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

Gila City was our first camp; not exactly a city, to be sure, at
that time, whatever it may be now. We were greeted by the sight
of a few old adobe houses, and the usual saloon. I had ceased,
however, to dwell upon such 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 out of the ambulance, and sat down on the warm white sand,
by a little clump of mesquite, and ate our luncheon. Coveys of
quail flew up and we shot them, thereby insuring a good supper.

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

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

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

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

Camps were made at Stanwix, Oatman's Flat, and Gila Bend. There
we left the river, which makes a mighty loop at this point, and
struck across the plains to Maricopa Wells. The last day's march
took us across the Gila 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 drove through the MacDowell canon
in the dark of the evening, nine miles more to the post. A day's
march of forty-five miles. (A relay of mules had been sent to
meet us at the Salt River, but by some oversight, we had missed
it.)

Jack had told me of the curious cholla cactus, which is said to
nod at the approach of human beings, and to deposit its barbed
needles at their feet. Also I had heard stories of this deep, dark
canon and things that had 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 lay far to the east and southeast, often found
secure hiding places in the fastnesses of the Superstition
Mountains and other ranges, which lay between old Camp MacDowell
and these reservations.

Hence, a company of cavalry and one of infantry were stationed at
Camp MacDowell, and the officers and men of this small command
were kept busy, scouting, and driving the renegades from out of
this part of the country back to their reservations. It was by no
means an idle post, as I 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 the Salt 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 black shadows down between those high
mountain walls, the chollas, which are a pale sage-green color in
the day-time, took on a ghastly hue. They were dotted here and
there along the road, and on the steep mountainsides. They grew
nearly as tall as a man, and on each branch were great
excrescences which looked like people's heads, in the vague light
which fell upon them.

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

The soldiers were not partial to MacDowell canon; they knew too
much about the place; and we all breathed a sigh of relief when
we emerged from 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 of the officers' quarters they all came out to meet us, and
we received a great 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 of it.

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

How good everything seemed! There was Doctor Clark, whom I had
met first at Ehrenberg, and who wanted to throw Patrocina and
Jesusita into the Colorado. 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 Camp MacDowell. Our confidence in him was
unbounded.

It was easy enough to obtain a man from the company. There were
then no hateful laws forbidding soldiers to work in officers'
families; no dreaded inspectors, who put the flat question, "Do
you employ a soldier for menial labor?"

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

The officers' quarters were a long, low line of adobe buildings
with no space between them; the houses were separated only by
thick walls. In front, the windows looked out over the parade
ground. In the rear, they opened out on a road which ran along
the whole length, and on the other side of which lay another row
of long, low buildings which were the kitchens, each set of
quarters having its own.

We occupied the quarters at the end of the row, and a large bay
window looked out over a rather desolate plain, and across to the
large and well-kept hospital. As all my draperies and pretty
cretonnes had been burnt up on the ill-fated ship, I had nothing
but bare white shades at the windows, and the rooms looked
desolate enough. But a long divan was soon built, and some coarse
yellow cotton bought at John Smith's (the cutler'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 floors were
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 it down. The floors of the bedroom and dining-room
were covered with canvas in the same manner. Our furnishings were
very scanty and I felt very mournful about the loss of the boxes.
We could not claim restitution as the steamship company had been
courteous enough to take the boxes down free of charge.

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

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

But Mrs. Kendall whose experience in frontier life had made her
self-reliant, lent me some patterns, and I bought some of John
Smith's calico and went to work to make gowns suited to the hot
weather. This was in 1877, and every one will remember that the
ready-made house-gowns were not to be had in those days in the
excellence and profusion in which 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 used her patterns without alterations, and the result was
something like a bag. They were freshly laundried and cool,
however, and I did not place so much importance on the lines of
them, as the young women of the present time do. To-day, the
poorest farmer's wife in the wilds of Arkansas or Alaska can wear
better fitting gowns than I wore then. But my riding habits, of
which I had several kinds, to suit warm and cold countries, had
been left in Jack's care at Ehrenberg, and as long as these
fitted well, it did not so much matter about the gowns.

Captain Chaffee, who commanded the company of the Sixth Cavalry
stationed there, was away on leave, but Mr. Kendall, his first
lieutenant, consented for me to exercise "Cochise," Captain
Chaffee's Indian 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 young officer, a second lieutenant, not long out from
the Academy, liked to ride, and we had many pleasant riding
parties. Mr. Dravo and I rode one day to the Mormon settlement,
seventeen miles away, on some business with 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! and how we
laughed about it all, and jollied, after the fashion of young
people, all the way back to the post! Mr Dravo had also lost all
his things on the "Montana," and we sympathized greatly with each
other. He, however, had sent an order home to Pennsylvania,
duplicating all the contents of his boxes. I told him I could not
duplicate mine, if I sent a 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 the package, "it is what you ladies
call 'lingerie.' "

I hope I blushed, and I think I did, for I was not so very old,
and I was touched by this sweet remembrance from the dear mother
back in Pittsburgh. And so many lovely things happened all the
time; everybody was 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 new doctor took Doctor Clark's
place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"But, Bowen," said I, "where--how on earth--did you--how did you
know we--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 San Francisco and worked in a miners' restaurant" (here
he hesitated), "but I didn't like it, and I tried something else,
and lost all my money, and I got tired of the town, so I thought
I'd take on again, and as I knowed ye's were in C company now, I
thought I'd come to MacDowell, and I came over here this morning
and told old Smith he'd better quit; this was my job, 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 of venison, ducks and other good things we had through
the winter.

It was cool enough to wear white cotton dresses, but nothing
heavier. It never rained, and the climate was superb, although it
was always hot in the sun. We had heard that it was very hot
here; in fact, people called MacDowell by very bad names. As the
spring came on, we began to realize that the epithets applied to
it might be quite appropriate.

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

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

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

There was another species of tiny insect, however, which seemed
to drop from 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 to have our beds moved still farther out on to
the open space of the parade ground.

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

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

With but a sheet for a covering, there we lay, looking up at the
starry heavens. I watched the Great Bear go around, and other
constellations and seemed to come into close touch with Nature
and the mysterious night. But the melancholy solemnity of my
communings was much affected by the howling of the coyotes, which
seemed sometimes to be so near that I jumped to the side of the
crib, to see if my little boy was being carried off. The good
sweet slumber which I craved never came to me in those 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 in that southern country, and by the crack of
dawn sheeted figures were to be seen darting back into the
quarters, to try for another nap. The nap rarely 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 day began again.

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

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

These visits broke the monotony of our life at Camp MacDowell. We
heard of 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 of
dresses. I told him spitefully that if the women of Fort Whipple
would come down to MacDowell to spend the summer, they would
soon be able to explain it to him. I began to feel embarrassed at
the fit of my house-gowns. After a few days spent with us,
however, the mercury ranging from l04 to l20 degrees in the
shade, he ceased to comment upon our dresses or our customs.

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

Hammocks were swung under the ramadas, and after luncheon
everybody tried a siesta. Then, near sundown, an ambulance came
and took us over to the Verde River, about a mile away, where we
bathed in water almost as 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 the Verde River was not a
very good substitute for the sea, and the thick water filled our
ears and mouths, but it gave us a little half hour in the day
when we could experience a feeling of being cool, and we found it
worth while to take the trouble. Thick clumps of mesquite trees
furnished us with dressing-rooms. We were all young, and youth
requires so little with which to make merry.

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

We lived, ate, slept by the bugle calls. Reveille means sunrise,
when a Lieutenant must hasten to put himself into uniform, sword
and belt, and go 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
function always which everybody goes out to see. Then the various
drill calls, and recalls, and sick-call and the beautiful
stable-call for the cavalry, when the horses are groomed and
watered, the thrilling fire-call and the startling assembly, or
call-to-arms, when every soldier jumps for his rifle and every
officer buckles on his sword, and a woman's heart stands still.

Then at night, "tattoo," when the company officers go out to
receive the report of "all present and accounted for"--and
shortly after that, the mournful "taps," a signal for the barrack
lights to be put out.

The bugle call of "taps" is mournful also through association, as
it is always blown over the grave of a soldier or an officer,
after the coffin has been lowered into the earth. The
soldier-musicians who blow the calls, seem to love the call of
"taps," (strangely enough) and I remember well that there at Camp
MacDowell, we all used to go out and listen when "taps went," as
the soldier who blew it, seemed to put a whole world of sorrow
into it, turning to the four points of the compass and letting
its clear tones tremble through the air, away off across the
Maricopa desert and then toward the East, our home so faraway. We
never spoke, we just listened, and who can tell the thoughts that
each one had in his mind? Church nor ministers nor priests had we
there in those distant lands, but can we say that our lives were
wholly without religion?

The Sunday inspection of men and barracks, which was performed
with much precision and formality,and often in full dress
uniform, gave us something by which we could mark the weeks, as
they slipped along. There was no religious service of any kind,
as Uncle Sam did not seem to think that the souls of us people in
the outposts needed looking after. It would have afforded much
comfort to the Roman Catholics had there been a priest stationed
there.

The only sermon I ever heard in old Camp MacDowell was delivered
by a Mormon Bishop and was of a rather preposterous nature,
neither instructive nor edifying. But the good Catholics read
their prayer-books at home, and the rest of us almost forgot that
such organizations as churches existed.

Another bright winter found us still gazing at the Four Peaks of
the MacDowell Mountains, the only landmark on the horizon. I was
glad, in those days, that I had not staid back East, for the life
of an officer without his family, in those drear places, is
indeed a blank and empty one.

"Four years I have sat here and looked at the Four Peaks," said
Captain Corliss, 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 at Fort Lowell (near the ancient city of Tucson), to act
as Quartermaster and Commissary at that post. This was a sudden
and totally unexpected order. It was indeed hard, and it seemed
to me cruel. For our regiment had been four years in the
Territory, and we were reasonably sure of being ordered out
before long. Tucson lay far to the south of us, and was even
hotter than this place. But there was nothing to be done; we
packed 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
which sees no end and no limit, I parted from my friends at Camp
MacDowell. Two years together, in the most intimate
companionship, cut off from the outside world, and away from all
early ties, had united us with indissoluble bonds,--and now we
were to part,--forever as I thought.

We all wept; I embraced them all, and Jack lifted me into the
ambulance; Mrs. Kendall gave a last kiss to our little boy;
Donahue, our soldier-driver, loosened up his brakes, cracked his
long whip, and away we went, down over the flat, through the
dark MacDowell canon, with the chollas nodding to us as we
passed, across the Salt River, and on across an open desert to
Florence, forty miles or so to the southeast of us.

At Florence we sent our military transportation back and staid
over a day at a tavern to rest. We met there a very agreeable and
cultivated gentleman, Mr. Charles Poston, who was en route to his
home, somewhere in the mountains nearby. We took the Tucson stage
at sundown, and travelled all night. I heard afterwards more
about Mr. Poston: he had attained some reputation in the literary
world by writing about the Sun-worshippers of Asia. He had been a
great traveller in his early life, but now had built himself some
sort of a house in one of the desolate 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 when I am tired of life and
people," I thought, "this will not be the place I shall choose."

Arriving at Tucson, after a hot and tiresome night in the stage,
we went to an old hostelry. Tucson looked attractive. Ancient
civilization is always interesting to me.

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