp Apache. We had a long day's march beforeus, and we looked ahead. Towards night we made camp at Cooley's ranch, and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was interpreter and scout, andalthough he was a white man, he had married a young Indian girl, thedaughter of one of the chiefs and was known as a squaw man. Thereseemed to be two Indian girls at his ranch; they were both tidy andgood-looking, and they prepared us a most appetizing supper. 

The ranch had spaces for windows, covered with thin unbleached muslin(or manta, as it is always called out there), glass windows being thentoo great a luxury in that remote place. There were some partitionsinside the ranch, but no doors; and, of course, no floors except adobe. Several half-breed children, nearly naked, stood and gazed at us aswe prepared for rest. This was interesting and picturesque from manystandpoints perhaps, but it did not tend to make me sleepy. I lay gazinginto the fire which was smouldering in the corner, and finally I said, in a whisper, "Jack, which girl do you think is Cooley's wife?"

"I don't know, " answered this cross and tired man; and then added, "bothof 'em, I guess. "

Now this was too awful, but I knew he did not intend for me to ask anymore questions. I had a difficult time, in those days, reconciling whatI saw with what I had been taught was right, and I had to sort over myideas and deep-rooted prejudices a good many times. 

The two pretty squaws prepared a nice breakfast for us, and we set out, quite refreshed, to travel over the malapais (as the great lava-beds inthat part of the country are called). There was no trace of a road. Afew hours of this grinding and crunching over crushed lava wearied usall, and the animals found it hard pulling, although the country waslevel. 

We crossed Silver Creek without difficulty, and arrived at Stinson'sranch, after traveling twenty-five miles, mostly malapais. Do not for amoment think of these ranches as farms. Some of them were deserted sheepranches, and had only adobe walls standing in ruins. But the camp musthave a name, and on the old maps of Arizona these names are still to befound. Of course, on the new railroad maps, they are absent. They weregenerally near a spring or a creek, consequently were chosen as camps. 

Mrs. Bailey had her year-old boy, Howard, with her. We began toexperience the utmost inconvenience from the lack of warm water andother things so necessary to the health and comfort of children. But wetried to make light of it all, and the two Lieutenants tried, in a man'sway, to help us out. We declared we must have some clean towels for thenext day, so we tried to rinse out, in the cold, hard water of the well, those which we had with us, and, as it was now nightfall and there wasno fire inside this apparently deserted ranch, the two Lieutenants stoodand held the wet towels before the camp-fire until they were dry. 

Mrs. Bailey and I, too tired to move, sat and watched them and had eachour own thoughts. She was an army girl and perhaps had seen such thingsbefore, but it was a situation that did not seem quite in keeping withmy ideas of the fitness of things in general, and with the uniform inparticular. The uniform, associated in my mind with brilliant functions, guard-mount, parades and full-dress weddings--the uniform, in fact, that I adored. As I sat, gazing at them, they both turned around, and, realizing how almost ludicrous they looked, they began to laugh. Whereupon we all four laughed and Jack said: "Nice work for UnitedStates officers! hey, Bailey?"

"It might be worse, " sighed the handsome, blond-haired Bailey. 

Thirty miles the next day, over a good road, brought us to Walker'sranch, on the site of old Camp Supply. This ranch was habitable in away, and the owner said we might use the bedrooms; but the wild-catsabout the place were so numerous and so troublesome in the night, thatwe could not sleep. I have mentioned the absence of windows in theseranches; we were now to experience the great inconvenience resultingtherefrom, for the low open spaces furnished great opportunity for thecats. In at one opening, and out at another they flew, first across theBailey's bed, then over ours. The dogs caught the spirit of the chase, and added their noise to that of the cats. Both babies began to cry, andthen up got Bailey and threw his heavy campaign boots at the cats, withsome fitting remarks. A momentary silence reigned, and we tried againto sleep. Back came the cats, and then came Jack's turn with boots andtravelling satchels. It was all of no avail, and we resigned ourselves. Cruelly tired, here we were, we two women, compelled to sit on hardboxes or the edge of a bed, to quiet our poor babies, all through thatnight, at that old sheep-ranch. Like the wretched emigrant, differingonly from her inasmuch as she, never having known comfort perhaps, cannot realize her misery. 

The two Lieutenants slipped on their blouses, and sat looking helplesslyat us, waging war on the cats at intervals. And so the dawn found us, our nerves at a tension, and our strength gone--a poor preparation forthe trying day which was to follow. 

We were able to buy a couple of sheep there, to take with us forsupplies, and some antelope meat. We could not indulge, in foolishscruples, but I tried not to look when they tied the live sheep andthrew them into one of the wagons. 

Quite early in the day, we met a man who said he had been fired upon bysome Indians at Sanford's Pass. We thought perhaps he had been scared bysome stray shot, and we did not pay much attention to his story. 

Soon after, however, we passed a sort of old adobe ruin, out of whichcrept two bare-headed Mexicans, so badly frightened that their darkfaces were pallid; their hair seemed standing on end, and they lookedstark mad with fear. They talked wildly to the guide, and gesticulated, pointing in the direction of the Pass. They had been fired at, and theirponies taken by some roving Apaches. They had been in hiding for overa day, and were hungry and miserable. We gave them food and drink. Theyimplored us, by the Holy Virgin, not to go through the Pass. 

What was to be done? The officers took counsel; the men looked to theirarms. It was decided to go through. Jack examined his revolver, and sawthat my pistol was loaded. I was instructed minutely what to do, in casewe were attacked. 

For miles we strained our eyes, looking in the direction whence thesemen had come. 

At last, in mid-afternoon, we approached the Pass, a narrow defilewinding down between high hills from this table-land to the plain below. To say that we feared an ambush, would not perhaps convey a very clearidea of how I felt on entering the Pass. 

There was not a word spoken. I obeyed orders, and lay down in the bottomof the ambulance; I took my derringer out of the holster and cocked it. I looked at my little boy lying helpless there beside me, and at hisdelicate temples, lined with thin blue veins, and wondered if I couldfollow out the instructions I had received: for Jack had said, after thedecision was made, to go through the Pass, "Now, Mattie, I don't thinkfor a minute that there are any Injuns in that Pass, and you must not beafraid. We have got to go through it any way; but"--he hesitated, --"wemay be mistaken; there may be a few of them in there, and they'll have amighty good chance to get in a shot or two. And now listen: if I'm hit, you'll know what to do. You have your derringer; and when you see thatthere is no help for it, if they get away with the whole outfit, why, there's only one thing to be done. Don't let them get the baby, for theywill carry you both off and--well, you know the squaws are much morecruel than the bucks. Don't let them get either of you alive. Now"--tothe driver--"go on. "

Jack was a man of few words, and seldom spoke much in times like that. 

So I lay very quiet in the bottom of the ambulance. I realized that wewere in great danger. My thoughts flew back to the East, and I saw, asin a flash, my father and mother, sisters and brother; I think I triedto say a short prayer for them, and that they might never know theworst. I fixed my eyes upon my husband's face. There he sat, rifle inhand, his features motionless, his eyes keenly watching out from oneside of the ambulance, while a stalwart cavalry-man, carbine in hand, watched the other side of the narrow defile. The minutes seemed likehours. 

The driver kept his animals steady, and we rattled along. 

At last, as I perceived the steep slope of the road, I looked out, andsaw that the Pass was widening out, and we must be nearing the end ofit. "Keep still, " said Jack, without moving a feature. My heart seemedthen to stop beating, and I dared not move again, until I heard him say, "Thank God, we're out of it! Get up, Mattie! See the river yonder? We'llcross that to-night, and then we'll be out of their God d----d country!"

This was Jack's way of working off his excitement, and I did not mindit. I knew he was not afraid of Apaches for himself, but for his wifeand child. And if I had been a man, I should have said just as much andperhaps more. 

We were now down in a flat country, and low alkali plains lay between usand the river. My nerves gradually recovered from the tension in whichthey had been held; the driver stopped his team for a moment, the otherambulance drove up alongside of us, and Ella Bailey and I looked at eachother; we did not talk any, but I believe we cried just a little. ThenMr. Bailey and Jack (thinking we were giving way, I suppose) pulled outtheir big flasks, and we had to take a cup of good whiskey, weakened upwith a little water from our canteens, which had been filled at Walker'sranch in the morning. Great Heavens! I thought, was it this morningthat we left Walker's ranch, or was it a year ago? So much had I livedthrough in a few hours. 

CHAPTER XV. FORDING THE LITTLE COLORADO

At a bend in the road the Mexican guide galloped up near the ambulance, and pointing off to the westward with a graceful gesture, said:"Colorado Chiquito! Colorado Chiquito!" And, sure enough, there in theafternoon sun lay the narrow winding river, its surface as smooth asglass, and its banks as if covered with snow. 

We drove straight for the ford, known as Sunset Crossing. The guide wassure he knew the place. But the river was high, and I could not see howanybody could cross it without a boat. The Mexican rode his pony inonce or twice; shook his head, and said in Spanish, "there was muchquicksand. The old ford had changed much since he saw it. " He gallopedexcitedly to and fro, along the bank of the river, always returning tothe same place, and declaring "it was the ford; there was no other; heknew it well. "

But the wagons not having yet arrived, it was decided not to attemptcrossing until morning, when we could get a fresh start. 

The sun was gradually sinking in the west, but the heat down in thatalkali river-bottom even at that early season of the year was mostuncomfortable. I was worn out with fright and fatigue; my poor childcried piteously and incessantly. Nothing was of any avail to soothe him. After the tents were pitched and the camp-fires made, some warm waterwas brought, and I tried to wash away some of the dust from him, but thealkali water only irritated his delicate skin, and his head, where ithad lain on my arm, was inflamed by the constant rubbing. It beganto break out in ugly blisters; I was in despair. We were about aswretchedly off as two human beings could be, and live, it seemed to me. The disappointment at not getting across the river, combined withthe fear that the Indians were still in the neighborhood, added to mynervousness and produced an exhaustion which, under other circumstances, would have meant collapse. 

The mournful and demoniacal cries of the coyotes filled the night; theyseemed to come close to the tent, and their number seemed to be legion. I lay with eyes wide open, watching for the day to come, and resolvingeach minute that if I ever escaped alive from that lonely river-bottomwith its burning alkali, and its millions of howling coyotes, I wouldnever, never risk being placed in such a situation again. 

At dawn everybody got up and dressed. I looked in my small hand-mirror, and it seemed to me my hair had turned a greyish color, and while itwas not exactly white, the warm chestnut tinge never came back into it, after that day and night of terror. My eyes looked back at me large andhollow from the small glass, and I was in that state when it is easy toimagine the look of Death in one's own face. I think sometimes it comes, after we have thought ourselves near the borders. And I surely had beenclose to them the day before. 

*****

If perchance any of my readers have followed this narrative so far, andthere be among them possibly any men, young or old, I would say to suchones: "Desist!" For what I am going to tell about in this chapter, andpossibly another, concerns nobody but women, and my story will now, forawhile, not concern itself with the Eighth Foot, nor the army, nor theWar Department, nor the Interior Department, nor the strategic value ofSunset Crossing, which may now be a railroad station, for all I know. Itis simply a story of my journey from the far bank of the Little Coloradoto Fort Whipple, and then on, by a change of orders, over mountainsand valleys, cactus plains and desert lands, to the banks of the GreatColorado. 

My attitude towards the places I travelled through was naturallyinfluenced by the fact that I had a young baby in my arms the entireway, and that I was not able to endure hardship at that time. Forusually, be it remembered, at that period of a child's life, both motherand infant are not out of the hands of the doctor and trained nurse, tosay nothing of the assistance so gladly rendered by those near and dear. 

The morning of the 28th of April dawned shortly after midnight, asmornings in Arizona generally do at that season, and after a hastycamp breakfast, and a good deal of reconnoitering on the part of theofficers, who did not seem to be exactly satisfied about the Mexican'sknowledge of the ford, they told him to push his pony in, and cross ifhe could. 

He managed to pick his way across and back, after a good deal offloundering, and we decided to try the ford. First they hitched up tenmules to one of the heavily loaded baggage-wagons, the teamster crackedhis whip, and in they went. But the quicksand frightened the leaders, and they lost their courage. Now when a mule loses courage, in thewater, he puts his head down and is done for. The leaders disappearedentirely, then the next two and finally the whole ten of them were gone, irrevocably, as I thought. But like a flash, the officers shouted: "Cutaway those mules! Jump in there!" and amid other expletives the menplunged in, and feeling around under the water cut the poor animalsloose and they began to crawl out on the other bank. I drew a longbreath, for I thought the ten mules were drowned. 

The guide picked his way over again to the other side and caught themup, and then I began to wonder how on earth we should ever get across. 

There lay the heavy army wagon, deep mired in the middle of the stream, and what did I see? Our army chests, floating away down the river. Icried out: "Oh! do save our chests!" "They're all right, we'll get thempresently, " said Jack. It seemed a long time to me, before the soldierscould get them to the bank, which they did, with the aid of stout ropes. All our worldly goods were in those chests, and I knew they were soakedwet and probably ruined; but, after all, what did it matter, in the faceof the serious problem which confronted us?

In the meantime, some of the men had floated the other boxes and trunksout of the wagon back to the shore, and were busy taking the hugevehicle apart. Any one who knows the size of an army wagon will realizethat this was hard work, especially as the wagon was mired, and nearlysubmerged. But the men worked desperately, and at last succeeded ingetting every part of it back onto the dry land. 

Somebody stirred up the camp-fire and put the kettle on, and Mrs. Baileyand I mixed up a smoking strong hot toddy for those brave fellows, whowere by this time well exhausted. Then they set to work to make a boat, by drawing a large canvas under the body of the wagon, and fasteningit securely. For this Lieutenant of mine had been a sailor-man and knewwell how to meet emergencies. 

One or two of the soldiers had now forded the stream on horseback, andtaken over a heavy rope, which was made fast to our improvised boat. I was acquainted with all kinds of boats, from a catamaran to afull-rigged ship, but never a craft like this had I seen. Over thesides we clambered, however, and were ferried across the treacherousand glassy waters of the Little Colorado. All the baggage and the twoambulances were ferried over, and the other wagon was unloaded and drawnover by means of ropes. 

This proceeding took all day, and of course we could get no farther, andwere again obliged to camp in that most uncomfortable river-bottom. Butwe felt safer on that side. I looked at the smooth surface of the river, and its alkali shores, and the picture became indelibly impressed uponmy memory. The unpleasant reality destroyed any poetic associationswhich might otherwise have clung to the name of Sunset Crossing in myever vivid imagination. 

After the tents were pitched, and the camp snugged up, Mr. Baileyproduced some champagne and we wished each other joy, that we had madethe dangerous crossing and escaped the perils of Sanford's Pass. I amafraid the champagne was not as cold as might have been desired, but thebottle had been wrapped in a wet blanket, and cooled a little in thatway, and we drank it with zest, from a mess-cup. 

CHAPTER XVI. STONEMAN'S LAKE

The road began now to ascend, and after twenty miles' travelling wereached a place called Updyke's Tanks. It was a nice place, with plentyof wood and grass. The next day we camped at Jay Coxe's Tanks. It wasa hard day's march, and I was tired out when we arrived there. Theambulance was simply jerked over those miles of fearful rocks; one couldnot say driven or dragged over, for we were pitched from rock to rockthe entire distance. 

Stoneman's Lake Road was famous, as I afterwards heard. Perhaps it wasjust as well for me that I did not know about it in advance. 

The sure-footed mules picked their way over these sharp-edged rocks. There was not a moment's respite. We asked a soldier to help withholding the baby, for my arms gave out entirely, and were as ifparalyzed. The jolting threw us all by turns against the sides ofthe ambulance (which was not padded), and we all got some rather badbruises. We finally bethought ourselves of the pappoose basket, which wehad brought along in the ambulance, having at the last moment no otherplace to put it. So a halt was called, we placed the tired baby in thissemi-cradle, laced the sides snugly over him, and were thus enabled tocarry him over those dreadful roads without danger. 

He did not cry much, but the dust made him thirsty. I could not give himnourishment without stopping the entire train of wagons, on accountof the constant pitching of the ambulance; delay was not advisable orexpedient, so my poor little son had to endure with the rest of us. Thebig Alsatian cavalryman held the cradle easily in his strong arms, andso the long miles were travelled, one by one. 

At noon of this day we made a refreshing halt, built a fire and tooksome luncheon. We found a shady, grassy spot, upon which the blanketswere spread, and we stretched ourselves out upon them and rested. Butwe were still some miles from water, so after a short respite we werecompelled to push on. We had been getting steadily higher since leavingSunset Crossing, and now it began to be cold and looked like snow. Mrs. Bailey and I found it very trying to meet these changes of temperature. A good place for the camp was found at Coxe's Tanks, trenches were dugaround the tents, and the earth banked up to keep us warm. The cool air, our great fatigue, and the comparative absence of danger combined togive us a heavenly night's rest. 

Towards sunset of the next day, which was May Day, our cavalcade reachedStoneman's Lake. We had had another rough march, and had reached thelimit of endurance, or thought we had, when we emerged from a mountainpass and drew rein upon the high green mesa overlooking Stoneman's Lake, a beautiful blue sheet of water lying there away below us. It was goodto our tired eyes, which had gazed upon nothing but burnt rocksand alkali plains for so many days. Our camp was beautiful beyonddescription, and lay near the edge of the mesa, whence we could lookdown upon the lovely lake. It was a complete surprise to us, as pointsof scenery were not much known or talked about then in Arizona. Pondsand lakes were unheard of. They did not seem to exist in that drear landof arid wastes. We never heard of water except that of the Coloradoor the Gila or the tanks and basins, and irrigation ditches of thesettlers. But here was a real Italian lake, a lake as blue as the skiesabove us. We feasted our eyes and our very souls upon it. 

Bailey and the guide shot some wild turkeys, and as we had alreadyeaten all the mutton we had along, the ragout of turkey made by thesoldier-cook for our supper tasted better to us tired and hungrytravellers, perhaps, than a canvasback at Delmonico's tastes to theweary lounger or the over-worked financier. 

In the course of the day, we had passed a sort of sign-board, with therudely written inscription, "Camp Starvation, " and we had heard fromMr. Bailey the story of the tragic misfortunes at this very place ofthe well-known Hitchcock family of Arizona. The road was lined with drybones, and skulls of oxen, white and bleached in the sun, lying on thebare rocks. Indeed, at every stage of the road we had seen evidencesof hard travel, exhausted cattle, anxious teamsters, hunger and thirst, despair, starvation, and death. 

However, Stoneman's Lake remains a joy in the memory, and far and awaythe most beautiful spot I ever saw in Arizona. But unless the approachesto it are made easier, tourists will never gaze upon it. 

In the distance we saw the "divide, " over which we must pass in orderto reach Camp Verde, which was to be our first stopping place, and welooked joyfully towards the next day's march, which we expected wouldbring us there. 

We thought the worst was over and, before retiring to our tents for thenight, we walked over to the edge of the high mesa and, in the gatheringshadows of twilight, looked down into the depths of that beautiful lake, knowing that probably we should never see it again. 

And indeed, in all the years I spent in Arizona afterward, I never evenheard of the lake again. 

I wonder now, did it really exist or was it an illusion, a dream, or themirage which appears to the desert traveller, to satisfy him and lurehim on, to quiet his imagination, and to save his senses from utterextinction?

In the morning the camp was all astir for an early move. We had notime to look back: we were starting for a long day's march, across the"divide, " and into Camp Verde. 

But we soon found that the road (if road it could be called) was worsethan any we had encountered. The ambulance was pitched and jerked fromrock to rock and we were thumped against the iron framework in a mostdangerous manner. So we got out and picked our way over the great sharpboulders. 

The Alsatian soldier carried the baby, who lay securely in the pappoosecradle. 

One of the cavalry escort suggested my taking his horse, but I didnot feel strong enough to think of mounting a horse, so great was mydiscouragement and so exhausted was my vitality. Oh! if girls only knewabout these things I thought! For just a little knowledge of the careof an infant and its needs, its nourishment and its habits, might havesaved both mother and child from such utter collapse. 

Little by little we gave up hope of reaching Verde that day. At fouro'clock we crossed the "divide, " and clattered down a road so near theedge of a precipice that I was frightened beyond everything: my sensesnearly left me. Down and around, this way and that, near the edge, thenback again, swaying, swerving, pitching, the gravel clattering over theprecipice, the six mules trotting their fastest, we reached thebottom and the driver pulled up his team. "Beaver Springs!" said he, impressively, loosening up the brakes. 

As Jack lifted me out of the ambulance, I said: "Why didn't you tellme?" pointing back to the steep road. "Oh, " said he, "I thought it wasbetter for you not to know; people get scared about such things, whenthey know about them before hand. "

"But, " I remarked, "such a break-neck pace!" Then, to the driver, "Smith, how could you drive down that place at such a rate and frightenme so?"

"Had to, ma'am, or we'd a'gone over the edge. "

I had been brought up in a flat country down near the sea, and I did notknow the dangers of mountain travelling, nor the difficulties attendingthe piloting of a six-mule team down a road like that. From this timeon, however, Smith rose in my estimation. I seemed also to be realizingthat the Southwest was a great country and that there was much to learnabout. Life out there was beginning to interest me. 

Camp Verde lay sixteen miles farther on; no one knew if the road weregood or bad. I declared I could not travel another mile, even ifthey all went on and left me to the wolves and the darkness of BeaverSprings. 

We looked to our provisions and took account of stock. There was notenough for the two families. We had no flour and no bread; there wasonly a small piece of bacon, six potatoes, some condensed milk, and somechocolate. The Baileys decided to go on; for Mrs. Bailey was to meet hersister at Verde and her parents at Whipple. We said good-bye, and theirambulance rolled away. Our tent was pitched and the baby was laid on thebed, asleep from pure exhaustion. 

The dread darkness of night descended upon us, and the strange odors ofthe bottom-lands arose, mingling with the delicious smoky smell of thecamp-fire. 

By the light of the blazing mesquite wood, we now divided whatprovisions we had, into two portions: one for supper, and one forbreakfast. A very light meal we had that evening, and I arose from themess-table unsatisfied and hungry. 

Jack and I sat down by the camp-fire, musing over the hard times we werehaving, when suddenly I heard a terrified cry from my little son. Werushed to the tent, lighted a candle, and oh! horror upon horrors!his head and face were covered with large black ants; he was wailinghelplessly, and beating the air with his tiny arms. 

"My God!" cried Jack, "we're camped over an ant-hill!"

I seized the child, and brushing off the ants as I fled, brought him outto the fire, where by its light I succeeded in getting rid of them all. But the horror of it! Can any mother brought up in God's country withkind nurses and loved ones to minister to her child, for a momentimagine how I felt when I saw those hideous, three-bodied, long-leggedblack ants crawling over my baby's face? After a lapse of years, Icannot recall that moment without a shudder. 

The soldiers at last found a place which seemed to be free fromant-hills, and our tent was again pitched, but only to find that thevenomous things swarmed over us as soon as we lay down to rest. 

And so, after the fashion of the Missouri emigrant, we climbed into theambulance and lay down upon our blankets in the bottom of it, and triedto believe we were comfortable. 

My long, hard journey of the preceding autumn, covering a period oftwo months; my trying experiences during the winter at Camp Apache; thesudden break-up and the packing; the lack of assistance from a nurse;the terrors of the journey; the sympathy for my child, who suffered frommany ailments and principally from lack of nourishment, added to theprofound fatigue I felt, had reduced my strength to a minimum. I wonderthat I lived, but something sustained me, and when we reached Camp Verdethe next day, and drew up before Lieutenant O'Connell's quarters, andsaw Mrs. O'Connell's kind face beaming to welcome us, I felt that herewas relief at last. 

The tall Alsatian handed the pappoose cradle to Mrs. O'Connell. 

"Gracious goodness! what is this?" cried the bewildered woman; "surelyit cannot be your baby! You haven't turned entirely Indian, have you, amongst those wild Apaches?"

I felt sorry I had not taken him out of the basket before we arrived. Idid not realize the impression it would make at Camp Verde. Afterall, they did not know anything about our life at Apache, or our roughtravels to get back from there. Here were lace-curtained windows, well-dressed women, smart uniforms, and, in fact, civilization, comparedwith what we had left. 

The women of the post gathered around the broad piazza, to see thewonder. But when they saw the poor little wan face, the blue eyes whichlooked sadly out at them from this rude cradle, the linen bandagescovering the back of the head, they did not laugh any more, but took himand ministered to him, as only kind women can minister to a sick baby. 

There was not much rest, however, for we had to sort and rearrange ourthings, and dress ourselves properly. (Oh! the luxury of a room and atub, after that journey!) Jack put on his best uniform, and there wasno end of visiting, in spite of the heat, which was considerable evenat that early date in May. The day there would have been pleasant enoughbut for my wretched condition. 

The next morning we set out for Fort Whipple, making a long day's march, and arriving late in the evening. The wife of the Quartermaster, a totalstranger to me, received us, and before we had time to exchange theusual social platitudes, she gave one look at the baby, and put an endto any such attempts. "You have a sick child; give him to me;" then Itold her some things, and she said: "I wonder he is alive. " Then shetook him under her charge and declared we should not leave her houseuntil he was well again. She understood all about nursing, and dayby day, under her good care, and Doctor Henry Lippincott's skilfultreatment, I saw my baby brought back to life again. Can I ever forgetMrs. Aldrich's blessed kindness?

Up to then, I had taken no interest in Camp MacDowell, where wasstationed the company into which my husband was promoted. I knew itwas somewhere in the southern part of the Territory, and isolated. Thepresent was enough. I was meeting my old Fort Russell friends, and underDoctor Lippincott's good care I was getting back a measure of strength. Camp MacDowell was not yet a reality to me. 

We met again Colonel Wilkins and Mrs. Wilkins and Carrie, and Mrs. Wilkins thanked me for bringing her daughter alive out of those wilds. Poor girl; 'twas but a few months when we heard of her death, at thebirth of her second child. I have always thought her death was caused bythe long hard journey from Apache to Whipple, for Nature never intendedwomen to go through what we went through, on that memorable journey byStoneman's Lake. 

There I met again Captain Porter, and I asked him if he had progressedany in his courtship, and he, being very much embarrassed, said he didnot know, but if patient waiting was of any avail, he believed he mightwin his bride. 

After we had been at Whipple a few days, Jack came in and remarkedcasually to Lieutenant Aldrich, "Well, I heard Bernard has asked to berelieved from Ehrenberg. 

"What!" I said, "the lonely man down there on the river--the prisonerof Chillon--the silent one? Well, they are going to relieve him, ofcourse?"

"Why, yes, " said Jack, falteringly, "if they can get anyone to take hisplace. "

"Can't they order some one?" I inquired. 

"Of course they can, " he replied, and then, turning towards the window, he ventured: "The fact is Martha, I've been offered it, and am thinkingit over. " (The real truth was, that he had applied for it, thinking itpossessed great advantages over Camp MacDowell. )

"What! do I hear aright? Have your senses left you? Are you crazy?Are you going to take me to that awful place? Why, Jack, I should diethere!"

"Now, Martha, be reasonable; listen to me, and if you really decideagainst it, I'll throw up the detail. But don't you see, we shall beright on the river, the boat comes up every fortnight or so, you canjump aboard and go up to San Francisco. " (Oh, how alluring that soundedto my ears!) "Why, it's no trouble to get out of Arizona from Ehrenberg. Then, too, I shall be independent, and can do just as I like, and whenI like, " et caetera, et caetera. "Oh, you'll be making the greatestmistake, if you decide against it. As for MacDowell, it's a hell of aplace, down there in the South; and you never will be able to go backEast with the baby, if we once get settled down there. Why, it's a goodfifteen days from the river. "

And so he piled up the arguments in favor of Ehrenberg, saying finally, "You need not stop a day there. If the boat happens to be up, you canjump right aboard and start at once down river. "

All the discomforts of the voyage on the "Newbern, " and the memory ofthose long days spent on the river steamer in August had paled before myrecent experiences. I flew, in imagination, to the deck of the "Gila, "and to good Captain Mellon, who would take me and my child out of thatwretched Territory. 

"Yes, yes, let us go then, " I cried; for here came in my inexperience. Ithought I was choosing the lesser evil, and I knew that Jack believed itto be so, and also that he had set his heart upon Ehrenberg, for reasonsknown only to the understanding of a military man. 

So it was decided to take the Ehrenberg detail. 

CHAPTER XVII. THE COLORADO DESERT

Some serpents slid from out the grass That grew in tufts by shatteredstone, Then hid below some broken mass Of ruins older than the East, That Time had eaten, as a bone Is eaten by some savage beast. 

Great dull-eyed rattlesnakes--they lay All loathsome, yellow-skinned, and slept Coiled tight as pine knots in the sun, With flat heads throughthe centre run; Then struck out sharp, then rattling crept Flat-bellieddown the dusty way. 

--JOAQUIN MILLER. 

At the end of a week, we started forth for Ehrenberg. Our escort was nowsent back to Camp Apache, and the Baileys remained at Fort Whipple, soour outfit consisted of one ambulance and one army wagon. One or twosoldiers went along, to help with the teams and the camp. 

We travelled two days over a semi-civilized country, and found quitecomfortable ranches where we spent the nights. The greatest luxury wasfresh milk, and we enjoyed that at these ranches in Skull Valley. Theykept American cows, and supplied Whipple Barracks with milk and butter. We drank, and drank, and drank again, and carried a jugful to ourbedside. The third day brought us to Cullen's ranch, at the edge ofthe desert. Mrs. Cullen was a Mexican woman and had a little boy namedDaniel; she cooked us a delicious supper of stewed chicken, and friedeggs, and good bread, and then she put our boy to bed in Daniel's crib. I felt so grateful to her; and with a return of physical comfort, Ibegan to think that life, after all, might be worth the living. 

Hopefully and cheerfully the next morning we entered the vast Coloradodesert. This was verily the desert, more like the desert which ourimagination pictures, than the one we had crossed in Septemberfrom Mojave. It seemed so white, so bare, so endless, and so still;irreclaimable, eternal, like Death itself. The stillness was appalling. We saw great numbers of lizards darting about like lightning; they werenearly as white as the sand itself, and sat up on their hind legs andlooked at us with their pretty, beady black eyes. It seemed very far offfrom everywhere and everybody, this desert--but I knew there was a campsomewhere awaiting us, and our mules trotted patiently on. Towards noonthey began to raise their heads and sniff the air; they knew that waterwas near. They quickened their pace, and we soon drew up before a largewooden structure. There were no trees nor grass around it. A Mexicanworked the machinery with the aid of a mule, and water was bought forour twelve animals, at so much per head. The place was called MesquiteWells; the man dwelt alone in his desolation, with no living beingexcept his mule for company. How could he endure it! I was not able, even faintly, to comprehend it; I had not lived long enough. He occupieda small hut, and there he staid, year in and year out, selling water tothe passing traveller; and I fancy that travellers were not so frequentat Mesquite Wells a quarter of a century ago. 

The thought of that hermit and his dreary surroundings filled my mindfor a long time after we drove away, and it was only when we halted anda soldier got down to kill a great rattlesnake near the ambulance, thatmy thoughts were diverted. The man brought the rattles to us and the newtoy served to amuse my little son. 

At night we arrived at Desert Station. There was a good ranch there, kept by Hunt and Dudley, Englishmen, I believe. I did not see them, butI wondered who they were and why they staid in such a place. They wereabsent at the time; perhaps they had mines or something of the sort tolook after. One is always imagining things about people who live in suchextraordinary places. At all events, whatever Messrs. Hunt and Dudleywere doing down there, their ranch was clean and attractive, which wasmore than could be said of the place where we stopped the next night, aplace called Tyson's Wells. We slept in our tent that night, for ofall places on the earth a poorly kept ranch in Arizona is the mostmelancholy and uninviting. It reeks of everything unclean, morally andphysically. Owen Wister has described such a place in his delightfulstory, where the young tenderfoot dances for the amusement of the oldhabitues. 

One more day's travel across the desert brought us to our El Dorado. 

CHAPTER XVIII. EHRENBERG ON THE COLORADO

Under the burning mid-day sun of Arizona, on May 16th, our six goodmules, with the long whip cracking about their ears, and the ambulancerattling merrily along, brought us into the village of Ehrenberg. Therewas one street, so called, which ran along on the river bank, and then afew cross streets straggling back into the desert, with here and therea low adobe casa. The Government house stood not far from the river, andas we drove up to the entrance the same blank white walls stared at me. It did not look so much like a prison, after all, I thought. CaptainBernard, the man whom I had pitied, stood at the doorway, to greetus, and after we were inside the house he had some biscuits and winebrought; and then the change of stations was talked of, and he said tome, "Now, please make yourself at home. The house is yours; my thingsare virtually packed up, and I leave in a day or two. There is a soldierhere who can stay with you; he has been able to attend to my simplewants. I eat only twice a day; and here is Charley, my Indian, whofetches the water from the river and does the chores. I dine generallyat sundown. "

A shadow fell across the sunlight in the doorway; I looked around andthere stood "Charley, " who had come in with the noiseless step of themoccasined foot. I saw before me a handsome naked Cocopah Indian, whowore a belt and a gee-string. He seemed to feel at home and began tohelp with the bags and various paraphernalia of ambulance travellers. He looked to be about twenty-four years old. His face was smiling andfriendly and I knew I should like him. 

The house was a one-story adobe. It formed two sides of a hollow square;the other two sides were a high wall, and the Government freight-houserespectively. The courtyard was partly shaded by a ramada and partlyopen to the hot sun. There was a chicken-yard in one corner of theinclosed square, and in the centre stood a rickety old pump, whichindicated some sort of a well. Not a green leaf or tree or blade ofgrass in sight. Nothing but white sand, as far as one could see, in alldirections. 

Inside the house there were bare white walls, ceilings covered withmanta, and sagging, as they always do; small windows set in deepembrasures, and adobe floors. Small and inconvenient rooms, openingone into another around two sides of the square. A sort of low verandaprotected by lattice screens, made from a species of slim cactus, calledocotilla, woven together, and bound with raw-hide, ran around a part ofthe house. 

Our dinner was enlivened by some good Cocomonga wine. I tried toascertain something about the source of provisions, but evidently thesoldier had done the foraging, and Captain Bernard admitted that it wasdifficult, adding always that he did not require much, "it was so warm, "et caetera, et caetera. The next morning I took the reins, nominally, but told the soldier to go ahead and do just as he had always done. Iselected a small room for the baby's bath, the all important function ofthe day. The Indian brought me a large tub (the same sort of a half of avinegar barrel we had used at Apache for ourselves), set it down in themiddle of the floor, and brought water from a barrel which stood inthe corral. A low box was placed for me to sit on. This was a bachelorestablishment, and there was no place but the floor to lay things on;but what with the splashing and the leaking and the dripping, the floorturned to mud and the white clothes and towels were covered with it, andI myself was a sight to behold. The Indian stood smiling at my plight. He spoke only a pigeon English, but said, "too much-ee wet. "

I was in despair; things began to look hopeless again to me. I thought"surely these Mexicans must know how to manage with these floors. "Fisher, the steamboat agent, came in, and I asked him if he could notfind me a nurse. He said he would try, and went out to see what could bedone. 

He finally brought in a rather forlorn looking Mexican woman leading alittle child (whose father was not known), and she said she would cometo us for quinze pesos a month. I consulted with Fisher, and he saidshe was a pretty good sort, and that we could not afford to be tooparticular down in that country. And so she came; and although she wasindolent, and forever smoking cigarettes, she did care for the baby, andfanned him when he slept, and proved a blessing to me. 

And now came the unpacking of our boxes, which had floated down theColorado Chiquito. The fine damask, brought from Germany for my linenchest, was a mass of mildew; and when the books came to light, I couldhave wept to see the pretty editions of Schiller, Goethe, and Lessing, which I had bought in Hanover, fall out of their bindings; the latter, warped out of all shape, and some of them unrecognizable. I did the bestI could, however, not to show too much concern, and gathered the pagescarefully together, to dry them in the sun. 

They were my pride, my best beloved possessions, the links that bound meto the happy days in old Hanover. 

I went to Fisher for everything--a large, well-built American, and akind good man. Mrs. Fisher could not endure the life at Ehrenberg, soshe lived in San Francisco, he told me. There were several other whitemen in the place, and two large stores where everything was kept thatpeople in such countries buy. These merchants made enormous profits, andtheir families lived in luxury in San Francisco. 

The rest of the population consisted of a very poor class of Mexicans, Cocopah, Yuma and Mojave Indians, and half-breeds. 

The duties of the army officer stationed here consisted principally inreceiving and shipping the enormous quantity of Government freight whichwas landed by the river steamers. It was shipped by wagon trains acrossthe Territory, and at all times the work carried large responsibilitieswith it. 

I soon realized that however much the present incumbent might like thesituation, it was no fit place for a woman. 

The station at Ehrenberg was what we call, in the army, "detachedservice. " I realized that we had left the army for the time being; thatwe had cut loose from a garrison; that we were in a place where goodfood could not be procured, and where there were practically no servantsto be had. That there was not a woman to speak to, or to go to foradvice or help, and, worst of all, that there was no doctor in theplace. Besides all this, my clothes were all ruined by lying wet for afortnight in the boxes, and I had practically nothing to wear. I did notthen know what useless things clothes were in Ehrenberg. 

The situation appeared rather serious; the weather had grown intenselyhot, and it was decided that the only thing for me to do was to go toSan Francisco for the summer. 

So one day we heard the whistle of the "Gila" going up; and when shecame down river, I was all ready to go on board, with Patrocina andJesusita, [*] and my own child, who was yet but five months old. I badefarewell to the man on detached service, and we headed down river. Weseemed to go down very rapidly, although the trip lasted several days. Patrocina took to her bed with neuralgia (or nostalgia); her littledevil of a child screamed the entire days and nights through, to theutter discomfiture of the few other passengers. A young lieutenant andhis wife and an army surgeon, who had come from one of the posts in theinterior, were among the number, and they seemed to think that I couldhelp it (though they did not say so). 

 * Diminutive of Jesus, a very common name amongst the Mexicans. Pronounced Hay-soo-se-ta. 

Finally the doctor said that if I did not throw Jesusita overboard, he would; why didn't I "wring the neck of its worthless Mexican ofa mother?" and so on, until I really grew very nervous and unhappy, thinking what I should do after we got on board the ocean steamer. I, a victim of seasickness, with this unlucky woman and her child onmy hands, in addition to my own! No; I made up my mind to go back toEhrenberg, but I said nothing. 

I did not dare to let Doctor Clark know of my decision, for I knew hewould try to dissuade me; but when we reached the mouth of the river, and they began to transfer the passengers to the ocean steamer whichlay in the offing, I quietly sat down upon my trunk and told them Iwas going back to Ehrenberg. Captain Mellon grinned; the others werespeechless; they tried persuasion, but saw it was useless; and then theysaid good-bye to me, and our stern-wheeler headed about and started forup river. 

Ehrenberg had become truly my old man of the sea; I could not get rid ofit. There I must go, and there I must stay, until circumstances and theFates were more propitious for my departure. 

CHAPTER XIX. SUMMER AT EHRENBERG

The week we spent going up the Colorado in June was not as uncomfortableas the time spent on the river in August of the previous year. Everything is relative, I discovered, and I was happy in going backto stay with the First Lieutenant of C Company, and share his fortunesawhile longer. 

Patrocina recovered, as soon as she found we were to return toEhrenberg. I wondered how anybody could be so homesick for such aGod-forsaken place. I asked her if she had ever seen a tree, or greengrass (for I could talk with her quite easily now). She shook hermournful head. "But don't you want to see trees and grass and flowers?"

Another sad shake of the head was the only reply. 

Such people, such natures, and such lives, were incomprehensible to methen. I could not look at things except from my own standpoint. 

She took her child upon her knee, and lighted a cigarette; I took mineupon my knee, and gazed at the river banks: they were now old friends: Ihad gazed at them many times before; how much I had experienced, and howmuch had happened since I first saw them! Could it be that I should evercome to love them, and the pungent smell of the arrow-weed which coveredthem to the water's edge?

The huge mosquitoes swarmed over us in the nights from those thickclumps of arrow-weed and willow, and the nets with which Captain Mellonprovided us did not afford much protection. 

The June heat was bad enough, though not quite so stifling as the Augustheat. I was becoming accustomed to climates, and had learned to endurediscomfort. The salt beef and the Chinaman's peach pies were no longeroffensive to me. Indeed, I had a good appetite for them, though theywere not exactly the sort of food prescribed by the modern doctor, fora young mother. Of course, milk, eggs, and all fresh food were not to behad on the river boats. Ice was still a thing unknown on the Colorado. 

When, after a week, the "Gila" pushed her nose up to the bank atEhrenberg, there stood the Quartermaster. He jumped aboard, and did notseem in the least surprised to see me. "I knew you'd come back, " saidhe. I laughed, of course, and we both laughed. 

"I hadn't the courage to go on, " I replied

"Oh, well, we can make things comfortable here and get through thesummer some way, " he said. "I'll build some rooms on, and a kitchen, and we can surely get along. It's the healthiest place in the world forchildren, they tell me. "

So after a hearty handshake with Captain Mellon, who had taken suchgood care of me on my week's voyage up river, I being almost the onlypassenger, I put my foot once more on the shores of old Ehrenberg, andwe wended our way towards the blank white walls of the Government house. I was glad to be back, and content to wait. 

So work was begun immediately on the kitchen. My first stipulation was, that the new rooms were to have wooden floors; for, although the CocopahCharley kept the adobe floors in perfect condition, by sprinkling themdown and sweeping them out every morning, they were quite impossible, especially where it concerned white dresses and children, and the littlesharp rocks in them seemed to be so tiring to the feet. 

Life as we Americans live it was difficult in Ehrenberg. I often said:"Oh! if we could only live as the Mexicans live, how easy it would be!"For they had their fire built between some stones piled up intheir yard, a piece of sheet iron laid over the top: this was thecooking-stove. A pot of coffee was made in the morning early, and thefamily sat on the low porch and drank it, and ate a biscuit. Then akettle of frijoles [*] was put over to boil. These were boiled slowlyfor some hours, then lard and salt were added, and they simmered downuntil they were deliciously fit to eat, and had a thick red gravy. 

 *Mexican brown bean. 

Then the young matron, or daughter of the house, would mix thepeculiar paste of flour and salt and water, for tortillas, a speciesof unleavened bread. These tortillas were patted out until they wereas large as a dinner plate, and very thin; then thrown onto thehot sheet-iron, where they baked. Each one of the family then got atortilla, the spoonful of beans was laid upon it, and so they managedwithout the paraphernalia of silver and china and napery. 

How I envied them the simplicity of their lives! Besides, the tortillaswere delicious to eat, and as for the frijoles, they were beyondanything I had ever eaten in the shape of beans. I took lessons in themaking of tortillas. A woman was paid to come and teach me; but I nevermastered the art. It is in the blood of the Mexican, and a girl beginsat a very early age to make the tortilla. It is the most graceful thingto see a pretty Mexican toss the wafer-like disc over her bare arm, andpat it out until transparent. 

This was their supper; for, like nearly all people in the tropics, theyate only twice a day. Their fare was varied sometimes by a little carniseca, pounded up and stewed with chile verde or chile colorado. 

Now if you could hear the soft, exquisite, affectionate drawl with whichthe Mexican woman says chile verde you could perhaps come to realizewhat an important part the delicious green pepper plays in the cookeryof these countries. They do not use it in its raw state, but generallyroast it whole, stripping off the thin skin and throwing away the seeds, leaving only the pulp, which acquires a fine flavor by having beenroasted or toasted over the hot coals. 

The women were scrupulously clean and modest, and always wore, when intheir casa, a low-necked and short-sleeved white linen camisa, fittingneatly, with bands around neck and arms. Over this they wore a calicoskirt; always white stockings and black slippers. When they venturedout, the younger women put on muslin gowns, and carried parasols. Theolder women wore a linen towel thrown over their heads, or, in coolweather, the black riboso. I often cried: "Oh! if I could only dress asthe Mexicans do! Their necks and arms do look so cool and clean. "

I have always been sorry I did not adopt their fashion of house apparel. Instead of that, I yielded to the prejudices of my conservative partner, and sweltered during the day in high-necked and long-sleeved whitedresses, kept up the table in American fashion, ate American food inso far as we could get it, and all at the expense of strength; for oursoldier cooks, who were loaned us by Captain Ernest from his company atFort Yuma, were constantly being changed, and I was often left with theIndian and the indolent Patrocina. At those times, how I wished I hadno silver, no table linen, no china, and could revert to the primitivecustoms of my neighbors!

There was no market, but occasionally a Mexican killed a steer, and webought enough for one meal; but having no ice, and no place away fromthe terrific heat, the meat was hung out under the ramada with a pieceof netting over it, until the first heat had passed out of it, and thenit was cooked. 

The Mexican, after selling what meat he could, cut the rest into thinstrips and hung it up on ropes to dry in the sun. It dried hard andbrittle, in its natural state, so pure is the air on that wonderfulriver bank. They called this carni seca, and the Americans called it"jerked beef. "

Patrocina often prepared me a dish of this, when I was unable to tastethe fresh meat. She would pound it fine with a heavy pestle, and thenput it to simmer, seasoning it with the green or red pepper. It was mostsavory. There was no butter at all during the hot months, but our henslaid a few eggs, and the Quartermaster was allowed to keep a small lotof commissary stores, from which we drew our supplies of flour, ham, andcanned things. We were often without milk for weeks at a time, for thecows crossed the river to graze, and sometimes could not get back untilthe river fell again, and they could pick their way back across theshifting sand bars. 

The Indian brought the water every morning in buckets from the river. It looked like melted chocolate. He filled the barrels, and when it hadsettled clear, the ollas were filled, and thus the drinking water was atrifle cooler than the air. One day it seemed unusually cool, so I said:"Let us see by the thermometer how cool the water really is. " We foundthe temperature of the water to be 86 degrees; but that, with the air at122 in the shade, seemed quite refreshing to drink. 

I did not see any white people at all except Fisher, Abe Frank (themail contractor), and one or two of the younger merchants. If I wantedanything, I went to Fisher. He always could solve the difficulty. Heprocured for me an excellent middle-aged laundress, who came and broughtthe linen herself, and, bowing to the floor, said always, "Buenos dias, Senorita!" dwelling on the latter word, as a gentle compliment to ayounger woman, and then, "Mucho calor este dia, " in her low, drawlingvoice. 

Like the others, she was spotlessly clean, modest and gentle. I askedher what on earth they did about bathing, for I had found the tub bathswith the muddy water so disagreeable. She told me the women bathed inthe river at daybreak, and asked me if I would like to go with them. 

I was only too glad to avail myself of her invitation, and so, likePharoah's daughter of old, I went with my gentle handmaiden everymorning to the river bank, and, wading in about knee-deep in the thickred waters, we sat down and let the swift current flow by us. We darednot go deeper; we could feel the round stones grinding against eachother as they were carried down, and we were all afraid. It wasdifficult to keep one's foothold, and Capt. Mellon's words were everringing in my ears, "He who disappears below the surface of the Coloradois never seen again. " But we joined hands and ventured like childrenand played like children in these red waters and after all, it was muchnicer than a tub of muddy water indoors. 

A clump of low mesquite trees at the top of the bank afforded sufficientprotection at that hour; we rubbed dry, slipped on a loose gown, andwended our way home. What a contrast to the limpid, bracing salt watersof my own beloved shores!

When I thought of them, I was seized with a longing which consumed meand made my heart sick; and I thought of these poor people, who hadnever known anything in their lives but those desert places, and thatmuddy red water, and wondered what they would do, how they would act, if transported into some beautiful forest, or to the cool bright shoreswhere clear blue waters invite to a plunge. 

Whenever the river-boat came up, we were sure to have guests, formany officers went into the Territory via Ehrenberg. Sometimes the"transportation" was awaiting them; at other times, they were obliged towait at Ehrenberg until it arrived. They usually lived on the boat, aswe had no extra rooms, but I generally asked them to luncheon or supper(for anything that could be called a dinner was out of the question). 

This caused me some anxiety, as there was nothing to be had; but Iremembered the hospitality I had received, and thought of what they hadbeen obliged to eat on the voyage, and I always asked them to share whatwe could provide, however simple it might be. 

At such times we heard all the news from Washington and the States, andall about the fashions, and they, in their turn, asked me all sorts ofquestions about Ehrenberg and how I managed to endure the life. Theywere always astonished when the Cocopah Indian waited on them at table, for he wore nothing but his gee-string, and although it was an every-daymatter to us, it rather took their breath away. 

But "Charley" appealed to my aesthetic sense in every way. Tall, andwell-made, with clean-cut limbs and features, fine smooth copper-coloredskin, handsome face, heavy black hair done up in pompadour fashion andplastered with Colorado mud, which was baked white by the sun, a smallfeather at the crown of his head, wide turquoise bead bracelets upon hisupper arm, and a knife at his waist--this was my Charley, my half-tameCocopah, my man about the place, my butler in fact, for Charleyunderstood how to open a bottle of Cocomonga gracefully, and to keep theglasses filled. 

Charley also wheeled the baby out along the river banks, for we hadhad a fine "perambulator" sent down from San Francisco. It was anincongruous sight, to be sure, and one must laugh to think of it. TheEhrenberg babies did not have carriages, and the village flocked to seeit. There sat the fair-haired, six-months-old boy, with but one linengarment on, no cap, no stockings--and this wild man of the desert, hisknife gleaming at his waist, and his gee-string floating out behind, wheeling and pushing the carriage along the sandy roads. 

But this came to an end; for one day Fisher rushed in, breathless, andsaid: "Well! here is your baby! I was just in time, for that Injun ofyours left the carriage in the middle of the street, to look in at thestore window, and a herd of wild cattle came tearing down! I grabbed thecarriage to the sidewalk, cussed the Injun out, and here's the child!It's no use, " he added, "you can't trust those Injuns out of sight. "

The heat was terrific. Our cots were placed in the open part of thecorral (as our courtyard was always called). It was a desolate-lookingplace; on one side, the high adobe wall; on another, the freight-house;and on the other two, our apartments. Our kitchen and the two otherrooms were now completed. The kitchen had no windows, only open spacesto admit the air and light, and we were often startled in the night bythe noise of thieves in the house, rummaging for food. 

At such times, our soldier-cook would rush into the corral with hisrifle, the Lieutenant would jump up and seize his shotgun, which alwaysstood near by, and together they would roam through the house. But thethieving Indians could jump out of the windows as easily as they jumpedin, and the excitement would soon be over. The violent sand-stormswhich prevail in those deserts, sometimes came up in the night, withoutwarning; then we rushed half suffocated and blinded into the house, andas soon as we had closed the windows it had passed on, leaving a deeplayer of sand on everything in the room, and on our perspiring bodies. 

Then came the work, next day, for the Indian had to carry everything outof doors; and one storm was so bad that he had to use a shovel to removethe sand from the floors. The desert literally blew into the house. 

And now we saw a singular phenomenon. In the late afternoon of each day, a hot steam would collect over the face of the river, then slowly rise, and floating over the length and breadth of this wretched hamlet ofEhrenberg, descend upon and envelop us. Thus we wilted and perspired, and had one part of the vapor bath without its bracing concomitantof the cool shower. In a half hour it was gone, but always left meprostrate; then Jack gave me milk punch, if milk was at hand, or sherryand egg, or something to bring me up to normal again. We got to dreadthe steam so; it was the climax of the long hot day and was peculiarto that part of the river. The paraphernalia by the side of our cotsat night consisted of a pitcher of cold tea, a lantern, matches, arevolver, and a shotgun. Enormous yellow cats, which lived in and aroundthe freight-house, darted to and fro inside and outside the house, alongthe ceiling-beams, emitting loud cries, and that alone was enough toprevent sleep. In the old part of the house, some of the partitions didnot run up to the roof, but were left open (for ventilation, I suppose), thus making a fine play-ground for cats and rats, which darted along, squeaking, meowing and clattering all the night through. An uncannyfeeling of insecurity was ever with me. What with the accumulated effectof the day's heat, what with the thieving Indians, the sand-storms andthe cats, our nights by no means gave us the refreshment needed by ourworn-out systems. By the latter part of the summer, I was so exhaustedby the heat and the various difficulties of living, that I had become amere shadow of my former self. 

Men and children seem to thrive in those climates, but it is death towomen, as I had often heard. 

It was in the late summer that the boat arrived one day bringing a largenumber of staff officers and their wives, head clerks, and "generalservice" men for Fort Whipple. They had all been stationed in Washingtonfor a number of years, having had what is known in the army as"gilt-edged" details. I threw a linen towel over my head, and went tothe boat to call on them, and, remembering my voyage from San Franciscothe year before, prepared to sympathize with them. But they had mettheir fate with resignation; knowing they should find a good climate anda pleasant post up in the mountains, and as they had no young childrenwith them, they were disposed to make merry over their discomforts. 

We asked them to come to our quarters for supper, and to come early, asany place was cooler than the boat, lying down there in the melting sun, and nothing to look upon but those hot zinc-covered decks or the raggedriver banks, with their uninviting huts scattered along the edge. 

The surroundings somehow did not fit these people. Now Mrs. Montgomeryat Camp Apache seemed to have adapted herself to the rude setting ofa log cabin in the mountains, but these were Staff people and theyhad enjoyed for years the civilized side of army life; now they weredetermined to rough it, but they did not know how to begin. 

The beautiful wife of the Adjutant-General was mourning over somefreckles which had come to adorn her dazzling complexion, and she hadput on a large hat with a veil. Was there ever anything so incongruousas a hat and veil in Ehrenberg! For a long time I had not seen a womanin a hat; the Mexicans all wore a linen towel over their heads. 

But her beauty was startling, and, after all, I thought, a woman sohandsome must try to live up to her reputation. Now for some weeks Jackhad been investigating the sulphur well, which was beneath the old pumpin our corral. He had had a long wooden bath-tub built, and I watched itwith a lazy interest, and observed his glee as he found a longshoremanor roustabout who could caulk it. The shape was exactly like a coffin(but men have no imaginations), and when I told him how it made me feelto look at it, he said: "Oh! you are always thinking of gloomy things. It's a fine tub, and we are mighty lucky to find that man to caulk it. I'm going to set it up in the little square room, and lead the sulphurwater into it, and it will be splendid, and just think, " he added, "whatit will do for rheumatism!"

Now Jack had served in the Twentieth Massachusetts Volunteers during theCivil War, and the swamps of the Chickahominy had brought him into closeacquaintance with that dread disease. 

As for myself, rheumatism was about the only ailment I did not have atthat time, and I suppose I did not really sympathize with him. But thisenergetic and indomitable man mended the pump, with Fisher's help, andled the water into the house, laid a floor, set up the tub in the littlesquare room, and behold, our sulphur bath!

After much persuasion, I tried the bath. The water flowed thick and inkyblack into the tub; of course the odor was beyond description, and theeffect upon me was not such that I was ever willing to try it again. Jack beamed. "How do you like it, Martha?" said he. "Isn't it fine? Whypeople travel hundreds of miles to get a bath like that!"

I had my own opinion, but I did not wish to dampen his enthusiasm. Still, in order to protect myself in the future, I had to tell him Ithought I should ordinarily prefer the river. 

"Well, " he said, "there are those who will be thankful to have a bath inthat water; I am going to use it every day. "

I remonstrated: "How do you know what is in that inky water--and how doyou dare to use it?"

"Oh, Fisher says it's all right; people here used to drink it years ago, but they have not done so lately, because the pump was broken down. "

The Washington people seemed glad to pay us the visit. Jack's eyesdanced with true generosity and glee. He marked his victim; and, selecting the Staff beauty and the Paymaster's wife, he expatiated onthe wonderful properties of his sulphur bath. 

"Why, yes, the sooner the better, " said Mrs. Martin. "I'd giveeverything I have in this world, and all my chances for the next, to geta tub bath!"

"It will be so refreshing just before supper, " said Mrs. Maynadier, whowas more conservative. 

So the Indian, who had put on his dark blue waist-band (or sash), madefrom flannel, revelled out and twisted into strands of yarn, and whichshowed the supple muscles of his clean-cut thighs, and who had done upan extra high pompadour in white clay, and burnished his knife, whichgleamed at his waist, ushered these Washington women into a smallapartment adjoining the bath-room, and turned on the inky stream intothe sarcophagus. 

The Staff beauty looked at the black pool, and shuddered. "Do you useit?" said she. 

"Occasionally, " I equivocated. 

"Does it hurt the complexion?" she ventured. 

"Jack thinks it excellent for that, " I replied. 

And then I left them, directing Charley to wait, and prepare the bathfor the second victim. 

By and by the beauty came out. "Where is your mirror?" cried she (forour appointments were primitive, and mirrors did not grow on bushes atEhrenberg); "I fancy I look queer, " she added, and, in truth, she did;for our water of the Styx did not seem to affiliate with the chemicalproperties of the numerous cosmetics used by her, more or less, all herlife, but especially on the voyage, and her face had taken on a queercolor, with peculiar spots here and there. 

Fortunately my mirrors were neither large nor true, and she never reallysaw how she looked, but when she came back into the living-room, shelaughed and said to Jack: "What kind of water did you say that was? Inever saw any just like it. "

"Oh! you have probably never been much to the sulphur springs, " said he, with his most superior and crushing manner. 

"Perhaps not, " she replied, "but I thought I knew something about it;why, my entire body turned such a queer color. "

"Oh! it always does that, " said this optimistic soldier man, "and thatshows it is doing good. "

The Paymaster's wife joined us later. I think she had profited by thebeauty's experience, for she said but little. 

The Quartermaster was happy; and what if his wife did not believein that uncanny stream which flowed somewhere from out the infernalregions, underlying that wretched hamlet, he had succeeded in being abenefactor to two travellers at least!

We had a merry supper: cold ham, chicken, and fresh biscuit, a plenty ofgood Cocomonga wine, sweet milk, which to be sure turned to curds as itstood on the table, some sort of preserves from a tin, and good coffee. I gave them the best to be had in the desert--and at all events it was achange from the Chinaman's salt beef and peach pies, and they saw freshtable linen and shining silver, and accepted our simple hospitality inthe spirit in which we gave it. 

Alice Martin was much amused over Charley; and Charley could do nothingbut gaze on her lovely features. "Why on earth don't you put someclothes on him?" laughed she, in her delightful way. 

I explained to her that the Indian's fashion of wearing white men'sclothes was not pleasing to the eye, and told her that she mustcultivate her aesthetic sense, and in a short time she would be able toadmire these copper-colored creatures of Nature as much as I did. 

But I fear that a life spent mostly in a large city had cast fettersaround her imagination, and that the life at Fort Whipple afterwardssavored too much of civilization to loosen the bonds of her soul. Isaw her many times again, but she never recovered from her amazement atCharley's lack of apparel, and she never forgot the sulphur bath. 

CHAPTER XX. MY DELIVERER

One day, in the early autumn, as the "Gila" touched at Ehrenberg, on herway down river, Captain Mellon called Jack on to the boat, and, pointingto a young woman, who was about to go ashore, said: "Now, there's a girlI think will do for your wife. She imagines she has bronchial troubles, and some doctor has ordered her to Tucson. She comes from up Northsomewhere. Her money has given out, and she thinks I am going to leaveher here. Of course, you know I would not do that; I can take her ondown to Yuma, but I thought your wife might like to have her, so I'vetold her she could not travel on this boat any farther without she couldpay her fare. Speak to her: she looks to me like a nice sort of a girl. "

In the meantime, the young woman had gone ashore and was sitting uponher trunk, gazing hopelessly about. Jack approached, offered her a homeand good wages, and brought her to me. 

I could have hugged her for very joy, but I restrained myself andadvised her to stay with us for awhile, saying the Ehrenberg climate wasquite as good as that of Tucson. 

She remarked quietly: "You do not look as if it agreed with you verywell, ma'am. "

Then I told her of my young child, and my hard journeys, and she decidedto stay until she could earn enough to reach Tucson. 

And so Ellen became a member of our Ehrenberg family. She was a fine, strong girl, and a very good cook, and seemed to be in perfect health. She said, however, that she had had an obstinate cough which nothingwould reach, and that was why she came to Arizona. From that time, things went more smoothly. Some yeast was procured from the Mexicanbakeshop, and Ellen baked bread and other things, which seemed like thegreatest luxuries to us. We sent the soldier back to his company at FortYuma, and began to live with a degree of comfort. 

I looked at Ellen as my deliverer, and regarded her coming as a specialprovidence, the kind I had heard about all my life in New England, buthad never much believed in. 

After a few weeks, Ellen was one evening seized with a dreadfultoothache, which grew so severe that she declared she could not endureit another hour: she must have the tooth out. "Was there a dentist inthe place?"

I looked at Jack: he looked at me: Ellen groaned with pain. 

"Why, yes! of course there is, " said this man for emergencies; "Fishertakes out teeth, he told me so the other day. "

Now I did not believe that Fisher knew any more about extracting teeththan I did myself, but I breathed a prayer to the Recording Angel, andsaid naught. 

"I'll go get Fisher, " said Jack. 

Now Fisher was the steamboat agent. He stood six feet in his stockings, had a powerful physique and a determined eye. Men in those countries hadto be determined; for if they once lost their nerve, Heaven save them. Fisher had handsome black eyes. 

When they came in, I said: "Can you attend to this business, Mr. Fisher?"

"I think so, " he replied, quietly. "The Quartermaster says he has someforceps. "

I gasped. Jack, who had left the room, now appeared, a box ofinstruments in his hand, his eyes shining with joy and triumph. 

Fisher took the box, and scanned it. "I guess they'll do, " said he. 

So we placed Ellen in a chair, a stiff barrack chair, with a raw-hideseat, and no arms. 

It was evening. 

"Mattie, you must hold the candle, " said Jack. "I'll hold Ellen, and, Fisher, you pull the tooth. "

So I lighted the candle, and held it, while Ellen tried, by itsflickering light, to show Fisher the tooth that ached. 

Fisher looked again at the box of instruments. "Why, " said he, "theseare lower jaw rollers, the kind used a hundred years ago; and her toothis an upper jaw. "

"Never mind, " answered the Lieutenant, "the instruments are all right. Fisher, you can get the tooth out, that's all you want, isn't it?"

The Lieutenant was impatient; and besides he did not wish any slur castupon his precious instruments. 

So Fisher took up the forceps, and clattered around amongst Ellen'ssound white teeth. His hand shook, great beads of perspiration gatheredon his face, and I perceived a very strong odor of Cocomonga wine. Hehad evidently braced for the occasion. 

It was, however, too late to protest. He fastened onto a molar, and withthe lion's strength which lay in his gigantic frame, he wrenched it out. 

Ellen put up her hand and felt the place. "My God! you've pulled thewrong tooth!" cried she, and so he had. 

I seized a jug of red wine which stood near by, and poured out agobletful, which she drank. The blood came freely from her mouth, and Ifeared something dreadful had happened. 

Fisher declared she had shown him the wrong tooth, and was perfectlywilling to try again. I could not witness the second attempt, so I putthe candle down and fled. 

The stout-hearted and confiding girl allowed the second trial, andbetween the steamboat agent, the Lieutenant, and the red wine, theaching molar was finally extracted. 

This was a serious and painful occurrence. It did not cause any of usto laugh, at the time. I am sure that Ellen, at least, never saw thecomical side of it. 

When it was all over, I thanked Fisher, and Jack beamed upon me with:"You see, Mattie, my case of instruments did come in handy, after all. "

Encouraged by success, he applied for a pannier of medicines, and theEhrenberg citizens soon regarded him as a healer. At a certain hour inthe morning, the sick ones came to his office, and he dispensed simpledrugs to them and was enabled to do much good. He seemed to have a sortof intuitive knowledge about medicines and performed some miraculouscures, but acquired little or no facility in the use of the language. 

I was often called in as interpreter, and with the help of the signlanguage, and the little I knew of Spanish, we managed to get an idea ofthe ailments of these poor people. 

And so our life flowed on in that desolate spot, by the banks of theGreat Colorado. 

I rarely went outside the enclosure, except for my bath in the river atdaylight, or for some urgent matter. The one street along the river washot and sandy and neglected. One had not only to wade through the sand, but to step over the dried heads or horns or bones of animals left thereto whiten where they died, or thrown out, possibly, when some one killeda sheep or beef. Nothing decayed there, but dried and baked hard in thatwonderful air and sun. 

Then, the groups of Indians, squaws and halfbreeds loafing around thevillage and the store! One never felt sure what one was to meet, andalthough by this time I tolerated about everything that I had beentaught to think wicked or immoral, still, in Ehrenberg, the limit wasreached, in the sights I saw on the village streets, too bold and toorude to be described in these pages. 

The few white men there led respectable lives enough for that country. The standard was not high, and when I thought of the dreary years theyhad already spent there without their families, and the years they mustlook forward to remaining there, I was willing to reserve my judgement. 

CHAPTER XXI. WINTER IN EHRENBERG

We asked my sister, Mrs. Penniman, to come out and spend the winter withus, and to bring her son, who was in most delicate health. It was saidthat the climate of Ehrenberg would have a magical effect upon alldiseases of the lungs or throat. So, to save her boy, my sister madethe long and arduous trip out from New England, arriving in Ehrenberg inOctober. 

What a joy to see her, and to initiate her into the ways of our life inArizona! Everything was new, everything was a wonder to her and to mynephew. At first, he seemed to gain perceptibly, and we had great hopesof his recovery. 

It was now cool enough to sleep indoors, and we began to know what itwas to have a good night's rest. 

But no sooner had we gotten one part of our life comfortably arranged, before another part seemed to fall out of adjustment. Accidents andclimatic conditions kept my mind in a perpetual state of unrest. 

Our dining-room door opened through two small rooms into the kitchen, and one day, as I sat at the table, waiting for Jack to come in tosupper, I heard a strange sort of crashing noise. Looking towards thekitchen, through the vista of open doorways, I saw Ellen rush to thedoor which led to the courtyard. She turned a livid white, threw upher hands, and cried, "Great God! the Captain!" She was transfixed withhorror. 

I flew to the door, and saw that the pump had collapsed and gone downinto the deep sulphur well. In a second, Jack's head and hands appearedat the edge; he seemed to be caught in the debris of rotten timber. Before I could get to him, he had scrambled half way out. "Don't comenear this place, " he cried, "it's all caving in!"

And so it seemed; for, as he worked himself up and out, the entirestructure feel in, and half the corral with it, as it looked to me. 

Jack escaped what might have been an unlucky bath in his sulphur well, and we all recovered our composure as best we could. 

Surely, if life was dull at Ehrenberg, it could not be called exactlymonotonous. We were not obliged to seek our excitement outside; we hadplenty of it, such as it was, within our walls. 

My confidence in Ehrenberg, however, as a salubrious dwelling-place, wasbeing gradually and literally undermined. I began to be distrustful ofthe very ground beneath my feet. Ellen felt the same way, evidently, although we did not talk much about it. She probably longed alsofor some of her own kind; and when, one morning, we went into thedining-room for breakfast, Ellen stood, hat on, bag in hand, at thedoor. Dreading to meet my chagrin, she said: "Good-bye, Captain;good-bye, missis, you've been very kind to me. I'm leaving on the stagefor Tucson--where I first started for, you know. "

And she tripped out and climbed up into the dusty, rickety vehiclecalled "the stage. " I had felt so safe about Ellen, as I did not knowthat any stage line ran through the place. 

And now I was in a fine plight! I took a sunshade, and ran over toFisher's house. "Mr. Fisher, what shall I do? Ellen has gone to Tucson!"

Fisher bethought himself, and we went out together in the village. Nota woman to be found who would come to cook for us! There was only onething to do. The Quartermaster was allowed a soldier, to assist in theGovernment work. I asked him if he understood cooking; he said he hadnever done any, but he would try, if I would show him how. 

This proved a hopeless task, and I finally gave it up. Jack dispatchedan Indian runner to Fort Yuma, ninety miles or more down river, beggingCaptain Ernest to send us a soldier-cook on the next boat. 

This was a long time to wait; the inconveniences were intolerable: therewere our four selves, Patrocina and Jesusita, the soldier-clerk and theIndian, to be provided for: Patrocina prepared carni seca with peppers, a little boy came around with cuajada, a delicious sweet curd cheese, and I tried my hand at bread, following out Ellen's instructions. 

How often I said to my husband. "If we must live in this wretched place, let's give up civilization and live as the Mexicans do! They are theonly happy beings around here. 

"Look at them, as you pass along the street! At nearly any hour in theday you can see them, sitting under their ramada, their backs proppedagainst the wall of their casa, calmly smoking cigarettes and gazing atnothing, with a look of ineffable contentment upon their features! Theysurely have solved the problem of life!"

But we seemed never to be able to free ourselves from the fetters ofcivilization, and so I struggled on. 

One evening after dusk, I went into the kitchen, opened the kitchencloset door to take out some dish, when clatter! bang! down fell thebread-pan, and a shower of other tin ware, and before I could fairly getmy breath, out jumped two young squaws and without deigning to glanceat me they darted across the kitchen and leaped out the window like twofrightened fawn. 

They had on nothing but their birthday clothes and as I was somewhatstartled at the sight of them, I stood transfixed, my eyes gazing at theopen space through which they had flown. 

Charley, the Indian, was in the corral, filling the ollas, and, hearingthe commotion, came in and saw just the disappearing heels of the twosquaws. 

I said, very sternly: "Charley, how came those squaws in my closet?" Helooked very much ashamed and said: "Oh, me tell you: bad man go to kill'em; I hide 'em. "

"Well, " said I, "do not hide any more girls in this casa! You savezthat?"

He bowed his head in acquiescence. 

I afterwards learned that one of the girls was his sister. 

The weather was now fairly comfortable, and in the evenings we sat underthe ramada, in front of the house, and watched the beautiful pinkglow which spread over the entire heavens and illuminated the distantmountains of Lower California. I have never seen anything like thatwonderful color, which spread itself over sky, river and desert. For anhour, one could have believed oneself in a magician's realm. 

At about this time, the sad-eyed Patrocina found it expedient towithdraw into the green valleys of Lower California, to recuperate for afew months. With the impish Jesusita in her arms, she bade me a mournfulgood-bye. Worthless as she was from the standpoint of civilized morals, I was attached to her and felt sorry to part with her. 

Then I took a Mexican woman from Chihuahua. Now the Chihuahuans holdtheir heads high, and it was rather with awe that I greeted the tallmiddle-aged Chihuahuan lady who came to be our little son's nurse. Hername was Angela. "Angel of light, " I thought, how fortunate I am to gether!

After a few weeks, Fisher observed that the whole village was eatingFerris ham, an unusual delicacy in Ehrenberg, and that the Goldwaters'had sold none. So he suggested that our commissary storehouse be lookedto; and it was found that a dozen hams or so had been withdrawn fromtheir canvas covers, the covers stuffed with straw, and hung back inplace. Verily the Chihuahuan was adding to her pin-money in a mostunworthy fashion, and she had to go. After that, I was left without anurse. My little son was now about nine months old. 

Milk began to be more plentiful at this season, and, with my sister'sadvice and help, I decided to make the one great change in a baby's lifei. E. , to take him from his mother. Modern methods were unknown then, andwe had neither of us any experience in these matters and there was nodoctor in the place. 

The result was, that both the baby and myself were painfully anddesperately ill and not knowing which way to turn for aid, when, by alucky turn of Fortune's wheel, our good, dear Doctor Henry Lippincottcame through Ehrenberg on his way out to the States. Once more he tookcare of us, and it is to him that I believe I owe my life. 

Captain Ernest sent us a cook from Yuma, and soon some officers camefor the duck-shooting. There were thousands of ducks around the variouslagoons in the neighborhood, and the sport was rare. We had all theducks we could eat. 

Then came an earthquake, which tore and rent the baked earth apart. Theground shivered, the windows rattled, the birds fell close to the groundand could not fly, the stove-pipes fell to the floor, the thick wallscracked and finally, the earth rocked to and fro like some huge thingtrying to get its balance. 

It was in the afternoon. My sister and I were sitting with ourneedle-work in the living-room. Little Harry was on the floor, occupiedwith some toys. I was paralyzed with fear; my sister did not move. Wesat gazing at each other, scarce daring to breathe, expecting everyinstant the heavy walls to crumble about our heads. The earth rocked androcked, and rocked again, then swayed and swayed and finally was still. My sister caught Harry in her arms, and then Jack and Willie camebreathlessly in. "Did you feel it?" said Jack. 

"Did we feel it!" said I, scornfully. 

Sarah was silent, and I looked so reproachfully at Jack, that hedropped his light tone, and said: "It was pretty awful. We were in theGoldwaters' store, when suddenly it grew dark and the lamps above ourheads began to rattle and swing, and we all rushed out into the middleof the street and stood, rather dazed, for we scarcely knew what hadhappened; then we hurried home. But it's all over now. "

"I do not believe it, " said I; "we shall have more"; and, in fact, wedid have two light shocks in the night, but no more followed, and thenext morning, we recovered, in a measure, from our fright and went outto see the great fissures in that treacherous crust of earth upon whichEhrenberg was built. 

I grew afraid, after that, and the idea that the earth would eventuallyopen and engulf us all took possession of my mind. 

My health, already weakened by shocks and severe strains, gave wayentirely. I, who had gloried in the most perfect health, and had aconstitution of iron, became an emaciated invalid. 

From my window, one evening at sundown, I saw a weird procession movingslowly along towards the outskirts of the village. It must be a funeral, thought I, and it flashed across my mind that I had never seen theburying-ground. 

A man with a rude cross led the procession. Then came some Mexicans withviolins and guitars. After the musicians, came the body of the deceased, wrapped in a white cloth, borne on a bier by friends, and followed bythe little band of weeping women, with black ribosos folded about theirheads. They did not use coffins at Ehrenberg, because they had none, Isuppose. 

The next day I asked Jack to walk to the grave-yard with me. Hepostponed it from day to day, but I insisted upon going. At last, hetook me to see it. 

There was no enclosure, but the bare, sloping, sandy place was sprinkledwith graves, marked by heaps of stones, and in some instances by rudecrosses of wood, some of which had been wrenched from their uprightposition by the fierce sand-storms. There was not a blade of grass, atree, or a flower. I walked about among these graves, and close besidesome of them I saw deep holes and whitnened bones. I was quite ignorantor unthinking, and asked what the holes were. 

"It is where the coyotes and wolves come in the nights, " said Jack. 

My heart sickened as I thought of these horrors, and I wondered ifEhrenberg held anything in store for me worse than what I had alreadyseen. We turned away from this unhallowed grave-yard and walked to ourquarters. I had never known much about "nerves, " but I began to seespectres in the night, and those ghastly graves with their coyote-holeswere ever before me. The place was but a stone's throw from us, and theuneasy spirits from these desecrated graves began to haunt me. Icould not sit alone on the porch at night, for they peered through thelattice, and mocked at me, and beckoned. Some had no heads, some noarms, but they pointed or nodded towards the grewsome burying-ground:"You'll be with us soon, you'll be with us soon. "

CHAPTER XXII. RETURN TO THE STATES

I dream of the east wind's tonic, Of the breakers' stormy roar, And thepeace of the inner harbor With the long low Shimmo shore. 

* * * *

I long for the buoy-bell's tolling When the north wind brings from afarThe smooth, green, shining billows, To be churned into foam on the bar. 

Oh! for the sea-gulls' screaming As they swoop so bold and free! Oh! forthe fragrant commons, And the glorious open sea!--

For the restful great contentment, For the joy that is never known Tillpast the jetty and Brant Point Light The Islander comes to his own!

--MARY E. STARBUCK. 

"I must send you out. I see that you cannot stand it here anothermonth, " said Jack one day; and so he bundled us onto the boat in theearly spring, and took us down the river to meet the ocean steamer. 

There was no question about it this time, and I well knew it. 

I left my sister and her son in Ehrenberg, and I never saw my nephewagain. A month later, his state of health became so alarming that mysister took him to San Francisco. He survived the long voyage, but diedthere a few weeks later at the home of my cousin. 

At Fort Yuma we telegraphed all over the country for a nurse, but nomoney would tempt those Mexican women to face an ocean voyage. Jack putme on board the old "Newbern" in charge of the Captain, waited to seeour vessel under way, then waved good-bye from the deck of the "Gila, "and turned his face towards his post and duty. I met the situationas best I could, and as I have already described a voyage on this oldcraft, I shall not again enter into details. There was no stewardesson board, and all arrangements were of the crudest description. Bothmy child and I were seasick all the way, and the voyage lasted sixteendays. Our misery was very great. 

The passengers were few in number, only a couple of Mexican minerswho had been prospecting, an irritable old Mexican woman, and a Germandoctor, who was agreeable but elusive. 

The old Mexican woman sat on the deck all day, with her back against thestateroom door; she was a picturesque and indolent figure. 

There was no diversion, no variety; my little boy required constant careand watching. The days seemed endless. Everbody bought great bunches ofgreen bananas at the ports in Mexico, where we stopped for passengers. 

The old woman was irritable, and one day when she saw the agreeableGerman doctor pulling bananas from the bunch which she had hung in thesun to ripen, she got up muttering "Carramba, " and shaking her fistin his face. He appeased her wrath by offering her, in the most fluentSpanish, some from his own bunch when they should be ripe. 

Such were my surroundings on the old "Newbern. " The German doctorwas interesting, and I loved to talk with him, on days when I was notseasick, and to read the letters which he had received from his family, who were living on their Rittergut (or landed estates) in Prussia. 

He amused me by tales of his life at a wretched little mining villagesomewhere about fifty miles from Ehrenberg, and I was always wonderinghow he came to have lived there. 

He had the keenest sense of humor, and as I listened to the tales ofhis adventures and miraculous escapes from death at the hands of thesedesperate folk, I looked in his large laughing blue eyes and tried tosolve the mystery. 

For that he was of noble birth and of ancient family there was no doubt. There were the letters, there was the crest, and here was the offshootof the family. I made up my mind that he was a ne'er-do-weel and arolling stone. He was elusive, and, beyond his adventures, told menothing of himself. It was some time after my arrival in San Franciscothat I learned more about him. 

Now, after we rounded Cape St. Lucas, we were caught in the long heavyswell of the Pacific Ocean, and it was only at intervals that my littleboy and I could leave our stateroom. The doctor often held him while Iran below to get something to eat, and I can never forget his kindness;and if, as I afterward heard in San Francisco, he really had enteredthe "Gate of a hundred sorrows, " it would perhaps best explain hiselusiveness, his general condition, and his sometimes dazed expression. 

A gentle and kindly spirit, met by chance, known through the propinquityof a sixteen days' voyage, and never forgotten. 

Everything comes to an end, however interminable it may seem, and atlast the sharp and jagged outlines of the coast began to grow softer andwe approached the Golden Gate. 

The old "Newbern, " with nothing in her but ballast, rolled and lurchedalong, through the bright green waters of the outer bar. I stood leaningagainst the great mast, steadying myself as best I could, and the tearsrolled down my face; for I saw the friendly green hills, and before melay the glorious bay of San Francisco. I had left behind me the deserts, the black rocks, the burning sun, the snakes, the scorpions, thecentipedes, the Indians and the Ehrenberg graveyard; and so the tearsflowed, and I did not try to stop them; they were tears of joy. 

The custom officers wanted to confiscate the great bundles of Mexicancigarettes they found in my trunk, but "No, " I told them, "they were formy own use. " They raised their eyebrows, gave me one look, and put themback into the trunk. 

My beloved California relatives met us, and took care of us for afortnight, and when I entered a Pullman car for a nine days' journey tomy old home, it seemed like the most luxurious comfort, although I hada fourteen-months-old child in my arms, and no nurse. So does everythingin this life go by comparison. 

Arriving in Boston, my sister Harriet met me at the train, and asshe took little Harry from my arms she cried: "Where did you get thatsunbonnet? Now the baby can't wear that in Boston!"

Of course we were both thinking hard of all that had happened to mesince we parted, on the morning after my wedding, two years before, andwe were so overcome with the joy of meeting, that if it had not been forthe baby's white sunbonnet, I do not know what kind of a scene we mighthave made. That saved the situation, and after a few days of rest andnecessary shopping, we started for our old home in Nantucket. Such awelcome as the baby and I had from my mother and father and all oldfriends!

But I saw sadness in their faces, and I heard it in their voices, for noone thought I could possibly live. I felt, however, sure it was not toolate. I knew the East wind's tonic would not fail me, its own child. 

Stories of our experiences and misfortunes were eagerly listened to, bythe family, and betwixt sighs and laughter they declared they were goingto fill some boxes which should contain everything necessary for comfortin those distant places. So one room in our old house was set apart forthis; great boxes were brought, and day by day various articles, useful, ornamental, and comfortable, and precious heirlooms of silver and glass, were packed away in them. It was the year of 1876, the year of the greatCentennial, at Philadelphia. Everybody went, but it had no attractionsfor me. I was happy enough, enjoying the health-giving air and thecomforts of an Eastern home. I wondered that I had ever complained aboutanything there, or wished to leave that blissful spot. 

The poorest person in that place by the sea had more to be thankful for, in my opinion, than the richest people in Arizona. I felt as if I mustcry it out from the house-tops. My heart was thankful every minute ofthe day and night, for every breath of soft air that I breathed, forevery bit of fresh fish that I ate, for fresh vegetables, and forbutter--for gardens, for trees, for flowers, for the good firm earthbeneath my feet. I wrote the man on detached service that I should neverreturn to Ehrenberg. 

After eight months, in which my health was wholly restored, I heard thegood news that Captain Corliss had applied for his first lieutenant, andI decided to join him at once at Camp MacDowell. 

Although I had not wholly forgotten that Camp MacDowell had been calledby very bad names during our stay at Fort Whipple, at the time that Jackdecided on the Ehrenberg detail, I determined to brave it, in all itsunattractiveness, isolation and heat, for I knew there was a garrisonand a Doctor there, and a few officers' families, I knew supplies wereto be obtained and the ordinary comforts of a far-off post. Then too, in my summer in the East I had discovered that I was really a soldier'swife and I must go back to it all. To the army with its glitter andits misery, to the post with its discomforts, to the soldiers, to thedrills, to the bugle-calls, to the monotony, to the heat of SouthernArizona, to the uniform and the stalwart Captains and gay Lieutenantswho wore it, I felt the call and I must go. 

CHAPTER XXIII. BACK TO ARIZONA

The last nails were driven in the precious boxes, and I started overlandin November with my little son, now nearly two years old. 

"Overland" in those days meant nine days from New York to San Francisco. Arriving in Chicago, I found it impossible to secure a section on thePullman car so was obliged to content myself with a lower berth. I didnot allow myself to be disappointed. 

On entering the section, I saw an enormous pair of queer cow hide shoes, the very queerest shoes I had ever seen, lying on the floor, with a muchused travelling bag. I speculated a good deal on the shoes, but did notsee the owner of them until several hours later, when a short thick-setGerman with sandy close-cut beard entered and saluted me politely. "Youare noticing my shoes perhaps Madame?"

"Yes" I said, involuntarily answering him in German. 

His face shone with pleasure and he explained to me that they were madein Russia and he always wore them when travelling. "What have we, " Ithought, "an anarchist?"

But with the inexperience and fearlessness of youth, I entered into amost delightful conversation in German with him. I found him rather anextraordinarily well educated gentleman and he said he lived in Nevada, but had been over to Vienna to place his little boy at a militaryschool, "as, " he said, "there is nothing like a uniform to give aboy self-respect. " He said his wife had died several months before. Icongratulated myself that the occupant of the upper berth was at least agentleman. 

The next day, as we sat opposite each other chatting, always in German, he paused, and fixing his eyes rather steadily upon me he remarked: "Doyou think I put on mourning when my wife died? no indeed, I put on whitekid gloves and had a fiddler and danced at the grave. All this mourningthat people have is utter nonsense. "

I was amazed at the turn his conversation had taken and sat quite still, not knowing just what to say or to do. 

After awhile, he looked at me steadily, and said, very deferentially, "Madame, the spirit of my dead wife is looking at me from out youreyes. "

By this time I realized that the man was a maniac, and I had alwaysheard that one must agree with crazy people, so I nodded, and thatseemed to satisfy him, and bye and bye after some minutes which seemedlike hours to me, he went off to the smoking room. 

The tension was broken and I appealed to a very nice looking woman whohappened to be going to some place in Nevada near which this Doctorlived, and she said, when I told her his name, "Why, yes, I heard ofhim before I left home, he lives in Silver City, and at the death ofhis wife, he went hopelessly insane, but, " she added, "he is harmless, Ibelieve. "

This was a nice fix, to be sure, and I staid over in her section allday, and late that night the Doctor arrived at the junction where hewas to take another train. So I slept in peace, after a considerableagitation. 

There is nothing like experience to teach a young woman how to travelalone. 

In San Francisco I learned that I could now go as far as Los Angeles byrail, thence by steamer to San Diego, and so on by stage to Fort Yuma, where my husband was to meet me with an ambulance and a wagon. 

I was enchanted with the idea of avoiding the long sea-trip down thePacific coast, but sent my boxes down by the Steamer "Montana, " sistership of the old "Newbern, " and after a few days' rest in San Francisco, set forth by rail for Los Angeles. At San Pedro, the port of LosAngeles, we embarked for San Diego. It was a heavenly night. I saton deck enjoying the calm sea, and listening to the romantic story ofLieutenant Philip Reade, then stationed at San Diego. He was telling thestory himself, and I had never read or heard of anything so mysteriousor so tragic. 

Then, too, aside from the story, Mr. Reade was a very good-looking andchivalrous young army officer. He was returning to his station in SanDiego, and we had this pleasant opportunity to renew what had been avery slight acquaintance. 

The calm waters of the Pacific, with their long and gentle swell, thepale light of the full moon, our steamer gliding so quietly along, thesoft air of the California coast, the absence of noisy travellers, thesemade a fit setting for the story of his early love and marriage, and thetragic mystery which surrounded the death of his young bride. 

All the romance which lived and will ever live in me was awake to thestory, and the hours passed all too quickly. 

But a cry from my little boy in the near-by deck stateroom recalled meto the realities of life and I said good-night, having spent one of themost delightful evenings I ever remember. 

Mr. Reade wears now a star on his shoulder, and well earned it is, too. I wonder if he has forgotten how he helped to bind up my little boy'sfinger which had been broken in an accident on the train from SanFrancisco to Los Angeles? or how he procured a surgeon for me on ourarrival there, and got a comfortable room for us at the hotel? or how hetook us to drive (with an older lady for a chaperon), or how he kindlycared for us until we were safely on the boat that evening? If I hadever thought chivalry dead, I learned then that I had been mistaken. 

San Diego charmed me, as we steamed, the next morning, into its shiningbay. But as our boat was two hours late and the stage-coach was waiting, I had to decline Mr. Reade's enchanting offers to drive us around thebeautiful place, to show me the fine beaches, and his quarters, and allother points of interest in this old town of Southern California. 

Arizona, not San Diego, was my destination, so we took a hasty breakfastat the hotel and boarded the stage, which, filled with passengers, waswaiting before the door. 

The driver waited for no ceremonies, muttered something about beinglate, cracked his whip, and away we went. I tried to stow myself and mylittle boy and my belongings away comfortably, but the road was roughand the coach swayed, and I gave it up. There were passengers on top ofthe coach, and passengers inside the coach. One woman who was totallydeaf, and some miners and blacksmiths, and a few other men, the flotsamand jetsam of the Western countries, who come from no one knowethwhence, and who go, no one knoweth whither, who have no trade orprofession and are sometimes even without a name. 

They seemed to want to be kind to me. Harry got very stage-sick and gaveus much trouble, and they all helped me to hold him. Night came. I donot remember that we made any stops at all; if we did, I have forgottenthem. The night on that stage-coach can be better imagined thandescribed. I do not know of any adjectives that I could apply to it. Just before dawn, we stopped to change horses and driver, and as theday began to break, we felt ourselves going down somewhere at a terrificspeed. 

The great Concord coach slipped and slid and swayed on its huge springsas we rounded the curves. 

The road was narrow and appeared to be cut out of solid rock, whichseemed to be as smooth as soapstone; the four horses were put to theirspeed, and down and around and away we went. I drew in my breath as Ilooked out and over into the abyss on my left. Death and destructionseemed to be the end awaiting us all. Everybody was limp, when wereached the bottom--that is, I was limp, and I suppose the others were. The stage-driver knew I was frightened, because I sat still and lookedwhite and he came and lifted me out. He lived in a small cabin at thebottom of the mountain; I talked with him some. "The fact is, " he said, "we are an hour late this morning; we always make it a point to 'do it'before dawn, so the passengers can't see anything; they are almost sureto get stampeded if we come down by daylight. "

I mentioned this road afterwards in San Francisco, and learned that itwas a famous road, cut out of the side of a solid mountain of rock; longtalked of, long desired, and finally built, at great expense, by thestate and the county together; that they always had the same man todrive over it, and that they never did it by daylight. I did not inquireif there had ever been any accidents. I seemed to have learned all Iwanted to know about it. 

After a little rest and a breakfast at a sort of roadhouse, a relay ofhorses was taken, and we travelled one more day over a flat country, tothe end of the stage-route. Jack was to meet me. Already from the stageI had espied the post ambulance and two blue uniforms. Out jumped MajorErnest and Jack. I remember thinking how straight and how well theylooked. I had forgotten really how army men did look, I had been so longaway. 

And now we were to go to Fort Yuma and stay with the Wells' until myboxes, which had been sent around by water on the steamer "Montana, "should arrive. I had only the usual thirty pounds allowance of luggagewith me on the stage, and it was made up entirely of my boy's clothing, and an evening dress I had worn on the last night of my stay in SanFrancisco. 

Fort Yuma was delightful at this season (December), and after four orfive days spent most enjoyably, we crossed over one morning on the oldrope ferryboat to Yuma City, to inquire at the big country store thereof news from the Gulf. There was no bridge then over the Colorado. 

The merchant called Jack to one side and said something to him in a lowtone. I was sure it concerned the steamer, and I said: "what it is?"

Then they told me that news had just been received from below, that the"Montana" had been burned to the water's edge in Guaymas harbor, andeverything on board destroyed; the passengers had been saved with muchdifficulty, as the disaster occurred in the night. 

I had lost all the clothes I had in the world--and my precious boxeswere gone. I scarcely knew how to meet the calamity. 

Jack said: "Don't mind, Mattie; I'm so thankful you and the boy were noton board the ship; the things are nothing, no account at all. "

"But, " said I, "you do not understand. I have no clothes except what Ihave on, and a party dress. Oh! what shall I do?" I cried. 

The merchant was very sympathetic and kind, and Major Wells said, "Let'sgo home and tell Fanny; maybe she can suggest something. "

I turned toward the counter, and bought some sewing materials, realizingthat outside of my toilet articles and my party dress all my personalbelongings were swept away. I was in a country where there were nodressmakers, and no shops; I was, for the time being, a pauper, as faras clothing was concerned. 

When I got back to Mrs. Wells I broke down entirely; she put her armsaround me and said: "I've heard all about it; I know just how you mustfeel; now come in my room, and we'll see what can be done. "

She laid out enough clothing to last me until I could get some thingsfrom the East, and gave me a grey and white percale dress with a basque, and a border, and although it was all very much too large for me, itsufficed to relieve my immediate distress. 

Letters were dispatched to the East, in various directions, for everysort and description of clothing, but it was at least two months beforeany of it appeared, and I felt like an object of charity for a longtime. Then, too, I had anticipated the fitting up of our quarters withall the pretty cretonnes and other things I had brought from home. Andnow the contents of those boxes were no more! The memory of the visitwas all that was left to me. It was very hard to bear. 

Preparations for our journey to Camp MacDowell were at last completed. The route to our new post lay along the valley of the Gila River, following it up from its mouth, where it empties into the Colorado, eastwards towards the southern middle portion of Arizona. 

CHAPTER XXIV. UP THE VALLEY OF THE GILA

The December sun was shining brightly down, as only the Arizona suncan shine at high noon in winter, when we crossed the Colorado onthe primitive ferryboat drawn by ropes, clambered up into the greatthorough-brace wagon (or ambulance) with its dusty white canvas coversall rolled up at the sides, said good-bye to our kind hosts of FortYuma, and started, rattling along the sandy main street of Yuma City, for old Camp MacDowell. 

Our big blue army wagon, which had been provided for my boxes andtrunks, rumbling along behind us, empty except for the camp equipage. 

But it all seemed so good to me: I was happy to see the soldiers again, the drivers and teamsters, and even the sleek Government mules. The oldblue uniforms made my heart glad. Every sound was familiar, even therattling of the harness with its ivory rings and the harsh sound of theheavy brakes reinforced with old leather soles. 

Even the country looked attractive, smiling under the December sun. Iwondered if I had really grown to love the desert. I had read somewherethat people did. But I was not paying much attention in those daysto the analysis of my feelings. I did not stop to question the subtlefascination which I felt steal over me as we rolled along the smoothhard roads that followed the windings of the Gila River. I was backagain in the army; I had cast my lot with a soldier, and where he was, was home to me. 

In Nantucket, no one thought much about the army. The uniform of theregulars was never seen there. The profession of arms was scarcely knownor heard of. Few people manifested any interest in the life of the FarWest. I had, while there, felt out of touch with my oldest friends. Onlymy darling old uncle, a brave old whaling captain, had said: "Mattie, Iam much interested in all you have written us about Arizona; come rightdown below and show me on the dining-room map just where you went. "

Gladly I followed him down the stairs, and he took his pencil out andbegan to trace. After he had crossed the Mississippi, there did not seemto be anything but blank country, and I could not find Arizona, and itwas written in large letters across the entire half of this antique map, "Unexplored. "

"True enough, " he laughed. "I must buy me a new map. "

But he drew his pencil around Cape Horn and up the Pacific coast, andI described to him the voyages I had made on the old "Newbern, " and hisface was aglow with memories. 

"Yes, " he said, "in 1826, we put into San Francisco harbor and sentour boats up to San Jose for water and we took goats from some of thoseislands, too. Oh! I know the coast well enough. We were on our way to theAr'tic Ocean then, after right whales. "

But, as a rule, people there seemed to have little interest in the armyand it had made me feel as one apart. 

Gila City was our first camp; not exactly a city, to be sure, at thattime, whatever it may be now. We were greeted by the sight of a few oldadobe houses, and the usual saloon. I had ceased, however, to dwell uponsuch trifles as names. Even "Filibuster, " the name of our next camp, elicited no remark from me. 

The weather was fine beyond description. Each day, at noon, we got outof the ambulance, and sat down on the warm white sand, by a little clumpof mesquite, and ate our luncheon. Coveys of quail flew up and we shotthem, thereby insuring a good supper. 

The mules trotted along contentedly on the smooth white road, whichfollowed the south bank of the Gila River. Myriads of lizards ran outand looked at us. "Hello, here you are again, " they seemed to say. 

The Gila Valley in December was quite a different thing from the Mojavedesert in September; and although there was not much to see, in thatlow, flat country, yet we three were joyous and happy. 

Good health again was mine, the travelling was ideal, there were nodiscomforts, and I experienced no terrors in this part of Arizona. 

Each morning, when the tent was struck, and I sat on the camp-stool bythe little heap of ashes, which was all that remained of what had beenso pleasant a home for an afternoon and a night, a little lonesomefeeling crept over me, at the thought of leaving the place. So strong isthe instinct and love of home in some people, that the little tendrilsshoot out in a day and weave themselves around a spot which has giventhem shelter. Such as those are not born to be nomads. 

Camps were made at Stanwix, Oatman's Flat, and Gila Bend. There we leftthe river, which makes a mighty loop at this point, and struck acrossthe plains to Maricopa Wells. The last day's march took us across theGila River, over the Maricopa desert, and brought us to the Salt River. We forded it at sundown, rested our animals a half hour or so, and drovethrough the MacDowell canon in the dark of the evening, nine miles moreto the post. A day's march of forty-five miles. (A relay of mules hadbeen sent to meet us at the Salt River, but by some oversight, we hadmissed it. )

Jack had told me of the curious cholla cactus, which is said to nod atthe approach of human beings, and to deposit its barbed needles at theirfeet. Also I had heard stories of this deep, dark canon and things thathad happened there. 

Fort MacDowell was in Maricopa County, Arizona, on the Verde River, seventy miles or so south of Camp Verde; the roving bands of Indians, escaping from Camp Apache and the San Carlos reservation, which layfar to the east and southeast, often found secure hiding places in thefastnesses of the Superstition Mountains and other ranges, which laybetween old Camp MacDowell and these reservations. 

Hence, a company of cavalry and one of infantry were stationed at CampMacDowell, and the officers and men of this small command were keptbusy, scouting, and driving the renegades from out of this part of thecountry back to their reservations. It was by no means an idle post, asI found after I got there; the life at Camp MacDowell meant hard work, exposure and fatigue for this small body of men. 

As we wound our way through this deep, dark canon, after crossing theSalt River, I remembered the things I had heard, of ambush and murder. Our animals were too tired to go out of a walk, the night fell in blackshadows down between those high mountain walls, the chollas, which are apale sage-green color in the day-time, took on a ghastly hue. They weredotted here and there along the road, and on the steep mountainsides. They grew nearly as tall as a man, and on each branch were greatexcrescences which looked like people's heads, in the vague light whichfell upon them. 

They nodded to us, and it made me shudder; they seemed to be somethinghuman. 

The soldiers were not partial to MacDowell canon; they knew too muchabout the place; and we all breathed a sigh of relief when we emergedfrom this dark uncanny road and saw the lights of the post, lying low, long, flat, around a square. 

CHAPTER XXV. OLD CAMP MACDOWELL

We were expected, evidently, for as we drove along the road in front ofthe officers' quarters they all came out to meet us, and we received agreat welcome. 

Captain Corliss of C company welcomed us to the post and to his company, and said he hoped I should like MacDowell better than I did Ehrenberg. Now Ehrenberg seemed years agone, and I could laugh at the mention ofit. 

Supper was awaiting us at Captain Corliss's, and Mrs. Kendall, wifeof Lieutenant Kendall, Sixth Cavalry, had, in Jack's absence, put thefinishing touches to our quarters. So I went at once to a comfortablehome, and life in the army began again for me. 

How good everything seemed! There was Doctor Clark, whom I had met firstat Ehrenberg, and who wanted to throw Patrocina and Jesusita into theColorado. I was so glad to find him there; he was such a good doctor, and we never had a moment's anxiety, as long as he staid at CampMacDowell. Our confidence in him was unbounded. 

It was easy enough to obtain a man from the company. There were thenno hateful laws forbidding soldiers to work in officers' families; nodreaded inspectors, who put the flat question, "Do you employ a soldierfor menial labor?"

Captain Corliss gave me an old man by the name of Smith, and he was gladto come and stay with us and do what simple cooking we required. One ofthe laundresses let me have her daughter for nurserymaid, and our smallestablishment at Camp MacDowell moved on smoothly, if not with elegance. 

The officers' quarters were a long, low line of adobe buildings with nospace between them; the houses were separated only by thick walls. Infront, the windows looked out over the parade ground. In the rear, theyopened out on a road which ran along the whole length, and on the otherside of which lay another row of long, low buildings which were thekitchens, each set of quarters having its own. 

We occupied the quarters at the end of the row, and a large bay windowlooked out over a rather desolate plain, and across to the large andwell-kept hospital. As all my draperies and pretty cretonnes had beenburnt up on the ill-fated ship, I had nothing but bare white shades atthe windows, and the rooms looked desolate enough. But a long divan wassoon built, and some coarse yellow cotton bought at John Smith's (thecutler's) store, to cover it. My pretty rugs and mats were also gone, and there was only the old ingrain carpet from Fort Russell. The floorswere adobe, and some men from the company came and laid down old canvas, then the carpet, and drove in great spikes around the edge to hold itdown. The floors of the bedroom and dining-room were covered with canvasin the same manner. Our furnishings were very scanty and I felt verymournful about the loss of the boxes. We could not claim restitution asthe steamship company had been courteous enough to take the boxes downfree of charge. 

John Smith, the post trader (the name "sutler" fell into disuse aboutnow) kept a large store but, nothing that I could use to beautify myquarters with--and our losses had been so heavy that we really could notafford to send back East for more things. My new white dresses came andwere suitable enough for the winter climate of MacDowell. But I missedthe thousand and one accessories of a woman's wardrobe, the accumulationof years, the comfortable things which money could not buy especially atthat distance. 

I had never learned how to make dresses or to fit garments and althoughI knew how to sew, my accomplishments ran more in the line of outdoorsports. 

But Mrs. Kendall whose experience in frontier life had made herself-reliant, lent me some patterns, and I bought some of John Smith'scalico and went to work to make gowns suited to the hot weather. Thiswas in 1877, and every one will remember that the ready-made house-gownswere not to be had in those days in the excellence and profusion inwhich they can to-day be found, in all parts of the country. 

Now Mrs. Kendall was a tall, fine woman, much larger than I, but I usedher patterns without alterations, and the result was something like abag. They were freshly laundried and cool, however, and I did not placeso much importance on the lines of them, as the young women of thepresent time do. To-day, the poorest farmer's wife in the wilds ofArkansas or Alaska can wear better fitting gowns than I wore then. Butmy riding habits, of which I had several kinds, to suit warm and coldcountries, had been left in Jack's care at Ehrenberg, and as long asthese fitted well, it did not so much matter about the gowns. 

Captain Chaffee, who commanded the company of the Sixth Cavalrystationed there, was away on leave, but Mr. Kendall, his firstlieutenant, consented for me to exercise "Cochise, " Captain Chaffee'sIndian pony, and I had a royal time. 

Cavalry officers usually hate riding: that is, riding for pleasure;for they are in the saddle so much, for dead earnest work; but a youngofficer, a second lieutenant, not long out from the Academy, liked toride, and we had many pleasant riding parties. Mr. Dravo and I rode oneday to the Mormon settlement, seventeen miles away, on some businesswith the bishop, and a Mormon woman gave us a lunch of fried salt pork, potatoes, bread, and milk. How good it tasted, after our long ride! andhow we laughed about it all, and jollied, after the fashion of youngpeople, all the way back to the post! Mr Dravo had also lost all histhings on the "Montana, " and we sympathized greatly with each other. He, however, had sent an order home to Pennsylvania, duplicating all thecontents of his boxes. I told him I could not duplicate mine, if I senta thousand orders East. 

When, after some months, his boxes came, he brought me in a package, done up in tissue paper and tied with ribbon: "Mother sends you these;she wrote that I was not to open them; I think she felt sorry for you, when I wrote her you had lost all your clothing. I suppose, " he added, mustering his West Point French to the front, and handing me thepackage, "it is what you ladies call 'lingerie. '"

I hope I blushed, and I think I did, for I was not so very old, andI was touched by this sweet remembrance from the dear mother back inPittsburgh. And so many lovely things happened all the time; everybodywas so kind to me. Mrs. Kendall and her young sister, Kate Taylor, Mrs. John Smith and I, were the only women that winter at Camp MacDowell. Afterwards, Captain Corliss brought a bride to the post, and a newdoctor took Doctor Clark's place. 

There were interminable scouts, which took both cavalry and infantryout of the post. We heard a great deal about "chasing Injuns" in theSuperstition Mountains, and once a lieutenant of infantry went out tochase an escaping Indian Agent. 

Old Smith, my cook, was not very satisfactory; he drank a good deal, andI got very tired of the trouble he caused me. It was before the days ofthe canteen, and soldiers could get all the whiskey they wanted at thetrader's store; and, it being generally the brand that was known in thearmy as "Forty rod, " they got very drunk on it sometimes. I never hadit in my heart to blame them much, poor fellows, for every human beingswants and needs some sort of recreation and jovial excitement. 

Captain Corliss said to Jack one day, in my presence, "I had a finebatch of recruits come in this morning. "

"That's lovely, " said I; "what kind of men are they? Any good cooksamongst them?" (for I was getting very tired of Smith). 

Captain Corliss smiled a grim smile. "What do you think the UnitedStates Government enlists men for?" said he; "do you think I want mycompany to be made up of dish-washers?"

He was really quite angry with me, and I concluded that I had beentoo abrupt, in my eagerness for another man, and that my ideas on thesubject were becoming warped. I decided that I must be more diplomaticin the future, in my dealings with the Captain of C company. 

The next day, when we went to breakfast, whom did we find in thedining-room but Bowen! Our old Bowen of the long march across theTerritory! Of Camp Apache and K company! He had his white apron on, hishair rolled back in his most fetching style, and was putting the coffeeon the table. 

"But, Bowen, " said I, "where--how on earth--did you--how did you knowwe--what does it mean?"

Bowen saluted the First Lieutenant of C company, and said: "Well, sir, the fact is, my time was out, and I thought I would quit. I went to SanFrancisco and worked in a miners' restaurant" (here he hesitated), "butI didn't like it, and I tried something else, and lost all my money, andI got tired of the town, so I thought I'd take on again, and as I knowedye's were in C company now, I thought I'd come to MacDowell, and I cameover here this morning and told old Smith he'd better quit; this was myjob, and here I am, and I hope ye're all well--and the little boy?"

Here was loyalty indeed, and here was Bowen the Immortal, back again!

And now things ran smoothly once more. Roasts of beef and haunches ofvenison, ducks and other good things we had through the winter. 

It was cool enough to wear white cotton dresses, but nothing heavier. Itnever rained, and the climate was superb, although it was always hot inthe sun. We had heard that it was very hot here; in fact, people calledMacDowell by very bad names. As the spring came on, we began to realizethat the epithets applied to it might be quite appropriate. 

In front of our quarters was a ramada, [*] supported by rude poles ofthe cottonwood tree. Then came the sidewalk, and the acequia (ditch), then a row of young cottonwood trees, then the parade ground. Throughthe acequia ran the clear water that supplied the post, and under theshade of the ramadas, hung the large ollas from which we dipped thedrinking water, for as yet, of course, ice was not even dreamed of inthe far plains of MacDowell. The heat became intense, as the summerapproached. To sleep inside the house was impossible, and we soonfollowed the example of the cavalry, who had their beds out on theparade ground. 

 *A sort of rude awning made of brush and supported by cottonwood poles. 

Two iron cots, therefore, were brought from the hospital, and placedside by side in front of our quarters, beyond the acequia and thecottonwood trees, in fact, out in the open space of the parade ground. Upon these were laid some mattresses and sheets, and after "taps" hadsounded, and lights were out, we retired to rest. Near the cots stoodHarry's crib. We had not thought about the ants, however, and theyswarmed over our beds, driving us into the house. The next morning Bowenplaced a tin can of water under each point of contact; and as each cothad eight legs, and the crib had four, twenty cans were necessary. Hehad not taken the trouble to remove the labels, and the pictures of redtomatoes glared at us in the hot sun through the day; they did not lookpoetic, but our old enemies, the ants, were outwitted. 

There was another species of tiny insect, however, which seemed to dropfrom the little cotton-wood trees which grew at the edge of the acequia, and myriads of them descended and crawled all over us, so we had tohave our beds moved still farther out on to the open space of the paradeground. 

And now we were fortified against all the venomous creeping things andwe looked forward to blissful nights of rest. 

We did not look along the line, when we retired to our cots, but if wehad, we should have seen shadowy figures, laden with pillows, flyingfrom the houses to the cots or vice versa. It was certainly a novelexperience. 

With but a sheet for a covering, there we lay, looking up at the starryheavens. I watched the Great Bear go around, and other constellationsand seemed to come into close touch with Nature and the mysteriousnight. But the melancholy solemnity of my communings was much affectedby the howling of the coyotes, which seemed sometimes to be so nearthat I jumped to the side of the crib, to see if my little boy was beingcarried off. The good sweet slumber which I craved never came to me inthose weird Arizona nights under the stars. 

At about midnight, a sort of dewy coolness would come down from the sky, and we could then sleep a little; but the sun rose incredibly early inthat southern country, and by the crack of dawn sheeted figures were tobe seen darting back into the quarters, to try for another nap. The naprarely came to any of us, for the heat of the houses never passed off, day or night, at that season. After an early breakfast, the long daybegan again. 

The question of what to eat came to be a serious one. We experimentedwith all sorts of tinned foods, and tried to produce some variety fromthem, but it was all rather tiresome. We almost dreaded the visits ofthe Paymaster and the Inspector at that season, as we never had anythingin the house to give them. 

One hot night, at about ten o'clock, we heard the rattle of wheels, andan ambulance drew up at our door. Out jumped Colonel Biddle, InspectorGeneral, from Fort Whipple. "What shall I give him to eat, poor hungryman?" I thought. I looked in the wire-covered safe, which hung outsidethe kitchen, and discovered half a beefsteak-pie. The gallant Coloneldeclared that if there was one thing above all others that he liked, itwas cold beefsteak-pie. Lieutenant Thomas of the Fifth Cavalry echoedhis sentiments, and with a bottle of Cocomonga, which was always keptcooling somewhere, they had a merry supper. 

These visits broke the monotony of our life at Camp MacDowell. We heardof the gay doings up at Fort Whipple, and of the lovely climate there. 

Mr. Thomas said he could not understand why we wore such bags ofdresses. I told him spitefully that if the women of Fort Whipple wouldcome down to MacDowell to spend the summer, they would soon be ableto explain it to him. I began to feel embarrassed at the fit of myhouse-gowns. After a few days spent with us, however, the mercuryranging from l04 to l20 degrees in the shade, he ceased to comment uponour dresses or our customs. 

I had a glass jar of butter sent over from the Commissary, and askedColonel Biddle if he thought it right that such butter as that shouldbe bought by the purchasing officer in San Francisco. It had melted, and separated into layers of dead white, deep orange and pinkish-purplecolors. Thus I, too, as well as General Miles, had my turn at trying toreform the Commissary Department of Uncle Sam's army. 

Hammocks were swung under the ramadas, and after luncheon everybodytried a siesta. Then, near sundown, an ambulance came and took us overto the Verde River, about a mile away, where we bathed in water almostas thick as that of the Great Colorado. We taught Mrs. Kendall to swim, but Mr. Kendall, being an inland man, did not take to the water. Now theVerde River was not a very good substitute for the sea, and the thickwater filled our ears and mouths, but it gave us a little half hour inthe day when we could experience a feeling of being cool, and we foundit worth while to take the trouble. Thick clumps of mesquite treesfurnished us with dressing-rooms. We were all young, and youth requiresso little with which to make merry. 

After the meagre evening dinner, the Kendalls and ourselves sat togetherunder the ramada until taps, listening generally to the droll anecdotestold by Mr. Kendall, who had an inexhaustible fund. Then another nightunder the stars, and so passed the time away. 

We lived, ate, slept by the bugle calls. Reveille means sunrise, when aLieutenant must hasten to put himself into uniform, sword and belt, andgo out to receive the report of the company or companies of soldiers, who stand drawn up in line on the parade ground. 

At about nine o'clock in the morning comes the guard-mount, a functionalways which everybody goes out to see. Then the various drill calls, and recalls, and sick-call and the beautiful stable-call for thecavalry, when the horses are groomed and watered, the thrillingfire-call and the startling assembly, or call-to-arms, when everysoldier jumps for his rifle and every officer buckles on his sword, anda woman's heart stands still. 

Then at night, "tattoo, " when the company officers go out to receive thereport of "all present and accounted for"--and shortly after that, themournful "taps, " a signal for the barrack lights to be put out. 

The bugle call of "taps" is mournful also through association, as it isalways blown over the grave of a soldier or an officer, after the coffinhas been lowered into the earth. The soldier-musicians who blow thecalls, seem to love the call of "taps, " (strangely enough) and Iremember well that there at Camp MacDowell, we all used to go out andlisten when "taps went, " as the soldier who blew it, seemed to put awhole world of sorrow into it, turning to the four points of the compassand letting its clear tones tremble through the air, away off across theMaricopa desert and then toward the East, our home so faraway. We neverspoke, we just listened, and who can tell the thoughts that each onehad in his mind? Church nor ministers nor priests had we there inthose distant lands, but can we say that our lives were wholly withoutreligion?

The Sunday inspection of men and barracks, which was performed withmuch precision and formality, and often in full dress uniform, gave ussomething by which we could mark the weeks, as they slipped along. Therewas no religious service of any kind, as Uncle Sam did not seem to thinkthat the souls of us people in the outposts needed looking after. Itwould have afforded much comfort to the Roman Catholics had there been apriest stationed there. 

The only sermon I ever heard in old Camp MacDowell was delivered bya Mormon Bishop and was of a rather preposterous nature, neitherinstructive nor edifying. But the good Catholics read their prayer-booksat home, and the rest of us almost forgot that such organizations aschurches existed. 

Another bright winter found us still gazing at the Four Peaks of theMacDowell Mountains, the only landmark on the horizon. I was glad, inthose days, that I had not staid back East, for the life of an officerwithout his family, in those drear places, is indeed a blank and emptyone. 

"Four years I have sat here and looked at the Four Peaks, " said CaptainCorliss, one day, "and I'm getting almighty tired of it. "

CHAPTER XXVI. A SUDDEN ORDER

In June, 1878, Jack was ordered to report to the commanding officer atFort Lowell (near the ancient city of Tucson), to act as Quartermasterand Commissary at that post. This was a sudden and totally unexpectedorder. It was indeed hard, and it seemed to me cruel. For our regimenthad been four years in the Territory, and we were reasonably sure ofbeing ordered out before long. Tucson lay far to the south of us, andwas even hotter than this place. But there was nothing to be done; wepacked up, I with a heavy heart, Jack with his customary stoicism. 

With the grief which comes only at that time in one's life, and whichsees no end and no limit, I parted from my friends at Camp MacDowell. Two years together, in the most intimate companionship, cut off fromthe outside world, and away from all early ties, had united us withindissoluble bonds, --and now we were to part, --forever as I thought. 

We all wept; I embraced them all, and Jack lifted me into theambulance; Mrs. Kendall gave a last kiss to our little boy; Donahue, oursoldier-driver, loosened up his brakes, cracked his long whip, and awaywe went, down over the flat, through the dark MacDowell canon, with thechollas nodding to us as we passed, across the Salt River, and on acrossan open desert to Florence, forty miles or so to the southeast of us. 

At Florence we sent our military transportation back and staid over aday at a tavern to rest. We met there a very agreeable and cultivatedgentleman, Mr. Charles Poston, who was en route to his home, somewherein the mountains nearby. We took the Tucson stage at sundown, andtravelled all night. I heard afterwards more about Mr. Poston: he hadattained some reputation in the literary world by writing about theSun-worshippers of Asia. He had been a great traveller in his earlylife, but now had built himself some sort of a house in one of thedesolate mountains which rose out of these vast plains of Arizona, hoisted his sun-flag on the top, there to pass the rest of his days. People out there said he was a sun-worshipper. I do not know. "But whenI am tired of life and people, " I thought, "this will not be the place Ishall choose. "

Arriving at Tucson, after a hot and tiresome night in the stage, we wentto an old hostelry. Tucson looked attractive. Ancient civilization isalways interesting to me. 

Leaving me at the tavern, my husband drove out to Fort Lowell, to seeabout quarters and things in general. In a few hours he returned withthe overwhelming news that he found a dispatch awaiting him at thatpost, ordering him to return immediately to his company at CampMacDowell, as the Eighth Infantry was ordered to the Department ofCalifornia. 

Ordered "out" at last! I felt like jumping up onto the table, climbingonto the roof, dancing and singing and shouting for joy! Tired as wewere (and I thought I had reached the limit), we were not too tired totake the first stage back for Florence, which left that evening. Thosetwo nights on the Tucson stage are a blank in my memory. I got throughthem somehow. 

In the morning, as we approached the town of Florence, the great bluearmy wagon containing our household goods, hove in sight--its whitecanvas cover stretched over hoops, its six sturdy mules coming alongat a good trot, and Sergeant Stone cracking his long whip, to keep up aproper pace in the eyes of the Tucson stage-driver. 

Jack called him to halt, and down went the Sergeant's big brakes. Both teams came to a stand-still, and we told the Sergeant the news. Bewilderment, surprise, joy, followed each other on the old Sergeant'scountenance. He turned his heavy team about, and promised to reach CampMacDowell as soon as the animals could make it. At Florence, we left thestage, and went to the little tavern once more; the stage route did notlie in our direction, so we must hire a private conveyance to bring usto Camp MacDowell. Jack found a man who had a good pair of ponies and anopen buckboard. Towards night we set forth to cross the plain which liesbetween Florence and the Salt River, due northwest by the map. 

When I saw the driver I did not care much for his appearance. He didnot inspire me with confidence, but the ponies looked strong, and we hadforty or fifty miles before us. 

After we got fairly into the desert, which was a trackless waste, Ibecame possessed by a feeling that the man did not know the way. Hetalked a good deal about the North Star, and the fork in the road, andthat we must be sure not to miss it. 

It was a still, hot, starlit night. Jack and the driver sat on the frontseat. They had taken the back seat out, and my little boy and I sat inthe bottom of the wagon, with the hard cushions to lean against throughthe night. I suppose we were drowsy with sleep; at all events, the talkabout the fork of the road and the North Star faded away into dreams. 

I awoke with a chilly feeling, and a sudden jolt over a rock. "I donot recollect any rocks on this road, Jack, when we came over it in theambulance, " said I. 

"Neither do I, " he replied. 

I looked for the North Star: I had looked for it often when in openboats. It was away off on our left, the road seemed to be ascending androcky: I had never seen this piece of road before, that I was sure of. 

"We are going to the eastward, " said I, "and we should be goingnorthwest. "

"My dear, lie down and go to sleep; the man knows the road; he is takinga short cut, I suppose, " said the Lieutenant. There was something not atall reassuring in his tones, however. 

The driver did not turn his head nor speak. I looked at the North Star, which was getting farther and farther on our left, and I felt the gloomyconviction that we were lost on the desert. 

Finally, at daylight, after going higher and higher, we drew up in anold deserted mining-camp. 

The driver jerked his ponies up, and, with a sullen gesture, said, "Wemust have missed the fork of the road; this is Picket Post. "

"Great Heavens!" I cried; "how far out of the way are we?"

"About fifteen miles, " he drawled, "you see we shall have to go back tothe place where the road forks, and make a new start. "

I nearly collapsed with discouragement. I looked around at the ruinedwalls and crumbling pillars of stone, so weird and so grey in thedawning light: it might have been a worshipping place of the Druids. My little son shivered with the light chill which comes at daybreak inthose tropical countries: we were hungry and tired and miserable: mybones ached, and I felt like crying. 

We gave the poor ponies time to breathe, and took a bite of cold foodourselves. 

Ah! that blighted and desolate place called Picket Post! Forsaken by Godand man, it might have been the entrance to Hades. 

Would the ponies hold out? They looked jaded to be sure, but we hadstopped long enough to breathe them, and away they trotted again, downthe mountain this time, instead of up. 

It was broad day when we reached the fork of the road, which we had notbeen able to see in the night: there was no mistaking it now. 

We had travelled already about forty miles, thirty more lay before us;but there were no hills, it was all flat country, and the owner of thesebrave little ponies said we could make it. 

As we neared the MacDowell canon, we met Captain Corliss marchingout with his company (truly they had lost no time in starting forCalifornia), and he told his First Lieutenant he would make slowmarches, that we might overtake him before he reached Yuma. 

We were obliged to wait at Camp MacDowell for Sergeant Stone to arrivewith our wagonful of household goods, and then, after a mighty weedingout and repacking, we set forth once more, with a good team of mulesand a good driver, to join the command. We bade the Sixth Cavalry peopleonce more good-bye, but I was so nearly dead by this time, with theheat, and the fatigue of all this hard travelling and packing up, thatthe keener edge of my emotions was dulled. Eight days and nights spentin travelling hither and thither over those hot plains in SouthernArizona, and all for what?

Because somebody in ordering somebody to change his station, hadforgotten that somebody's regiment was about to be ordered out of thecountry it had been in for four years. Also because my husband was asoldier who obeyed orders without questioning them. If he had been apolitical wire-puller, many of our misfortunes might have been averted. But then, while I half envied the wives of the wire-pullers, I took asort of pride in the blind obedience shown by my own particular soldierto the orders he received. 

After that week's experience, I held another colloquy with myself, anddecided that wives should not follow their husbands in the army, andthat if I ever got back East again, I would stay: I simply could not goon enduring these unmitigated and unreasonable hardships. 

The Florence man staid over at the post a day or so to rest his ponies. I bade him good-bye and told him to take care of those brave littlebeasts, which had travelled seventy miles without rest, to bring usto our destination. He nodded pleasantly and drove away. "A queercustomer, " I observed to Jack. 

"Yes, " answered he, "they told me in Florence that he was a 'road agent'and desperado, but there did not seem to be anyone else, and my orderswere peremptory, so I took him. I knew the ponies could pull us through, by the looks of them; and road agents are all right with army officers, they know they wouldn't get anything if they held 'em up. "

"How much did he charge you for the trip?" I asked. 

"Sixteen dollars, " was the reply. And so ended the episode. Except thatI looked back to Picket Post with a sort of horror, I thought no moreabout it. 

CHAPTER XXVII. THE EIGHTH FOOT LEAVES ARIZONA

And now after the eight days of most distressing heat, and the fatigueof all sorts and varieties of travelling, the nights spent in astage-coach or at a desert inn, or in the road agent's buckboard, holding always my little son close to my side, came six days more ofjourneying down the valley of the Gila. 

We took supper in Phoenix, at a place known as "Devine's. " I was hearinga good deal about Phoenix; for even then, its gardens, its orchardsand its climate were becoming famous, but the season of the year wasunpropitious to form a favorable opinion of that thriving place, even ifmy opinions of Arizona, with its parched-up soil and insufferable heat, had not been formed already. 

We crossed the Gila somewhere below there, and stopped at our oldcamping places, but the entire valley was seething hot, and theremembrance of the December journey seemed but an aggravating dream. 

We joined Captain Corliss and the company at Antelope Station, and intwo more days were at Yuma City. By this time, the Southern PacificRailroad had been built as far as Yuma, and a bridge thrown across theColorado at this point. It seemed an incongruity. And how burning hotthe cars looked, standing there in the Arizona sun!

After four years in that Territory, and remembering the days, weeks, andeven months spent in travelling on the river, or marching through thedeserts, I could not make the Pullman cars seem a reality. 

We brushed the dust of the Gila Valley from our clothes, I uneartheda hat from somewhere, and some wraps which had not seen the light fornearly two years, and prepared to board the train. 

I cried out in my mind, the prayer of the woman in one of Fisher'sEhrenberg stories, to which I used to listen with unmitigated delight, when I lived there. The story was this: "Mrs. Blank used to live herein Ehrenberg; she hated the place just as you do, but she was obliged tostay. Finally, after a period of two years, she and her sister, who hadlived with her, were able to get away. I crossed over the river withthem to Lower California, on the old rope ferry-boat which they usedto have near Ehrenberg, and as soon as the boat touched the bank, theyjumped ashore, and down they both went upon their knees, clasped theirhands, raised their eyes to Heaven, and Mrs. Blank said: 'I thank Thee, oh Lord! Thou hast at last delivered us from the wilderness, and broughtus back to God's country. Receive my thanks, oh Lord!'"

And then Fisher used to add: "And the tears rolled down their faces, andI knew they felt every word they spoke; and I guess you'll feel aboutthe same way when you get out of Arizona, even if you don't quite dropon your knees, " he said. 

The soldiers did not look half so picturesque, climbing into the cars, as they did when loading onto a barge; and when the train went acrossthe bridge, and we looked down upon the swirling red waters of the GreatColorado from the windows of a luxurious Pullman, I sighed; and, withthe strange contradictoriness of the human mind, I felt sorry thatthe old days had come to an end. For, somehow, the hardships anddeprivations which we have endured, lose their bitterness when they havebecome only a memory. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. CALIFORNIA AND NEVADA

A portion of our regiment was ordered to Oregon, to join General Howard, who was conducting the Bannock Campaign, so I remained that summer inSan Francisco, to await my husband's return. 

I could not break away from my Arizona habits. I wore only whitedresses, partly because I had no others which were in fashion, partlybecause I had become imbued with a profound indifference to dress. 

"They'll think you're a Mexican, " said my New England aunt (who regardedall foreigners with contempt). "Let them think, " said I; "I almost wishI were; for, after all, they are the only people who understand thephilosophy of living. Look at the tired faces of the women in yourstreets, " I added, "one never sees that sort of expression down below, and I have made up my mind not to be caught by the whirlpool of advancedcivilization again. "

Added to the white dresses, I smoked cigarettes, and slept all theafternoons. I was in the bondage of tropical customs, and I had lapsedback into a state of what my aunt called semi-barbarism. 

"Let me enjoy this heavenly cool climate, and do not worry me, " Ibegged. I shuddered when I heard people complain of the cold winds ofthe San Francisco summer. How do they dare tempt Fate, thought I, and Iwished them all in Ehrenberg or MacDowell for one summer. "I think theymight then know something about climate, and would have something tocomplain about!"

How I revelled in the flowers, and all the luxuries of that delightfulcity!

The headquarters of the Eighth was located at Benicia, and GeneralKautz, our Colonel, invited me to pay a visit to his wife. A pleasantboat-trip up the Sacramento River brought us to Benicia. Mrs. Kautz, ahandsome and accomplished Austrian, presided over her lovely army homein a manner to captivate my fancy, and the luxury of their surroundingsalmost made me speechless. 

"The other side of army life, " thought I. 

A visit to Angel Island, one of the harbor defences, strengthened thisimpression. Four years of life in the southern posts of Arizona hadalmost made me believe that army life was indeed but "glitteringmisery, " as the Germans had called it. 

In the autumn, the troops returned from Oregon, and C company wasordered to Camp MacDermit, a lonely spot up in the northern part ofNevada (Nevada being included in the Department of California). I wassure by that time that bad luck was pursuing us. I did not know so muchabout the "ins and outs" of the army then as I do now. 

At my aunt's suggestion, I secured a Chinaman of good caste for aservant, and by deceiving him (also my aunt's advice) with the idea thatwe were going only as far as Sacramento, succeeded in making him willingto accompany us. 

We started east, and left the railroad at a station called "Winnemucca. "MacDermit lay ninety miles to the north. But at Winnemucca the Chinamanbalked. "You say: 'All'e same Saclamento': lis place heap too far: meno likee!" I talked to him, and, being a good sort, he saw that I meantwell, and the soldiers bundled him on top of the army wagon, gave him alot of good-natured guying, and a revolver to keep off Indians, and sowe secured Hoo Chack. 

Captain Corliss had been obliged to go on ahead with his wife, who wasin the most delicate health. The post ambulance had met them at thisplace. 

Jack was to march over the ninety miles, with the company. I watchedthem starting out, the men, glad of the release from the railroad train, their guns on their shoulders, stepping off in military style and ingood form. 

The wagons followed--the big blue army wagons, and Hoo Chack, lookingrather glum, sitting on top of a pile of baggage. 

I took the Silver City stage, and except for my little boy I was theonly passenger for the most of the way. We did the ninety miles withoutresting over, except for relays of horses. 

I climbed up on the box and talked with the driver. I liked thesestage-drivers. They were "nervy, " fearless men, and kind, too, and had agreat dash and go about them. They often had a quiet and gentle bearing, but by that time I knew pretty well what sort of stuff they were madeof, and I liked to have them talk to me, and I liked to look out uponthe world through their eyes, and judge of things from their standpoint. 

It was an easy journey, and we passed a comfortable night in the stage. 

Camp MacDermit was a colorless, forbidding sort of a place. Only onecompany was stationed there, and my husband was nearly always scoutingin the mountains north of us. The weather was severe, and the winterthere was joyless and lonesome. The extreme cold and the lonelinessaffected my spirits, and I suffered from depression. 

I had no woman to talk to, for Mrs. Corliss, who was the only otherofficer's wife at the post, was confined to the house by the mostdelicate health, and her mind was wholly absorbed by the care of heryoung infant. There were no nurses to be had in that desolate corner ofthe earth. 

One day, a dreadful looking man appeared at the door, a person such asone never sees except on the outskirts of civilization, and I wonderedwhat business brought him. He wore a long, black, greasy frock coat, a tall hat, and had the face of a sneak. He wanted the Chinaman'spoll-tax, he said. 

"But, " I suggested, "I never heard of collecting taxes in a Governmentpost; soldiers and officers do not pay taxes. "

"That may be, " he replied, "but your Chinaman is not a soldier, and I amgoing to have his tax before I leave this house. "

"So, ho, " I thought; "a threat!" and the soldier's blood rose in me. 

I was alone; Jack was miles away up North. Hoo Chack appeared in thehall; he had evidently heard the man's last remark. "Now, " I said, "thisChinaman is in my employ, and he shall not pay any tax, until I find outif he be exempt or not. "

The evil-looking man approached the Chinaman. Hoo Chack grew a shadepaler. I fancied he had a knife under his white shirt; in fact, he feltaround for it. I said, "Hoo Chack, go away, I will talk to this man. "

I opened the front door. "Come with me" (to the tax-collector); "we willask the commanding officer about this matter. " My heart was really in mymouth, but I returned the man's steady and dogged gaze, and he followedme to Captain Corliss' quarters. I explained the matter to the Captain, and left the man to his mercy. "Why didn't you call the Sergeant of theGuard, and have the man slapped into the guard-house?" said Jack, whenI told him about it afterwards. "The man had no business around here; hewas trying to browbeat you into giving him a dollar, I suppose. "

The country above us was full of desperadoes from Boise and Silver City, and I was afraid to be left alone so much at night; so I begged CaptainCorliss to let me have a soldier to sleep in my quarters. He sent me oldNeedham. So I installed old Needham in my guest chamber with his loadedrifle. Now old Needham was but a wisp of a man; long years of servicehad broken down his health; he was all wizened up and feeble; but hewas a soldier; I felt safe, and could sleep once more. Just the sightof Needham and his old blue uniform coming at night, after taps, was acomfort to me. 

Anxiety filled my soul, for Jack was scouting in the Stein Mountainsall winter in the snow, after Indians who were avowedly hostile, and hadthreatened to kill on sight. He often went out with a small pack-train, and some Indian scouts, five or six soldiers, and I thought it quitewrong for him to be sent into the mountains with so small a number. 

Camp MacDermit was, as I have already mentioned, a "one-company post. "We all know what that may mean, on the frontier. Our Second Lieutenantwas absent, and all the hard work of winter scouting fell upon Jack, keeping him away for weeks at a time. 

The Piute Indians were supposed to be peaceful, and their old chief, Winnemucca, once the warlike and dreaded foe of the white man, was nowquiet enough, and too old to fight. He lived, with his family, at anIndian village near the post. 

He came to see me occasionally. His dress was a curious mixture ofcivilization and savagery. He wore the chapeau and dress-coat of aGeneral of the American Army, with a large epaulette on one shoulder. Hewas very proud of the coat, because General Crook had given it to him. His shirt, leggings and moccasins were of buckskin, and the long braidsof his coal-black hair, tied with strips of red flannel, gave the lasttouch to this incongruous costume. 

But I must say that his demeanor was gentle and dignified, and, afterrecovering from the superficial impressions which his startling costumehad at first made upon my mind, I could well believe that he hadonce been the war-leader, as he was now the political head of hisonce-powerful tribe. 

Winnemucca did not disdain to accept some little sugar-cakes from me, and would sit down on our veranda and munch them. 

He always showed me the pasteboard medal which hung around his neck, and which bore General Howard's signature; and he always said: "GeneralHoward tell me, me good Injun, me go up--up--up"--pointing dramaticallytowards Heaven. On one occasion, feeling desperate for amusement, I saidto him: "General Howard very good man, but he make a mistake; where yougo, is not up--up--up, but, " pointing solemnly to the earth below us, "down--down--down. " He looked incredulous, but I assured him it was anice place down there. 

Some of the scattered bands of the tribe, however, were restlessand unsubdued, and gave us much trouble, and it was these bands thatnecessitated the scouts. 

My little son, Harry, four years old, was my constant and onlycompanion, during that long, cold, and anxious winter. 

My mother sent me an appealing invitation to come home for a year. Iaccepted gladly, and one afternoon in May, Jack put us aboard the SilverCity stage, which passed daily through the post. 

Our excellent Chinese servant promised to stay with the "Captain" andtake care of him, and as I said "Good-bye, Hoo Chack, " I noticed anexpression of real regret on his usually stolid features. 

Occupied with my thoughts, on entering the stage, I did not notice thepassengers or the man sitting next me on the back seat. Darkness soonclosed around us, and I suppose we fell asleep. Between naps, I heard aqueer clanking sound, but supposed it was the chains of the harness orthe stage-coach gear. The next morning, as we got out at a relay stationfor breakfast, I saw the handcuffs on the man next to whom I had sat allthe night long. The sheriff was on the box outside. He very obliginglychanged seats with me for the rest of the way, and evening found us onthe overland train speeding on our journey East. Camp MacDermit with itsdreary associations and surroundings faded gradually from my mind, likea dream. 

*****

The year of 1879 brought us several changes. My little daughter wasborn in mid-summer at our old home in Nantucket. As I lay watching thecurtains move gently to and fro in the soft sea-breezes, and saw mymother and sister moving about the room, and a good old nurse rocking mybaby in her arms, I could but think of those other days at Camp Apache, when I lay through the long hours, with my new-born baby by my side, watching, listening for some one to come in. There was no one, no womanto come, except the poor hard-working laundress of the cavalry, who didcome once a day to care for the baby. 

Ah! what a contrast! and I had to shut my eyes for fear I should cry, atthe mere thought of those other days. 

*****

Jack took a year's leave of absence and joined me in the autumn atNantucket, and the winter was spent in New York, enjoying the theatresand various amusements we had so long been deprived of. Here we metagain Captain Porter and Carrie Wilkins, who was now Mrs. Porter. Theywere stationed at David's Island, one of the harbor posts, and we wentover to see them. "Yes, " he said, "as Jacob waited seven years forRachel, so I waited for Carrie. "

The following summer brought us the good news that Captain Corliss'company was ordered to Angel Island, in the bay of San Francisco. "Thankgoodness, " said Jack, "C company has got some good luck, at last!"

Joyfully we started back on the overland trip to California, which tookabout nine days at that time. Now, travelling with a year-old baby and afive-year-old boy was quite troublesome, and we were very glad whenthe train had crossed the bleak Sierras and swept down into the lovelyvalley of the Sacramento. 

Arriving in San Francisco, we went to the old Occidental Hotel, and aswe were going in to dinner, a card was handed to us. "Hoo Chack" was thename on the card. "That Chinaman!" I cried to Jack. "How do you supposehe knew we were here?"

We soon made arrangements for him to accompany us to Angel Island, andin a few days this "heathen Chinee" had unpacked all our boxes and madeour quarters very comfortable. He was rather a high-caste man, and astrue and loyal as a Christian. He never broke his word, and he staidwith us as long as we remained in California. 

And now we began to live, to truly live; for we felt that the yearsspent at those desert posts under the scorching suns of Arizona hadcheated us out of all but a bare existence upon earth. 

The flowers ran riot in our garden, fresh fruits and vegetables, freshfish, and all the luxuries of that marvellous climate, were brought toour door. 

A comfortable Government steamboat plied between San Francisco and itsharbor posts, and the distance was not great--only three quarters of anhour. So we had a taste of the social life of that fascinating city, andcould enjoy the theatres also. 

On the Island, we had music and dancing, as it was the headquartersof the regiment. Mrs. Kautz, so brilliant and gay, held grand courthere--receptions, military functions, lawn tennis, bright uniforms, werethe order of the day. And that incomparable climate! How I revelled init! When the fog rolled in from the Golden Gate, and enveloped the greatcity of Saint Francis in its cold vapors, the Island of the Angels laywarm and bright in the sunshine. 

The old Spaniards named it well, and the old Nantucket whalers whosailed around Cape Horn on their way to the Ar'tic, away back in theeighteen twenties, used to put in near there for water, and werewell familiar with its bright shores, before it was touched by man'shandiwork. 

Was there ever such an emerald green as adorned those hills which slopeddown to the bay? Could anything equal the fields of golden escholzchiawhich lay there in the sunshine? Or the blue masses of "baby-eye, " whichopened in the mornings and held up their pretty cups to catch the dew?

Was this a real Paradise?

It surely seemed so to us; and, as if Nature had not done enough, the Fates stepped in and sent all the agreeable young officers of theregiment there, to help us enjoy the heavenly spot. 

There was Terrett, the handsome and aristocratic young Baltimorean, oneof the finest men I ever saw in uniform; and Richardson, the stalwartTexan, and many others, with whom we danced and played tennis, andaltogether there was so much to do and to enjoy that Time rushed by andwe knew only that we were happy, and enchanted with Life. 

Did any uniform ever equal that of the infantry in those days? Thedark blue, heavily braided "blouse, " the white stripe on the light bluetrousers, the jaunty cap? And then, the straight backs and the slimlines of those youthful figures! It seems to me any woman who was not anEgyptian mummy would feel her heart thrill and her blood tingle at thesight of them. 

Indians and deserts and Ehrenberg did not exist for me any more. Mygirlhood seemed to have returned, and I enjoyed everything with thekeenest zest. 

My old friend Charley Bailey, who had married for his second wife a mostaccomplished young San Francisco girl, lived next door to us. 

General and Mrs. Kautz entertained so hospitably, and were so beloved byall. Together Mrs. Kautz and I read the German classics, and went to theGerman theatre; and by and by a very celebrated player, Friedrich Haase, from the Royal Theatre of Berlin, came to San Francisco. We never misseda performance, and when his tour was over, Mrs. Kautz gave a lawn partyat Angel Island for him and a few of the members of his company. Itwas charming. I well remember how the sun shone that day, and, as westrolled up from the boat with them, Frau Haase stopped, looked at theblue sky, the lovely clouds, the green slopes of the Island and said:"Mein Gott! Frau Summerhayes, was ist das fur ein Paradies! Warum habenSie uns nicht gesagt, Sie wohnten im Paradies!"

So, with music and German speech, and strolls to the North and to theSouth Batteries, that wonderful and never to-be-forgotten day with thegreat Friedrich Haase came to an end. 

The months flew by, and the second winter found us still there; we heardrumors of Indian troubles in Arizona, and at last the orders came. Theofficers packed away their evening clothes in camphor and had theircampaign clothes put out to air, and got their mess-chests in order, and the post was alive with preparations for the field. All the familieswere to stay behind. The most famous Indian renegade was to be hunteddown, and serious fighting was looked for. 

At last all was ready, and the day was fixed for the departure of thetroops. 

The winter rains had set in, and the skies were grey, as the commandmarched down to the boat. 

The officers and soldiers were in their campaign clothes; the latter hadtheir blanket-rolls and haversacks slung over their shoulders, and theirtin cups, which hung from the haversacks, rattled and jingled as theymarched down in even columns of four, over the wet and grassy slopes ofthe parade ground, where so short a time before all had been glitter andsunshine. 

I realized then perhaps for the first time what the uniform really stoodfor; that every man who wore it, was going out to fight--that theyheld their lives as nothing. The glitter was all gone; nothing but sadreality remained. 

The officers' wives and the soldiers' wives followed the troops to thedock. The soldiers marched single file over the gang-plank of theboat, the officers said good-bye, the shrill whistle of the "GeneralMcPherson" sounded--and they were off. We leaned back against thecoal-sheds, and soldiers' and officers' wives alike all wept together. 

And now a season of gloom came upon us. The skies were dull and murkyand the rain poured down. 

Our old friend Bailey, who was left behind on account of illness, grewworse and finally his case was pronounced hopeless. His death added tothe deep gloom and sadness which enveloped us all. 

A few of the soldiers who had staid on the Island to take care of thepost, carried poor Bailey to the boat, his casket wrapped in the flagand followed by a little procession of women. I thought I had never seenanything so sad. 

The campaign lengthened out into months, but the California winters arenever very long, and before the troops came back the hills looked theirbrightest green again. The campaign had ended with no very seriouslosses to our troops and all was joyous again, until another order tookus from the sea-coast to the interior once more. 

CHAPTER XXIX. CHANGING STATION

It was the custom to change the stations of the different companies of aregiment about every two years. So the autumn of '82 found us on theway to Fort Halleck, a post in Nevada, but differing vastly from thedesolate MacDermit station. Fort Halleck was only thirteen miles southof the Overland Railroad, and lay near a spur of the Humboldt range. There were miles of sage-brush between the railroad and the post, butthe mountains which rose abruptly five thousand feet on the far side, made a magnificent background for the officers' quarters, which laynestled at the bottom of the foot-hills. 

"Oh! what a lovely post!" I cried, as we drove in. 

Major Sanford of the First Cavalry, with Captain Carr and LieutenantOscar Brown, received us. "Dear me, " I thought, "if the First Cavalry ismade up of such gallant men as these, the old Eighth Infantry will haveto look out for its laurels. "

Mrs. Sanford and Mrs. Carr gave us a great welcome and vied with eachother in providing for our comfort, and we were soon established. 

It was so good to see the gay yellow of the cavalry again! Now I rode, to my heart's content, and it was good to be alive; to see the cavalrydrill, and to ride through the canons, gorgeous in their flaming autumntints; then again to gallop through the sage-brush, jumping where wecould not turn, starting up rabbits by the score. 

That little old post, now long since abandoned, marked a pleasant epochin our life. From the ranches scattered around we could procure butterand squabs and young vegetables, and the soldiers cultivated greatgarden patches, and our small dinners and breakfasts live in delightfulmemory. 

At the end of two years spent so pleasantly with the people of the FirstCavalry, our company was again ordered to Angel Island. But a secondvery active campaign in Arizona and Mexico, against Geronimo, took oursoldiers away from us, and we passed through a period of considerableanxiety. June of '86 saw the entire regiment ordered to take station inArizona once more. 

We travelled to Tucson in a Pullman car. It was hot and uninteresting. I had been at Tucson nine years before, for a few hours, but the placeseemed unfamiliar. I looked for the old tavern; I saw only the railroadrestaurant. We went in to take breakfast, before driving out to thepost of Fort Lowell, seven miles away. Everything seemed changed. Icedcantaloupe was served by a spick-span alert waiter; then, quail ontoast. "Ice in Arizona?" It was like a dream, and I remarked to Jack, "This isn't the same Arizona we knew in '74, " and then, "I don't believeI like it as well, either; all this luxury doesn't seem to belong to theplace. "

After a drive behind some smart mules, over a flat stretch of sevenmiles, we arrived at Fort Lowell, a rather attractive post, with a longline of officers' quarters, before which ran a level road shaded bybeautiful great trees. We were assigned a half of one of these sets ofquarters, and as our half had no conveniences for house-keeping, itwas arranged that we should join a mess with General and Mrs. Kautz andtheir family. We soon got settled down to our life there, and we hadvarious recreations; among them, driving over to Tucson and riding onhorseback are those which I remember best. We made a few acquaintancesin Tucson, and they sometimes drove out in the evenings, or morefrequently rode out on horseback. Then we would gather together on theKautz piazza and everybody sang to the accompaniment of Mrs. Kautz'sguitar. It was very hot, of course; we had all expected that, but theluxuries obtainable through the coming of the railroad, such as ice, andvarious summer drinks, and lemons, and butter, helped out to make thesummer there more comfortable. 

We slept on the piazzas, which ran around the houses on a level with theground. At that time the fad for sleeping out of doors, at least amongstcivilized people, did not exist, and our arrangements were entirelyprimitive. 

Our quarters were surrounded by a small yard and a fence; the latter wasdilapidated, and the gate swung on one hinge. We were seven miles fromanywhere, and surrounded by a desolate country. I did not experience thefeeling of terror that I had had at Camp Apache, for instance, nor thegrewsome fear of the Ehrenberg grave-yard, nor the appalling fright Ihad known in crossing the Mogollon range or in driving through Sanford'sPass. But still there was a haunting feeling of insecurity which hungaround me especially at night. I was awfully afraid of snakes, and nosooner had we lain ourselves down on our cots to sleep, than I wouldhear a rustling among the dry leaves that had blown in under our beds. Then all would be still again; then a crackling and a rustling--in aflash I would be sitting up in bed. "Jack, do you hear that?" Of courseI did not dare to move or jump out of bed, so I would sit, rigid, scared. "Jack! what is it?" "Nonsense, Mattie, go to sleep; it'sthe toads jumping about in the leaves. " But my sleep was fitful anddisturbed, and I never knew what a good night's rest was. 

One night I was awakened by a tremendous snort right over my face. Iopened my eyes and looked into the wild eyes of a big black bull. Ithink I must have screamed, for the bull ran clattering off the piazzaand out through the gate. By this time Jack was up, and Harry andKatherine, who slept on the front piazza, came running out, and I said:"Well, this is the limit of all things, and if that gate isn't mendedto-morrow, I will know the reason why. "

Now I heard a vague rumor that there was a creature of this sort in ornear the post, and that he had a habit of wandering around at night, but as I had never seen him, it had made no great impression on my mind. Jack had a great laugh at me, but I did not think then, nor do I now, that it was anything to be laughed at. 

We had heard much of the old Mission of San Xavier del Bac, away theother side of Tucson. Mrs. Kautz decided to go over there and go intocamp and paint a picture of San Xavier. It was about sixteen miles fromFort Lowell. 

So all the camp paraphernalia was gotten ready and several of theofficers joined the party, and we all went over to San Xavier and campedfor a few days under the shadow of those beautiful old walls. ThisMission is almost unknown to the American traveler. 

Exquisite in color, form and architecture, it stands there a silentreminder of the Past. 

The curious carvings and paintings inside the church, and the preciousold vestments which were shown us by an ancient custodian, filledmy mind with wonder. The building is partly in ruins, and the littlesquirrels were running about the galleries, but the great dome isintact, and many of the wonderful figures which ornament it. Of coursewe know the Spanish built it about the middle or last of the sixteenthcentury, and that they tried to christianize the tribes of Indianswho lived around in the vicinity. But there is no sign of priest orcommunicant now, nothing but a desolate plain around it for miles. Noone can possibly understand how the building of this large and beautifulmission was accomplished, and I believe history furnishes very littleinformation. In its archives was found quite recently the charter givenby Ferdinand and Isabella, to establish the "pueblo" of Tucson about thebeginning of the 16th century. 

After a few delightful days, we broke camp and returned to Fort Lowell. 

And now the summer was drawing to a close, and we were anticipatingthe delights of the winter climate at Tucson, when, without a note ofwarning, came the orders for Fort Niobrara. We looked, appalled, in eachother's faces, the evening the telegram came, for we did not even knowwhere Fort Niobrara was. 

We all rushed into Major Wilhelm's quarters, for he always kneweverything. We (Mrs. Kautz and several of the other ladies of the post, and myself) were in a state of tremendous excitement. We pounded onMajor Wilhelm's door and we heard a faint voice from his bedroom (for itwas after ten o'clock); then we waited a few moments and he said, "Comein. "

We opened the door, but there being no light in his quarters we couldnot see him. A voice said: "What in the name of--" but we did notwait for him to finish; we all shouted: "Where is Fort Niobrara?" "TheDevil!" he said. "Are we ordered there?" "Yes, yes, " we cried; "where isit?" "Why, girls, " he said, relapsing into his customary moderate tones, "It's a hell of a freezing cold place, away up north in Nebraska. "

We turned our backs and went over to our quarters to have aconsultation, and we all retired with sad hearts. 

Now, just think of it! To come to Fort Lowell in July, only to move inNovember! What could it mean? It was hard to leave the sunny South, tospend the winter in those congealed regions in the North. We were butjust settled, and now came another break-up!

Our establishment now, with two children, several servants, two saddlehorses, and additional household furnishings, was not so simple asin the beginning of our army life, when three chests and a box or twocontained our worldly goods. Each move we made was more difficult thanthe last; our allowance of baggage did not begin to cover what we had totake along, and this added greatly to the expense of moving. 

The enormous waste attending a move, and the heavy outlay incurredin travelling and getting settled anew, kept us always poor; theseconsiderations increased our chagrin over this unexpected change ofstation. There was nothing to be done, however. Orders are relentless, even if they seem senseless, which this one did, to the women, at least, of the Eighth Infantry. 

CHAPTER XXX. FORT NIOBRARA

The journey itself, however, was not to be dreaded, although it was soundesired. It was entirely by rail across New Mexico and Kansas, toSt. Joseph, then up the Missouri River and then across the state tothe westward. Finally, after four or five days, we reached the smallfrontier town of Valentine, in the very northwest corner of the bleakand desolate state of Nebraska. The post of Niobrara was four milesaway, on the Niobrara (swift water) River. 

Some officers of the Ninth Cavalry met us at the station with the postambulances. There were six companies of our regiment, with headquartersand band. 

It was November, and the drive across the rolling prairie-land gave usa fair glimpse of the country around. We crossed the old bridge over theNiobrara River, and entered the post. The snow lay already on the brownand barren hills, and the place struck a chill to my heart. 

The Ninth Cavalry took care of all the officers' families until wecould get established. Lieutenant Bingham, a handsome anddistinguished-looking young bachelor, took us with our two childrento his quarters, and made us delightfully at home. His quarters wereluxuriously furnished, and he was altogether adorable. This, to be sure, helped to soften my first harsh impressions of the place. 

Quarters were not very plentiful, and we were compelled to take a houseoccupied by a young officer of the Ninth. What base ingratitude itseemed, after the kindness we had accepted from his regiment! Butthere was no help for it. We secured a colored cook, who proved a verytreasure, and on inquiring how she came to be in those wilds, I learnedthat she had accompanied a young heiress who eloped with a cavalrylieutenant, from her home in New York some years before. 

What a contrast was here, and what a cruel contrast! With blood thinneddown by the enervating summer at Tucson, here we were, thrust into thepolar regions! Ice and snow and blizzards, blizzards and snow and ice!The mercury disappeared at the bottom of the thermometer, and we hadnothing to mark any degrees lower than 40 below zero. Human calculationshad evidently stopped there. Enormous box stoves were in every room andin the halls; the old-fashioned sort that we used to see in school-roomsand meeting-houses in New England. Into these, the soldiers stuffedgreat logs of mountain mahogany, and the fires were kept roaring day andnight. 

A board walk ran in front of the officers' quarters, and, desperate forfresh air and exercise, some of the ladies would bundle up and go towalk. But frozen chins, ears and elbows soon made this undesirable, andwe gave up trying the fresh air, unless the mercury rose to 18 below, when a few of us would take our daily promenade. 

We could not complain of our fare, however, for our larder hung full ofall sorts of delicate and delicious things, brought in by the grangers, and which we were glad to buy. Prairie-chickens, young pigs, venison, and ducks, all hanging, to be used when desired. 

To frappe a bottle of wine, we stood it on the porch; in a few minutesit would pour crystals. House-keeping was easy, but keeping warm wasdifficult. 

It was about this time that the law was passed abolishing thepost-trader's store, and forbidding the selling of whiskey to soldierson a Government reservation. The pleasant canteen, or Post Exchange, thesoldiers' club-room, was established, where the men could go to relievethe monotony of their lives. 

With the abolition of whiskey, the tone of the post improved greatly;the men were contented with a glass of beer or light wine, the canteenwas well managed, so the profits went back into the company messes inthe shape of luxuries heretofore unknown; billiards and reading-roomswere established; and from that time on, the canteen came to beregarded in the army as a most excellent institution. The men gained inself-respect; the canteen provided them with a place where they couldgo and take a bite of lunch, read, chat, smoke, or play games with theirown chosen friends, and escape the lonesomeness of the barracks. 

But, alas! this condition of things was not destined to endure, for thewomen of the various Temperance societies, in their mistaken zealand woeful ignorance of the soldiers' life, succeeded in influencinglegislation to such an extent that the canteen, in its turn, wasabolished; with what dire results, we of the army all know. 

Those estimable women of the W. C. T. U. Thought to do good to the army, no doubt, but through their pitiful ignorance of the soldiers' needsthey have done him an incalculable harm. 

Let them stay by their lectures and their clubs, I say, and their otheramusements; let them exercise their good influences nearer home, with aclass of people whose conditions are understood by them, where they can, no doubt, do worlds of good. 

They cannot know the drear monotony of the barracks life on the frontierin times of peace. I have lived close by it, and I know it well. Aceaseless round of drill and work and lessons, and work and lessons anddrill--no recreation, no excitement, no change. 

Far away from family and all home companionship, a man longs for somepleasant place to go, after the day's work is done. Perhaps these womenthink (if, in their blind enthusiasm, they think at all) that a youngsoldier or an old soldier needs no recreation. At all events, they havetaken from him the only one he had, the good old canteen, and given himnothing in return. 

Now Fort Niobrara was a large post. There were ten companies, cavalryand infantry, General August V. Kautz, the Colonel of the EighthInfantry, in command. 

And here, amidst the sand-hills of Nebraska, we first began to reallyknow our Colonel. A man of strong convictions and abiding honesty, asoldier who knew his profession thoroughly, having not only achieveddistinction in the Civil War, but having served when little more than aboy, in the Mexican War of 1846. Genial in his manners, brave and kind, he was beloved by all. 

The three Kautz children, Frankie, Austin, and Navarra, were theinseparable companions of our own children. There was a small schoolfor the children of the post, and a soldier by the name of Delany wasschoolmaster. He tried hard to make our children learn, but they did notwish to study, and spent all their spare time in planning tricks to beplayed upon poor Delany. It was a difficult situation for thesoldier. Finally, the two oldest Kautz children were sent East toboarding-school, and we also began to realize that something must bedone. 

Our surroundings during the early winter, it is true, had been drearyenough, but as the weather softened a bit and the spring approached, thepost began to wake up. 

In the meantime, Cupid had not been idle. It was observed that Mr. Bingham, our gracious host of the Ninth Cavalry, had fallen in love withAntoinette, the pretty and attractive daughter of Captain Lynch of ourown regiment, and the post began to be on the qui vive to see how theaffair would end, for nobody expects to see the course of true love runsmooth. In their case, however, the Fates were kind and in due time thehappy engagement was announced. 

We had an excellent amusement hall, with a fine floor for dancing. Thechapel was at one end, and a fairly good stage was at the other. 

Being nearer civilization now, in the state of Nebraska, Uncle Samprovided us with a chaplain, and a weekly service was held by theAnglican clergyman--a tall, well-formed man, a scholar and, as we say, agentleman. He wore the uniform of the army chaplain, and as far as lookswent could hold his own with any of the younger officers. And it was agreat comfort to the church people to have this weekly service. 

During the rest of the time, the chapel was concealed by heavy curtains, and the seats turned around facing the stage. 

We had a good string orchestra of twenty or more pieces, and as therewere a number of active young bachelors at the post, a series of weeklydances was inaugurated. Never did I enjoy dancing more than at thistime. 

Then Mrs. Kautz, who was a thorough music lover and had a cultivatedtaste as well as a trained and exquisite voice, gave several musicales, for which much preparation was made, and which were most delightful. These were given at the quarters of General Kautz, a long, low, ramblingone-story house, arranged with that artistic taste for which Mrs. Kautzwas distinguished. 

Then came theatricals, all managed by Mrs. Kautz, whose talents wereversatile. 

We charged admission, for we needed some more scenery, and theneighboring frontier town of Valentine came riding and driving overthe prairie and across the old bridge of the Niobrara River, to see ourplays. We had a well-lighted stage. Our methods were primitive, as therewas no gas or electricity there in those days, but the results weregood, and the histrionic ability shown by some of our young men andwomen seemed marvellous to us. 

I remember especially Bob Emmet's acting, which moved me to tears, in amost pathetic love scene. I thought, "What has the stage lost, in thisgifted man!"

But he is of a family whose talents are well known, and his personality, no doubt, added much to his natural ability as an actor. 

Neither the army nor the stage can now claim this brilliant cavalryofficer, as he was induced, by urgent family reasons, shortly after theperiod of which I am writing, to resign his commission and retire toprivate life, at the very height of his ambitious career. 

And now the summer came on apace. A tennis-court was made, and addedgreatly to our amusement. We were in the saddle every day, and thecountry around proved very attractive at this season, both for ridingand driving. 

But all this gayety did not content me, for the serious question ofeducation for our children now presented itself; the question which, sooner or later, presents itself to the minds of all the parents of armychildren. It is settled differently by different people. It had taken ayear for us to decide. 

I made up my mind that the first thing to be done was to take thechildren East and then decide on schools afterwards. So our plans werecompleted and the day of departure fixed upon. Jack was to remain at thePost. 

About an hour before I was to leave I saw the members of the stringorchestra filing across the parade ground, coming directly towards ourquarters. My heart began to beat faster, as I realized that Mrs. Kautzhad planned a serenade for me. I felt it was a great break in my armylife, but I did not know I was leaving the old regiment forever, theregiment with which I had been associated for so many years. And as Ilistened to the beautiful strains of the music I loved so well, myeyes were wet with tears, and after all the goodbye's were said, to theofficers and their wives, my friends who had shared all our joys and oursorrows in so many places and under so many conditions, I ran out tothe stable and pressed my cheek against the soft warm noses of our twosaddle horses. I felt that life was over for me, and nothing but workand care remained. I say I felt all this. It must have been premonition, for I had no idea that I was leaving the line of the army forever. 

The ambulance was at the door, to take us to Valentine, where I badeJack good bye, and took the train for the East. His last promise was tovisit us once a year, or whenever he could get a leave of absence. 

My husband had now worn the single bar on his shoulder-strap for elevenyears or more; before that, the straps of the second lieutenant hadadorned his broad shoulders for a period quite as long. Twenty-twoyears a lieutenant in the regular army, after fighting, in a volunteerregiment of his own state, through the four years of the Civil War! The"gallant and meritorious service" for which he had received brevets, seemed, indeed, to have been forgotten. He had grown grey in Indiancampaigns, and it looked as if the frontier might always be the home ofthe senior lieutenant of the old Eighth. Promotion in that regiment hadbeen at a standstill for years. 

Being in Washington for a short time towards mid-winter enjoying thesocial side of military life at the Capital, an opportunity came to meto meet President Cleveland, and although his administration was nearingits close, and the stress of official cares was very great, he seemed tohave leisure and interest to ask me about my life on the frontier; andas the conversation became quite personal, the impulse seized me, totell him just how I felt about the education of our children, and thento tell him what I thought and what others thought about the unjustway in which the promotions and retirements in our regiment had beenmanaged. 

He listened with the greatest interest and seemed pleased with myfrankness. He asked me what the soldiers and officers out there thoughtof "So and So. " "They hate him, " I said. 

Whereupon he laughed outright and I knew I had committed anindiscretion, but life on the frontier does not teach one diplomacyof speech, and by that time I was nerved up to say just what I felt, regardless of results. 

"Well, " he said, smiling, "I am afraid I cannot interfere much withthose military matters;" then, pointing with his left hand and thumbtowards the War Department, "they fix them all up over there in theAdjutant General's office, " he added. 

Then he asked me many more questions; if I had always stayed out therewith my husband, and why I did not live in the East, as so manyarmy women did; and all the time I could hear the dull thud of thecarpenters' hammers, for they were building even then the board seatsfor the public who would witness the inaugural ceremonies of hissuccessor, and with each stroke of the hammer, his face seemed to growmore sad. 

I felt the greatness of the man; his desire to be just and good: hismarvellous personal power, his ability to understand and to sympathize, and when I parted from him he said again laughingly, "Well, I shall notforget your husband's regiment, and if anything turns up for those finemen you have told me about, they will hear from me. " And I knew theywere the words of a man, who meant what he said. 

In the course of our conversation he had asked, "Who are these men? Dothey ever come to Washington? I rarely have these things explained to meand I have little time to interfere with the decisions of the AdjutantGeneral's office. "

I replied: "No, Mr. President, they are not the men you see aroundWashington. Our regiment stays on the frontier, and these men are theones who do the fighting, and you people here in Washington are apt toforget all about them. "

"What have they ever done? Were they in the Civil War?" he asked. 

"Their records stand in black and white in the War Department, " Ireplied, "if you have the interest to learn more about them. "

"Women's opinions are influenced by their feelings, " he said. 

"Mine are based upon what I know, and I am prepared to stand by myconvictions, " I replied. 

Soon after this interview, I returned to New York and I did not give thematter very much further thought, but my impression of the greatness ofMr. Cleveland and of his powerful personality has remained with me tothis day. 

A vacancy occurred about this time in the Quartermaster's Department, and the appointment was eagerly sought for by many Lieutenants of thearmy. President Cleveland saw fit to give the appointment to LieutenantSummerhayes, making him a Captain and Quartermaster, and then, anothervacancy occurring shortly after, he appointed Lieutenant John McEwenHyde to be also a Captain and Quartermaster. 

Lieutenant Hyde stood next in rank to my husband and had grown grey inthe old Eighth Infantry. So the regiment came in for its honor at last, and General Kautz, when the news of the second appointment reached him, exclaimed, "Well! well! does the President think my regiment a nurseryfor the Staff?"

The Eighth Foot and the Ninth Horse at Niobrara gave the new Captain andQuartermaster a rousing farewell, for now my husband was leaving his oldregiment forever; and, while he appreciated fully the honor of his newstaff position, he felt a sadness at breaking off the associations ofso many years--a sadness which can scarcely be understood by the youngofficers of the present day, who are promoted from one regiment toanother, and rarely remain long enough with one organization to knoweven the men of their own Company. 

There were many champagne suppers, dinners and card-parties given forhim, to make the good-bye something to be remembered, and at the end ofa week's festivities, he departed by a night train from Valentine, thuseluding the hospitality of those generous but wild frontiersmen, whowere waiting to give him what they call out there a "send-off. "

For Valentine was like all frontier towns; a row of stores and saloons. The men who kept them were generous, if somewhat rough. One of theofficers of the post, having occasion to go to the railroad station oneday at Valentine, saw the body of a man hanging to a telegraph pole ashort distance up the track. He said to the station man: "What does thatmean?" (nodding his head in the direction of the telegraph pole). 

"Why, it means just this, " said the station man, "the people who hungthat man last night had the nerve to put him right in front of thisplace, by G--. What would the passengers think of this town, sir, asthey went by? Why, the reputation of Valentine would be ruined! Yes, sir, we cut him down and moved him up a pole or two. He was a hard case, though, " he added. 

CHAPTER XXXI. SANTA FE

I made haste to present Captain Summerhayes with the shoulder-straps ofhis new rank, when he joined me in New York. 

*****

The orders for Santa Fe reached us in mid-summer at Nantucket. I knewabout as much of Santa Fe as the average American knows, and that wasnothing; but I did know that the Staff appointment solved the problem ofeducation for us (for Staff officers are usually stationed in cities), and I knew that our frontier life was over. I welcomed the change, forour children were getting older, and we were ourselves approaching theage when comfort means more to one than it heretofore has. 

Jack obeyed his sudden orders, and I followed him as soon as possible. 

Arriving at Santa Fe in the mellow sunlight of an October day, we weremet by my husband and an officer of the Tenth Infantry, and as we droveinto the town, its appearance of placid content, its ancient buildings, its great trees, its clear air, its friendly, indolent-lookinginhabitants, gave me a delightful feeling of home. A mysterious charmseemed to possess me. It was the spell which that old town loves tothrow over the strangers who venture off the beaten track to come withinher walls. 

Lying only eighteen miles away, over a small branch road from Llamy(a station on the Atchison and Topeka Railroad), few people take thetrouble to stop over to visit it. "Dead old town, " says the commercialtraveller, "nothing doing there. "

And it is true. 

But no spot that I have visited in this country has thrown around methe spell of enchantment which held me fast in that sleepy and historictown. 

The Governor's Palace, the old plaza, the ancient churches, theantiquated customs, the Sisters' Hospital, the old Convent of Our Ladyof Loretto, the soft music of the Spanish tongue, I loved them all. 

There were no factories; no noise was ever heard; the sun shonepeacefully on, through winter and summer alike. There was no cold, no heat, but a delightful year-around climate. Why the place was notcrowded with health seekers, was a puzzle to me. I had thought that thebay of San Francisco offered the most agreeable climate in America, but, in the Territory of New Mexico, Santa Fe was the perfection of allclimates combined. 

The old city lies in the broad valley of the Santa Fe Creek, but thevalley of the Santa Fe Creek lies seven thousand feet above thesea level. I should never have known that we were living at a greataltitude, if I had not been told, for the equable climate made us forgetto inquire about height or depth or distance. 

I listened to old Father de Fourri preach his short sermons in Englishto the few Americans who sat on one side of the aisle, in the church ofOur Lady of Guadaloupe; then, turning with an easy gesture towards hisMexican congregation, who sat or knelt near the sanctuary, and saying, "Hermanos mios, " he gave the same discourse in good Spanish. I feltcomfortable in the thought that I was improving my Spanish as well asprofiting by Father de Fourri's sound logic. This good priest had grownold at Santa Fe in the service of his church. 

The Mexican women, with their black ribosos wound around their heads andconcealing their faces, knelt during the entire mass, and made many longresponses in Latin. 

After years spent in a heathenish manner, as regards all churchobservations, this devout and unique service, following the customs ofancient Spain, was interesting to me in the extreme. 

Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon I attended Vespers in the chapel ofthe Sisters' Hospital (as it was called). A fine Sanitarium, managedentirely by the Roman Catholic Sisters of Charity. 

Sister Victoria, who was at the head of the management, was not only avery beautiful woman, but she had an agreeable voice and always led inthe singing. 

It seemed like Heaven. 

I wrote to my friends in the East to come to the Sisters' Hospital ifthey wanted health, peace and happiness, for it was surely to be foundthere. I visited the convent of Our Lady of Loretto: I stood before ahigh wall in an embrasure of which there was a low wooden gate; I pulledon a small knotted string which hung out of a little hole, and aqueer old bell rang. Then one of the nuns came and let me in, across abeautiful garden to the convent school. I placed my little daughter asa day pupil there, as she was now eleven years old. The nuns spoke verylittle English and the children none at all. 

The entire city was ancient, Spanish, Catholic, steeped in a religiousatmosphere and in what the average American Protestant would callthe superstitions of the dark ages. There were endless fiestas, andprocessions and religious services, I saw them all and became muchinterested in reading the history of the Catholic missions, establishedso early out through what was then a wild and unexplored country. Afterthat, I listened with renewed interest to old Father de Fouri, who hadtended and led his flock of simple people so long and so lovingly. 

There was a large painting of Our Lady of Guadaloupe over thealtar--these people firmly believed that she had appeared to them, onthe earth, and so strong was the influence around me that I began almostto believe it too. I never missed the Sunday morning mass, and I fell ineasily with the religious observances. 

I read and studied about the old explorers, and I seemed to live inthe time of Cortez and his brave band. I became acquainted with AdolfBandelier, who had lived for years in that country, engaged in researchfor the American Archaeological Society. I visited the Indian pueblos, those marvellous structures of adobe, where live entire tribes, and sawnatives who have not changed their manner of speech or dress since thedays when the Spaniards first penetrated to their curious dwellings, three hundred or more years ago. I climbed the rickety ladders, by whichone enters these strange dwellings, and bought the great bowls whichthese Indians shape in some manner without the assistance of a potter'swheel, and then bake in their mud ovens. 

The pueblo of Tesuque is only nine miles from Santa Fe, and a pleasantdrive, at that; it seemed strange to me that the road was not linedwith tourists. But no, they pass all these wonders by, in theirdisinclination to go off the beaten track. 

Visiting the pueblos gets to be a craze. Governor and Mrs. Prince knewthem all--the pueblo of Taos, of Santa Clara, San Juan, and others; andthe Governor's collection of great stone idols was a marvel indeed. He kept them laid out on shelves, which resembled the bunks on agreat vessel, and in an apartment especially reserved for them, in hisresidence at Santa Fe, and it was always with considerable awe thatI entered that apartment. The Governor occupied at that time a low, rambling adobe house, on Palace Avenue, and this, with its thick wallsand low window-seats, made a fit setting for the treasures they hadgathered. 

Later on, the Governor's family occupied the palace (as it is alwayscalled) of the old Spanish Viceroy, a most ancient, picturesque, yetdignified building, facing the plaza. 

The various apartments in this old palace were used for Governmentoffices when we were stationed there in 1889, and in one of these rooms, General Lew Wallace, a few years before, had written his famous book, "Ben Hur. "

On the walls were hanging old portraits painted by the Spaniards inthe sixteenth century. They were done on rawhide, and whether theseinteresting and historic pictures have been preserved by our GovernmentI do not know. 

The distinguished Anglican clergyman living there taught a small classof boys, and the "Academy, " an excellent school established by thePresbyterian Board of Missions, afforded good advantages for the younggirls of the garrison. And as we had found that the Convent of Lorettowas not just adapted to the education of an American child, we withdrewKatharine from that school and placed her at the Presbyterian Academy. 

To be sure, the young woman teacher gave a rousing lecture on totalabstinence once a week; going even so far as to say, that to partake ofapple sauce which had begun to ferment was yielding to the temptationsof Satan. The young woman's arguments made a disastrous impressionupon our children's minds; so much so, that the rich German Jews whosedaughters attended the school complained greatly; for, as they told us, these girls would hasten to snatch the decanters from the sideboard, at the approach of visitors, and hide them, and they began to sitin judgment upon their elders. Now these men were among the leadingcitizens of the town; they were self-respecting and wealthy. They couldnot stand these extreme doctrines, so opposed to their life and theirtraditions. We informed Miss X. One day that she could excuse ourchildren from the total abstinence lecture, or we should be compelledto withdraw them from the school. She said she could not compel them tolisten, but preach she must. She remained obedient to her orders fromthe Board, and we could but respect her for that. Our young daughterswere, however, excused from the lecture. 

But our time was not entirely given up to the study of ancient pottery, for the social life there was delightful. The garrison was in the centreof the town, the houses were comfortable, and the streets shaded by oldtrees. The Tenth Infantry had its headquarters and two companies there. Every afternoon, the military band played in the Plaza, where everybodywent and sat on benches in the shade of the old trees, or, if cool, inthe delightful sunshine. The pretty and well-dressed senoritas cast shyglances at the young officers of the Tenth; but, alas! the handsomeand attractive Lieutenants Van Vliet and Seyburn, and the more sedateLieutenant Plummer, could not return these bewitching glances, as theywere all settled in life. 

The two former officers had married in Detroit, and both Mrs. Van Vlietand Mrs. Seyburn did honor to the beautiful city of Michigan, for theywere most agreeable and clever women, and presided over their army homeswith distinguished grace and hospitality. 

The Americans who lived there were all professional people; mostlylawyers, and a few bankers. I could not understand why so many Easternlawyers lived there. I afterwards learned that the old Spanish landgrants had given rise to illimitable and never-ending litigation. 

Every morning we rode across country. There were no fences, but the wideirrigation ditches gave us a plenty of excitement, and the riding wasglorious. I had no occasion yet to realize that we had left the line ofthe army. 

A camping trip to the head-waters of the Pecos, where we caught speckledtrout in great abundance in the foaming riffles and shallow poolsof this rushing mountain stream, remaining in camp a week under thespreading boughs of the mighty pines, added to the variety and delightsof our life there. 

With such an existence as this, good health and diversion, the timepassed rapidly by. 

It was against the law now for soldiers to marry; the old days of"laundresses" had passed away. But the trombone player of the TenthInfantry band (a young Boston boy) had married a wife, and now a babyhad come to them. They could get no quarters, so we took the family in, and, as the wife was an excellent cook, we were able to give many smalldinners. The walls of the house being three feet thick, we were nevertroubled by the trombone practice or the infant's cries. And many adelightful evening we had around the board, with Father de Fourri, Rev. Mr. Meany (the Anglican clergyman), the officers and ladies of theTenth, Governor and Mrs. Prince, and the brilliant lawyer folk of SantaFe. 

Such an ideal life cannot last long; this existence of ours does notseem to be contrived on those lines. At the end of a year, orders camefor Texas, and perhaps it was well that orders came, or we might be inSanta Fe to-day, wrapt in a dream of past ages; for the city of the HolyFaith had bound us with invisible chains. 

With our departure from Santa Fe, all picturesqueness came to an end inour army life. Ever after that, we had really good houses to live in, which had all modern arrangements; we had beautiful, well-kept lawnsand gardens, the same sort of domestic service that civilians have, andlived almost the same life. 

CHAPTER XXXII. TEXAS

Whenever I think of San Antonio and Fort Sam Houston, the perfume of thewood violet which blossomed in mid-winter along the borders of our lawn, and the delicate odor of the Cape jessamine, seem to be wafted about me. 

Fort Sam Houston is the Headquarters of the Department of Texas, and allthe Staff officers live there, in comfortable stone houses, with broadlawns shaded by chinaberry trees. Then at the top of the hill is a greatquadrangle, with a clock tower and all the department offices. On theother side of this quadrangle is the post, where the line officers live. 

General Stanley commanded the Department. A fine, dignified and ableman, with a great record as an Indian fighter. Jack knew him well, ashe had been with him in the first preliminary survey for the northernPacific Railroad, when he drove old Sitting Bull back to the PowderRiver. 

He was now about to reach the age of retirement; and as the dayapproached, that day when a man has reached the limit of his usefulness(in the opinion of an ever-wise Government), that day which sounds theknell of active service, that day so dreaded and yet so longed for, thatday when an army officer is sixty-four years old and Uncle Sam lays himupon the shelf, as that day approached, the city of San Antonio, in factthe entire State of Texas poured forth to bid him Godspeed; for if everan army man was beloved, it was General Stanley by the State of Texas. 

Now on the other side of the great quadrangle lay the post, where werethe soldiers' barracks and quarters of the line officers. This wascommanded by Colonel Coppinger, a gallant officer, who had fought inmany wars in many countries. 

He had his famous regiment, the Twenty-third Infantry, and many werethe pleasant dances and theatricals we had, with the music furnishedby their band; for, as it was a time of peace, the troops were all ingarrison. 

Major Burbank was there also, with his well-drilled Light Battery of the3rd Artillery. 

My husband, being a Captain and Quartermaster, served directly underGeneral George H. Weeks, who was Chief Quartermaster of the Department, and I can never forget his kindness to us both. He was one of the bestmen I ever knew, in the army or out of it, and came to be one of mydearest friends. He possessed the sturdy qualities of his Puritanancestry, united with the charming manners of an aristocrat. 

We belonged, of course, now, with the Staff, and something, anintangible something, seemed to have gone out of the life. The officerswere all older, and the Staff uniforms were more sombre. I missedthe white stripe of the infantry, and the yellow of the cavalry. Theshoulder-straps all had gold eagles or leaves on them, instead ofthe Captains' or Lieutenants' bars. Many of the Staff officers worecivilians' clothes, which distressed me much, and I used to tell themthat if I were Secretary of War they would not be permitted to go aboutin black alpaca coats and cinnamon-brown trousers. 

"What would you have us do?" said General Weeks. 

"Wear white duck and brass buttons, " I replied. 

"Fol-de-rol!" said the fine-looking and erect Chief Quartermaster; "youwould have us be as vain as we were when we were Lieutenants?"

"You can afford to be, " I answered; for, even with his threescore years, he had retained the lines of youth, and was, in my opinion, the finestlooking man in the Staff of the Army. 

But all my reproaches and all my diplomacy were of no avail in reformingthe Staff. Evidently comfort and not looks was their motto. 

One day, I accidentally caught a side view of myself in a long mirror(long mirrors had not been very plentiful on the frontier), and wasappalled by the fact that my own lines corresponded but too well, alas!with those of the Staff. Ah, me! were the days, then, of Lieutenantsforever past and gone? The days of suppleness and youth, the carelessgay days, when there was no thought for the future, no anxiety abouteducation, when the day began with a wild dash across country and endedwith a dinner and dance---were they over, then, for us all?

Major Burbank's battery of light artillery came over and enlivened thequiet of our post occasionally with their brilliant red color. At thosetimes, we all went out and stood in the music pavilion to watch thedrill; and when his horses and guns and caissons thundered down the hilland swept by us at a terrific gallop, our hearts stood still. Even thedignified Staff permitted themselves a thrill, and as for us women, ourexcitement knew no bounds. 

The brilliant red of the artillery brought color to the rather greyaspect of the quiet Headquarters post, and the magnificent drillsupplied the martial element so dear to a woman's heart. 

In San Antonio, the New has almost obliterated the Old, and littleremains except its pretty green river, its picturesque bridges, and thehistoric Alamo, to mark it from other cities in the Southwest. 

In the late afternoon, everybody drove to the Plaza, where all thecountry people were selling their garden-stuff and poultry in the opensquare. This was charming, and we all bought live fowl and drovehome again. One heard cackling and gobbling from the smart traps andvictorias, and it seemed to be a survival of an old custom. The wholetown took a drive after that, and supped at eight o'clock. 

The San Antonio people believe there is no climate to equal theirs, andtalk much about the cool breezes from the Gulf of Mexico, which is somemiles away. But I found seven months of the twelve too hot for comfort, and I could never detect much coolness in the summer breezes. 

After I settled down to the sedateness which is supposed to belong tothe Staff, I began to enjoy life very much. There is compensation forevery loss, and I found, with the new friends, many of whom had livedtheir lives, and had known sorrow and joy, a true companionship whichenriched my life, and filled the days with gladness. 

My son had completed the High School course in San Antonio, under anable German master, and had been sent East to prepare for the StevensInstitute of Technology, and in the following spring I took my daughterKatharine and fled from the dreaded heat of a Texas summer. Never can Iforget the child's grief on parting from her Texas pony. She extorted asolemn promise from her father, who was obliged to stay in Texas, thathe would never part with him. 

My brother, then unmarried, and my sister Harriet were living togetherin New Rochelle and to them we went. Harry's vacation enabled him to bewith us, and we had a delightful summer. It was good to be on the shoresof Long Island Sound. 

In the autumn, not knowing what next was in store for us, I placed mydear little Katharine at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Kenwoodon the Hudson, that she might be able to complete her education in oneplace, and in the care of those lovely, gentle and refined ladies ofthat order. 

Shortly after that, Captain Jack was ordered to David's Island, NewYork Harbor (now called Fort Slocum), where we spent four happy anduninterrupted years, in the most constant intercourse with my dearbrother and sister. 

Old friends were coming and going all the time, and it seemed so good tous to be living in a place where this was possible. 

Captain Summerhayes was constructing officer and had a busy life, withall the various sorts of building to be done there. 

David's Island was then an Artillery Post, and there were severalbatteries stationed there. (Afterwards it became a recruiting station. )The garrison was often entirely changed. At one time, General Henry C. Cook was in command. He and his charming Southern wife added so much tothe enjoyment of the post. Then came our old friends the Van Vliets ofSanta Fe days; and Dr. And Mrs. Valery Havard, who are so well known inthe army, and then Colonel Carl Woodruff and Mrs. Woodruff, whom we allliked so much, and dear Doctor Julian Cabell, and others, who completeda delightful garrison. 

And we had a series of informal dances and invited the distinguishedmembers of the artist colony from New Rochelle, and it was at one ofthese dances that I first met Frederic Remington. I had long admired hiswork and had been most anxious to meet him. As a rule, Frederic didnot attend any social functions, but he loved the army, and as Mrs. Remington was fond of social life, they were both present at our firstlittle invitation dance. 

About the middle of the evening I noticed Mr. Remington sitting aloneand I crossed the hall and sat down beside him. I then told him how muchI had loved his work and how it appealed to all army folks, and howglad I was to know him, and I suppose I said many other things suchas literary men and painters and players often have to hear fromenthusiastic women like myself. However, Frederic seemed pleased, andmade some modest little speech and then fell into an abstracted silence, gazing on the great flag which was stretched across the hall at oneend, and from behind which some few soldiers who were going to assistin serving the supper were passing in and out. I fell in with his moodimmediately, as he was a person with whom formality was impossible, andsaid: "What are you looking at, Mr. Remington?" He replied, turningupon me his round boyish face and his blue eyes gladdening, "I wasjust thinking I wished I was behind in there where those blue jacketsare--you know--behind that flag with the soldiers--those are the menI like to study, you know, I don't like all this fuss and feathers ofsociety"--then, blushing at his lack of gallantry, he added: "It's allright, of course, pretty women and all that, and I suppose you think I'mdreadful and--do you want me to dance with you--that's the proper thinghere isn't it?" Whereupon, he seized me in his great arms and whirled mearound at a pace I never dreamed of, and, once around, he said, "that'senough of this thing, isn't it, let's sit down, I believe I'm going tolike you, though I'm not much for women. " I said "You must come overhere often;" and he replied, "You've got a lot of jolly good fellowsover here and I will do it. "

Afterwards, the Remingtons and ourselves became the closest friends. Mrs. Remington's maiden name was Eva Caton, and after the first fewmeetings, she became "little Eva" to me--and if ever there was anembodiment of that gentle lovely name and what it implies, it is thiswoman, the wife of the great artist, who has stood by him through allthe reverses of his early life and been, in every sense, his guidingstar. 

And now began visits to the studio, a great room he had built on to hishouse at New Rochelle. It had an enormous fire place where great logswere burned, and the walls were hung with the most rare and wonderfulIndian curios. There he did all the painting which has made him famousin the last twenty years, and all the modelling which has already becomeso well known and would have eventually made him a name as a greatsculptor. He always worked steadily until three o'clock and thenthere was a walk or game of tennis or a ride. After dinner, delightfulevenings in the studio. 

Frederic was a student and a deep thinker. He liked to solve allquestions for himself and did not accept readily other men's theories. He thought much on religious subjects and the future life, and liked tocompare the Christian religion with the religions of Eastern countries, weighing them one against the other with fairness and clear logic. 

And so we sat, many evenings into the night, Frederic and Jack stretchedin their big leather chairs puffing away at their pipes, Eva with herneedlework, and myself a rapt listener: wondering at this man of genius, who could work with his creative brush all day long and talk with theeloquence of a learned Doctor of Divinity half the night. 

During the time we were stationed at Davids Island, Mr. Remington andJack made a trip to the Southwest, where they shot the peccary (wildhog) in Texas and afterwards blue quail and other game in Mexico. Artist and soldier, they got on famously together notwithstanding thedifference in their ages. 

And now he was going to try his hand at a novel, a real romance. Wetalked a good deal about the little Indian boy, and I got to love WhiteWeasel long before he appeared in print as John Ermine. The book cameout after we had left New Rochelle--but I received a copy from him, andwrote him my opinion of it, which was one of unstinted praise. But itdid not surprise me to learn that he did not consider it a success froma financial point of view. 

"You see, " he said a year afterwards, "that sort of thing does notinterest the public. What they want, "--here he began to mimic some funnyold East Side person, and both hands gesticulating--"is a back yard anda cabbage patch and a cook stove and babies' clothes drying beside it, you see, Mattie, " he said. "They don't want to know anything about theIndian or the half-breed, or what he thinks or believes. " And then hewent off into one of his irresistible tirades combining ridicule andabuse of the reading public, in language such as only Frederic Remingtoncould use before women and still retain his dignity. "Well, Frederic, " Isaid, "I will try to recollect that, when I write my experiences of ArmyLife. "

In writing him my opinion of his book the year before, I had said, "Infact, I am in love with John Ermine. " The following Christmas he sent methe accompanying card. 

Now the book was dramatized and produced, with Hackett as John Ermine, at the Globe Theatre in September of 1902--the hottest weather ever onrecord in Boston at that season. Of course seats were reserved for us;we were living at Nantucket that year, and we set sail at noon to seethe great production. We snatched a bite of supper at a near-by hotel inBoston and hurried to the theatre, but being late, had some difficultyin getting our seats. 

The curtain was up and there sat Hackett, not with long yellow hair(which was the salient point in the half-breed scout) but ratherwell-groomed, looking more like a parlor Indian than a real livehalf-breed, such as all we army people knew. I thought "this will neverdo. "

The house was full, Hackett did the part well, and the audience murmuredon going out: "a very artistic success. " But the play was too mystical, too sad. It would have suited the "New Theatre" patrons better. I wrotehim from Nantucket and criticized one or two minor points, such as the1850 riding habits of the women, which were slouchy and unbecoming andmade the army people look like poor emigrants and I received this letterin reply:

WEBSTER AVENUE, NEW ROCHELLE, N. Y. 

My dear Mrs. S. , Much obliged for your talk--it is just what we want--proper impressions. 

I fought for that long hair but the management said the audience has gotto, have some Hackett--why I could not see--but he is a matinee idol andthat long with the box office. 

We'll dress Katherine up better. 

The long rehearsals at night nearly killed me--I was completely done upand came home on train Monday in that terrific heat and now I am in thehands of a doctor. Imagine me a week without sleep. 

Hope that fight took Jack back to his youth. For the stage I don't thinkit was bad. We'll get grey shirts on their men later. 

The old lady arrives to-day--she has been in Gloversville. 

I think the play will go--but, we may have to save Ermine. The public isa funny old cat and won't stand for the mustard. 

Well, glad you had a good time and of course you can't charge me up withthe heat. 

Yours, FREDERICK R. 

Remington made a trip to the Yellowstone Park and this is what he wroteto Jack. His letters were never dated. 

My dear Summerhayes:

Say if you could get a few puffs of this cold air out here you wouldthink you were full of champagne water. I feel like a d--- kid--

I thought I should never be young again--but here I am only 14 yearsold--my whiskers are falling out. 

Capt. Brown of the 1st cav. Wishes to be remembered to you both. He isPark Superintendent. Says if you will come out here he will take care ofyou and he would. 

Am painting and doing some good work. Made a "govt. Six" yesterday. 

In the course of time, he bought an Island in the St. Lawrence and theyspent several summers there. 

On the occasion of my husband accepting a detail in active service inWashington at the Soldiers' Home, after his retirement, he received thefollowing letter. 

INGLENEUK, CHIPPEWA BAY, N. Y. 

My dear Jack--

So there you are--and I'm d--- glad you are so nicely fixed. It's theleast they could do for you and you ought to be able to enjoy it for tenyears before they find any spavins on you if you will behave yourself, but I guess you will drift into that Army and Navy Club and round upwith a lot of those old alkalied prairie-dogs whom neither Indiansnor whiskey could kill and Mr. Gout will take you over his route toArlington. 

I'm on the water wagon and I feel like a young mule. I am never going toget down again to try the walking. If I lose my whip I am going to driveright on and leave it. 

We are having a fine summer and I may run over to Washington this winterand throw my eye over you to see how you go. We made a trip down to NewFoundland but saw nothing worth while. I guess I am getting to be an oldswat--I can't see anything that didn't happen twenty years ago, Y-- FREDERICK R. 

At the close of the year just gone, this great soul passed from theearth leaving a blank in our lives that nothing can ever fill. Passedinto the great Beyond whose mysteries were always troubling his mind. Suddenly and swiftly the call came--the hand was stilled and therestless spirit took its flight. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. DAVID'S ISLAND

At Davids' Island the four happiest years of my army life glided swiftlyaway. 

There was a small steam tug which made regular and frequent trips overto New Rochelle and we enjoyed our intercourse with the artists andplayers who lived there. 

Zogbaum, whose well known pictures of sailors and warships and soldiershad reached us even in the far West, and whose charming family added somuch to our pleasure. 

Julian Hawthorne with his daughter Hildegarde, now so well known as aliterary critic; Henry Loomis Nelson, whose fair daughter Margaretcame to our little dances and promptly fell in love with a young, slim, straight Artillery officer. A case of love at first sight, followed by ashort courtship and a beautiful little country wedding at Miss Nelson'shome on the old Pelham Road, where Hildegarde Hawthorne was bridesmaidin a white dress and scarlet flowers (the artillery colors) and manyfamous literary people from everywhere were present. 

Augustus Thomas, the brilliant playwright, whose home was near theRemingtons on Lathers' Hill, and whose wife, so young, so beautiful andso accomplished, made that home attractive and charming. 

Francis Wilson, known to the world at large, first as a singer in comicopera, and now as an actor and author, also lived in New Rochelle, and we came to have the honor of being numbered amongst his friends. Adevoted husband and kind father, a man of letters and a book lover, suchis the man as we knew him in his home and with his family. 

And now came the delicious warm summer days. We persuaded theQuartermaster to prop up the little row of old bathing houses which hadtoppled over with the heavy winter gales. There were several bathingenthusiasts amongst us; we had a pretty fair little stretch of beachwhich was set apart for the officers' families, and now what bathingparties we had! Kemble, the illustrator, joined our ranks--and on a warmsummer morning the little old Tug Hamilton was gay with the artists andtheir families, the players and writers of plays, and soon you could seethe little garrison hastening to the beach and the swimmers running downthe long pier, down the run-way and off head first into the clear watersof the Sound. What a company was that! The younger and the older onesall together, children and their fathers and mothers, all happy, allwell, all so gay, and we of the frontier so enamored of civilizationand what it brought us! There were no intruders and ah! those were happydays. Uncle Sam seemed to be making up to us for what we had lost duringall those long years in the wild places. 

Then Augustus Thomas wrote the play of "Arizona" and we went to New Yorkto see it put on, and we sat in Mr. Thomas' box and saw our frontierlife brought before us with startling reality. 

And so one season followed another. Each bringing its pleasures, andthen came another lovely wedding, for my brother Harry gave up hisbachelor estate and married one of the nicest and handsomest girls inWestchester County, and their home in New Rochelle was most attractive. My son was at the Stevens Institute and both he and Katharine were ableto spend their vacations at David's Island, and altogether, our lifethere was near to perfection. 

We were doomed to have one more tour in the West, however, and this timeit was the Middle West. 

For in the autumn of '96, Jack was ordered to Jefferson Barracks, Missouri, on construction work. 

Jefferson Barracks is an old and historic post on the Mississippi River, some ten miles south of St. Louis. I could not seem to take any interestin the post or in the life there. I could not form new ties so quickly, after our life on the coast, and I did not like the Mississippi Valley, and St. Louis was too far from the post, and the trolley ride over theretoo disagreeable for words. After seven months of just existing (on mypart) at Jefferson Barracks, Jack received an order for Fort Myer, theend, the aim, the dream of all army people. Fort Myer is about threemiles from Washington, D. C. 

We lost no time in getting there and were soon settled in our pleasantquarters. There was some building to be done, but the duty wascomparatively light, and we entered with considerable zest into thesocial life of the Capital. We expected to remain there for two years, at the end of which time Captain Summerhayes would be retired andWashington would be our permanent home. 

But alas! our anticipation was never to be realized, for, as we allknow, in May of 1898, the Spanish War broke out, and my husband wasordered to New York City to take charge of the Army Transport Service, under Colonel Kimball. 

No delay was permitted to him, so I was left behind, to pack up thehousehold goods and to dispose of our horses and carriages as best Icould. 

The battle of Manila Bay had changed the current of our lives, and wewere once more adrift. 

The young Cavalry officers came in to say good-bye to Captain Jack:every one was busy packing up his belongings for an indefinite periodand preparing for the field. We all felt the undercurrent of sadnessand uncertainty, but "a good health" and "happy return" was drunkall around, and Jack departed at midnight for his new station and newduties. 

The next morning at daybreak we were awakened by the tramp, tramp of theCavalry, marching out of the post, en route for Cuba. 

We peered out of the windows and watched the troops we loved so well, until every man and horse had vanished from our sight. 

Fort Myer was deserted and our hearts were sad. 

*****

My sister Harriet, who was visiting us at that time, returned from hermorning walk, and as she stepped upon the porch, she said: "Well! of alllonesome places I ever saw, this is the worst yet. I am going to packmy trunk and leave. I came to visit an army post, but not an old women'shome or an orphan asylum: that is about all this place is now. I simplycannot stay!"

Whereupon, she proceeded immediately to carry out her resolution, and Iwas left behind with my young daughter, to finish and close up our lifeat Fort Myer. 

To describe the year which followed, that strenuous year in New York, isbeyond my power. 

That summer gave Jack his promotion to a Major, but the anxiety and theterrible strain of official work broke down his health entirely, and inthe following winter the doctors sent him to Florida, to recuperate. 

After six weeks in St. Augustine, we returned to New York. The stressof the war was over; the Major was ordered to Governor's Island as ChiefQuartermaster, Department of the East, and in the following year he wasretired, by operation of the law, at the age limit. 

I was glad to rest from the incessant changing of stations; the lifehad become irksome to me, in its perpetual unrest. I was glad to find aplace to lay my head, and to feel that we were not under orders; to findand to keep a roof-tree, under which we could abide forever. 

In 1903, by an act of Congress, the veterans of the Civil War, who hadserved continuously for thirty years or more were given an extragrade, so now my hero wears with complacency the silver leaf of theLieutenant-Colonel, and is enjoying the quiet life of a civilian. 

But that fatal spirit of unrest from which I thought to escape, andwhich ruled my life for so many years, sometimes asserts its power, and at those times my thoughts turn back to the days when we were allLieutenants together, marching across the deserts and mountains ofArizona; back to my friends of the Eighth Infantry, that historicregiment, whose officers and men fought before the walls of Chapultepecand Mexico, back to my friends of the Sixth Cavalry, to the days at CampMacDowell, where we slept under the stars, and watched the sun rise frombehind the Four Peaks of the MacDowell Mountains: where we rode thebig cavalry horses over the sands of the Maricopa desert, swung in ourhammocks under the ramadas; swam in the red waters of the Verde River, ate canned peaches, pink butter and commissary hams, listened for thescratching of the centipedes as they scampered around the edges of ourcanvas-covered floors, found scorpions in our slippers, and rattlesnakesunder our beds. 

The old post is long since abandoned, but the Four Peaks still stand, wrapped in their black shadows by night, and their purple colors by day, waiting for the passing of the Apache and the coming of the white man, who shall dig his canals in those arid plains, and build his cities uponthe ruins of the ancient Aztec dwellings. 

The Sixth Cavalry, as well as the Eighth Infantry, has seen manyvicissitudes since those days. Some of our gallant Captains andLieutenants have won their stars, others have been slain in battle. 

Dear, gentle Major Worth received wounds in the Cuban campaign, whichcaused his death, but he wore his stars before he obeyed the "lastcall. "

The gay young officers of Angel Island days hold dignified commands inthe Philippines, Cuba, and Alaska. 

*****

My early experiences were unusually rough. None of us seek suchexperiences, but possibly they bring with them a sort of recompense, inthat simple comforts afterwards seem, by contrast, to be the greatestluxuries. 

I am glad to have known the army: the soldiers, the line, and the Staff;it is good to think of honor and chivalry, obedience to duty and thepride of arms; to have lived amongst men whose motives were unselfishand whose aims were high; amongst men who served an ideal; whostood ready, at the call of their country, to give their lives for aGovernment which is, to them, the best in the world. 

Sometimes I hear the still voices of the Desert: they seem to be callingme through the echoes of the Past. I hear, in fancy, the wheels of theambulance crunching the small broken stones of the malapais, or gratingswiftly over the gravel of the smooth white roads of the river-bottoms. I hear the rattle of the ivory rings on the harness of the six-muleteam; I see the soldiers marching on ahead; I see my white tent, soinviting after a long day's journey. 

But how vain these fancies! Railroad and automobile have annihilateddistance, the army life of those years is past and gone, and Arizona, aswe knew it, has vanished from the face of the earth. 

THE END. 

APPENDIX. 

NANTUCKET ISLAND, June 1910. 

When, a few years ago, I determined to write my recollections of lifein the army, I was wholly unfamiliar with the methods of publishers, andthe firm to whom I applied to bring out my book, did not urge upon methe advisability of having it electrotyped, firstly, because, as theysaid afterwards, I myself had such a very modest opinion of my book, and, secondly because they thought a book of so decidedly personal acharacter would not reach a sale of more than a few hundred copies atthe farthest. The matter of electrotyping was not even discussed betweenus. The entire edition of one thousand copies was exhausted in abouta year, without having been carried on the lists of any bookseller oradvertised in any way except through some circulars sent by myself topersonal friends, and through several excellent reviews in prominentnewspapers. 

As the demand for the book continued, I have thought it advisable tore-issue it, adding a good deal that has come into my mind since itspublication. 

*****

It was after the Colonel's retirement that we came to spend the summersat Nantucket, and I began to enjoy the leisure that never comes into thelife of an army woman during the active service of her husband. We wereno longer expecting sudden orders, and I was able to think quietly overthe events of the past. 

My old letters which had been returned to me really gave me theinspiration to write the book and as I read them over, the people andthe events therein described were recalled vividly to my mind--eventswhich I had forgotten, people whom I had forgotten--events and peopleall crowded out of my memory for many years by the pressure of familycares, and the succession of changes in our stations, by anxiety duringIndian campaigns, and the constant readjustment of my mind to new scenesand new friends. 

And so, in the delicious quiet of the Autumn days at Nantucket, when thesummer winds had ceased to blow and the frogs had ceased their pipingsin the salt meadows, and the sea was wondering whether it should keepits summer blue or change into its winter grey, I sat down at my deskand began to write my story. 

Looking out over the quiet ocean in those wonderful November days, whena peaceful calm brooded over all things, I gathered up all the threadsof my various experiences and wove them together. 

But the people and the lands I wrote about did not really exist forme; they were dream people and dream lands. I wrote of them as they hadappeared to me in those early years, and, strange as it may seem, I didnot once stop to think if the people and the lands still existed. 

For a quarter of a century I had lived in the day that began withreveille and ended with "Taps. "

Now on this enchanted island, there was no reveille to awaken us in themorning, and in the evening the only sound we could hear was the "ruck"of the waves on the far outer shores and the sad tolling of the bellbuoy when the heaving swell of the ocean came rolling over the bar. 

And so I wrote, and the story grew into a book which was published andsent out to friends and family. 

As time passed on, I began to receive orders for the book from armyofficers, and then one day I received orders from people in Arizona andI awoke to the fact that Arizona was no longer the land of my memories. I began to receive booklets telling me of projected railroads, alsopictures of wonderful buildings, all showing progress and prosperity. 

And then came letters from some Presidents of railroads whose lines ranthrough Arizona, and from bankers and politicians and business menof Tucson, Phoenix and Yuma City. Photographs showing shady roads andstreets, where once all was a glare and a sandy waste. Letters frommining men who knew every foot of the roads we had marched over;pictures of the great Laguna dam on the Colorado, and of the quarters ofthe Government Reclamation Service Corps at Yuma. 

These letters and pictures told me of the wonderful contrast presentedby my story to the Arizona of today; and although I had not spared thatcountry, in my desire to place before my children and friends a vividpicture of my life out there, all these men seemed willing to forgiveme and even declared that my story might do as much to advance theirinterests and the prosperity of Arizona as anything which had beenwritten with only that object in view. 

My soul was calmed by these assurances, and I ceased to be distressed bythinking over the descriptions I had given of the unpleasant conditionsexisting in that country in the seventies. 

In the meantime, the San Francisco Chronicle had published a good reviewof my book, and reproduced the photograph of Captain Jack Mellon, thenoted pilot of the Colorado river, adding that he was undoubtedly one ofthe most picturesque characters who had ever lived on the Pacific Coastand that he had died some years ago. 

And so he was really dead! And perhaps the others too, were all gonefrom the earth, I thought when one day I received a communication froman entire stranger, who informed me that the writer of the review inthe San Francisco newspaper had been mistaken in the matter of CaptainMellon's death, that he had seen him recently and that he lived at SanDiego. So I wrote to him and made haste to forward him a copy of mybook, which reached him at Yuma, on the Colorado, and this is what hewrote:

YUMA, Dec. 15th, 1908. 

My dear Mrs. Summerhayes:

Your good book and letter came yesterday p. M. , for which accept mythanks. My home is not in San Diego, but in Coronado, across the bayfrom San Diego. That is the reason I did not get your letter sooner. 

In one hour after I received your book, I had orders for nine of them. All these books go to the official force of the Reclamation Service herewho are Damming the Colorado for the Government Irrigation Project. Theyare not Damming it as we formerly did, but with good solid masonry. TheDam is 4800 feet long and 300 feet wide and 10 feet above high water. In high water it will flow over the top of the Dam, but in low waterthe ditches or canals will take all the water out of the River, theapproximate cost is three million. There will be a tunnel under theRiver at Yuma just below the Bridge, to bring the water into Arizonawhich is thickly settled to the Mexican Line. 

I have done nothing on the River since the 23rd of last August, at whichdate they closed the River to Navigation, and the only reason I am nowin Yumais trying to get something from Government for my boats madeuseless by the Dam. I expect to get a little, but not a tenth of whatthey cost me. 

Your book could not have a better title: it is "Vanished Arizona" sureenough, vanished the good and warm Hearts that were here when you were. The People here now are cold blooded as a snake and are all trying toget the best of the other fellow. 

There are but two alive that were on the River when you were on it. Polhemus and myself are all that are left, but I have many friends onthis coast. 

*****

The nurse Patrocina died in Los Angeles last summer and the crying kidJesusita she had on the boat when you went from Ehrenberg to the mouthof the River grew up to be the finest looking Girl in these Parts; Shewas the Star witness in a murder trial in Los Angeles last winter, andher picture was in all of the Papers. 

I am sending you a picture of the Steamer "Mojave" which was not onthe river when you were here. I made 20 trips with her up to the VirginRiver, which is 145 miles above Fort Mojave, or 75 miles higher than anyother man has gone with a boat: she was 10 feet longer than the "Gila"or any other boat ever on the River. (Excuse this blowing but it's thetruth). 

In 1864 I was on a trip down the Gulf of California, in a small sailboat and one of my companions was John Stanton. In Angel's Bay a manwhom we were giving a passage to, murdered my partner and ran off withthe boat and left Charley Ticen, John Stanton and myself on the beach. We were seventeen days tramping to a village with nothing to eat butcactus but I think I have told you the story before and what I want toknow, is this Stanton alive. He belonged to New Bedford--his father hadbeen master of a whale-ship. 

When we reached Guaymas, Stanton found a friend, the mate of a steamer, the mate also belonged to New Bedford. When we parted, Stanton told mehe was going home and was going to stay there, and as he was two yearsyounger than me, he may still be in New Bedford, and as you are on theground, maybe you can help me to find out. 

All the people that I know praise your descriptive power and now my dearMrs. Summerhayes I suppose you will have a hard time wading through myscrawl but I know you will be generous and remember that I went to seawhen a little over nine years of age and had my pen been half as oftenin my hand as a marlin spike, I would now be able to write a muchclearer hand. 

I have a little bungalow on Coronado Beach, across the bay from SanDiego, and if you ever come there, you or your husband, you are welcome;while I have a bean you can have half. I would like to see you and talkover old times. Yuma is quite a place now; no more adobes built; it isbrick and concrete, cement sidewalks and flower gardens with electriclight and a good water system. 

My home is within five minutes walk of the Pacific Ocean. I was born atDigby, Nova Scotia, and the first music I ever heard was the surf of theBay of Fundy, and when I close my eyes forever I hope the surf of thePacific will be the last sound that will greet my ears. 

I read Vanished Arizona last night until after midnight, and thoughtwhat we both had gone through since you first came up the Colorado withme. My acquaintance with the army was always pleasant, and like TomMoore I often say:

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy Bright dreams of the pastwhich she cannot destroy! Which come in the night-time of sorrow andcare And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be myheart with such memories filled!

I suppose the Colonel goes down to the Ship Chandler's and gams with theold whaling captains. When I was a boy, there was a wealthy family ofship-owners in New Bedford by the name of Robinson. I saw one oftheir ships in Bombay, India, that was in 1854, her name was the MaryRobinson, and altho' there were over a hundred ships on the bay, she wasthe handsomest there. 

Well, good friend, I am afraid I will tire you out, so I will belaythis, and with best wishes for you and yours, I am, yours truly, J. A. MELLON. 

P. S. --Fisher is long since called to his Long Home. 

*****

I had fancied, when Vanished Arizona was published, that it mightpossibly appeal to the sympathies of women, and that men would lay itaside as a sort-of a "woman's book"--but I have received more reallysympathetic letters from men than I have from women, all telling me, indifferent words, that the human side of the story had appealed to them, and I suppose this comes from the fact that originally I wrote it for mychildren, and felt perfect freedom to put my whole self into it. And nowthat the book is entirely out of my hands, I am glad that I wrote it asI did, for if I had stopped to think that my dream people might be realpeople, and that the real people would read it, I might never have hadthe courage to write it at all. 

The many letters I have received of which there have been severalhundred I am sure, have been so interesting that I reproduce a few moreof them here:

FORT BENJAMIN HARRISON, INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA. January 10, 1909. 

My dear Mrs. Summerhayes:

I have just read the book. It is a good book, a true book, one of thebest kind of books. After taking it up I did not lay it down till it wasfinished--till with you I had again gone over the malapais deserts ofArizona, and recalled my own meetings with you at Niobrara and at oldFort Marcy or Santa Fe. You were my cicerone in the old town and Icouldn't have had a better one--or more charming one. 

The book has recalled many memories to me. Scarcely a name you mentionbut is or was a friend. Major Van Vliet loaned me his copy, but I shallget one of my own and shall tell my friends in the East that, if theydesire a true picture of army life as it appears to the army woman, theymust read your book. 

For my part I feel that I must congratulate you on your successful workand thank you for the pleasure you have given me in its perusal. 

With cordial regard to you and yours, and with best wishes for manyhappy years. 

Very sincerely yours, L. W. V. KENNON, Maj. 10th Inf. 

HEADQUARTERS THIRD BRIGADE, NATIONAL GUARD OF PENNSYLVANIA, WILKES-BARRE, PENNSYLVANIA. JANUARY 19, 1908. 

Dear Madam:

I am sending you herewith my check for two copies of "Vanished Arizona. "This summer our mutual friend, Colonel Beaumont (late 4th U. S. Cav. )ordered two copies for me and I have given them both away to friendswhom I wanted to have read your delightful and charming book. I am nowordering one of these for another friend and wish to keep one in myrecord library as a memorable story of the bravery and courage of thenoble band of army men and women who helped to blaze the pathway of thenation's progress in its course of Empire Westward. 

No personal record written, which I have read, tells so splendidly ofwhat the good women of our army endured in the trials that beset thearmy in the life on the plains in the days succeeding the Civil War. Andall this at a time when the nation and its people were caring but littlefor you all and the struggles you were making. 

I will be pleased indeed if you will kindly inscribe your name in one ofthe books you will send me. 

Sincerely Yours, C. B. DOUGHERTY, Brig. Gen'l N. G. Pa. Jan. 19, 1908

SCHENECTADY, N. Y. June 8th, 1908. 

Mrs. John W. Summerhayes, North Shore Hill, Nantucket, Mass. 

My Dear Mrs. Summerhayes:

Were I to say that I enjoyed "Vanished Arizona, "I should veryinadequately express my feelings about it, because there is so muchto arouse emotions deeper than what we call "enjoyment;" it stirsthe sympathies and excites our admiration for your courage and yourfortitude. In a word, the story, honest and unaffected, yet vivid, hasin it that touch of nature which makes kin of us all. 

How actual knowledge and experience broadens our minds! Yourappreciation of, and charity for, the weaknesses of those living alonely life of deprivation on the frontier, impressed me very much. I wish too, that what you say about the canteen could be published inevery newspaper in America. 

Very sincerely yours, M. F. WESTOVER, Secretary Gen'l Electric Co. 

THE MILITARY SERVICE INSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES. Governor'sIsland, N. Y. June 25, 1908. 

Dear Mrs. Summerhayes:

I offer my personal congratulations upon your success in producinga work of such absorbing interest to all friends of the Army, and soinstructive to the public at large. 

I have just finished reading the book, from cover to cover, to my wifeand we have enjoyed it thoroughly. 

Will you please advise me where the book can be purchased in New York, or otherwise mail two copies to me at 203 W. 54th Street, New York City, with memo of price per copy, that I may remit the amount. 

Very truly yours, T. F. RODENBOUGH, Secretary and Editor (Brig. Gen'l. U. S. A. )

YALE UNIVERSITY, NEW HAVEN, CONN. 

May 15, 1910. 

Dear Mrs. Summerhayes:

I have read every word of your book "Vanished Arizona" with intenseinterest. You have given a vivid account of what you actually saw andlived through, and nobody can resist the truthfulness and reality ofyour narrative. The book is a real contribution to American history, andto the chronicles of army life. 

Faithfully yours, WM. LYON PHELPS, [Professor of English literature at Yale University. ]

LONACONING, MD. , Jan. 2, 1909. 

Col. J. W. Summerhays, New Rochelle, N. Y. 

Dear Sir:

Captain William Baird, 6th Cavalry, retired, now at Annapolis, sent meMrs. Summerhay's book to read, and I have read it with delight, forI was in "K" when Mrs. Summerhays "took on" in the 8th. Myself and mybrother, Michael, served in "K" Company from David's Island to CampApache. Doubtless you have forgotten me, but I am sure that you rememberthe tall fifer of "K", Michael Gurnett. He was killed at Camp Mohave inSept. 1885, while in Company "G" of the 1st Infantry. I was five yearsin "K", but my brother re-enlisted in "K", and afterward joined theFirst. He served in the 31st, 22nd, 8th and 1st. 

Oh, that little book! We're all in it, even poor Charley Bowen. Mrs. Summerhays should have written a longer story. She soldiered long enoughwith the 8th in the "bloody 70's" to be able to write a book five timesas big. For what she's done, God bless her! She is entitled to theIrishman's benediction: "May every hair in her head be a candle to lighther soul to glory. " We poor old Regulars have little said about us inprint, and wish to God that "Vanished Arizona" was in the hands of everyold veteran of the "Marching 8th. " If I had the means I would send acopy to our 1st Serg't Bernard Moran, and the other old comrades at theSoldiers' Home. But, alas, evil times have fallen upon us, and--I'm notwriting a jeremiad--I took the book from the post office and when I sawthe crossed guns and the "8" there was a lump in my throat, and I wentinto the barber shop and read it through before I left. A friend of minewas in the shop and when I came to Pringle's death, he said, "Gurnett, that must be a sad book you're reading, why man, you're crying. "

I believe I was, but they were tears of joy. And, Oh, Lord, to think ofBowen having a full page in history; but, after all, maybe he deservedit. And that picture of my company commander! [Worth]. Long, long, haveI gazed on it. I was only sixteen and a half years old when I joined hiscompany at David's Island, Dec. 6th, 1871. Folliot A. Whitney was 1stlieutenant and Cyrus Earnest, 2nd. What a fine man Whitney was. A finerman nor truer gentleman ever wore a shoulder strap. If he had beencompany commander I'd have re-enlisted and stayed with him. I was alwaysafraid of Worth, though he was always good to my brother and myself. I deeply regretted Lieut. Whitney's death in Cuba, and I watched MajorWorth's career in the last war. It nearly broke my heart that I couldnot go. Oh, the rattle of the war drum and the bugle calls and themarching troops, it set me crazy, and me not able to take a hand in thescrap. 

Mrs. Summerhays calls him Wm. T. Worth, isn't it Wm. S. Worth?

The copy I have read was loaned me by Captain Baird; he says it's aChristmas gift from General Carter, and I must return it. My poor wifehas read it with keen interest and says she: "William, I am going tohave that book for my children, " and she'll get it, yea, verily! shewill. 

Well, Colonel, I'm right glad to know that you are still on this side ofthe great divide, and I know that you and Mrs. S. Will be glad to hearfrom an old "walk-a-heap" of the 8th. 

I am working for a Cumberland newspaper--Lonaconing reporter--and I willsend you a copy or two of the paper with this. And now, permit me tosubscribe myself your

Comrade In Arms, WILLIAM A. GURNETT. 

Dear Mrs. Summerhayes:

Read your book--in fact when I got started I forgot my bedtime (and youknow how rigid that is) and sat it through. 

It has a bully note of the old army--it was all worthwhile--they hadcolor, those days. 

I say--now suppose you had married a man who kept a drug store--see whatyou would have had and see what you would have missed. 

Yours, FREDERIC REMINGTON.