Two days after my arrival at the Territorial capital I was ordered to proceed alone to Los Pinos, a town two hundred miles south, in the valley of the Rio Grande, and report to Captain Bayard, commanding officer of a column preparing for a march to Arizona.

On reaching Algodones, on the eastern bank of the great river, I was visited by a Catholic priest. He told me that Manuel Perea, the Mexican lad with whom the boy corporals were so friendly at Santa FÉ, was a prisoner in the hands of Elarnagan, a chief of the Navajos. He begged me to assist in his release, and I promised to do all I could, consistently with my military duty. Two days after arriving at Los Pinos, where I found a troop of California volunteer cavalry and also another troop of New Mexican volunteers, the boy corporals unexpectedly arrived. Colonel Burton had changed his plans and had allowed them to accompany me. They at once asked to be assigned to duty, and I promised to consult with Captain Bayard.

My interview with him concluded, I returned to my tent and found the boys busy in fitting up two cot bedsteads, spreading mats before them, hanging a small mirror to the rear tent-pole, and arranging their marching outfit as they proposed to set it up at every encampment between the Rio Grande and Prescott.

"Did you have this tent pitched for our use, sir?" asked Henry.

"I did not know you were coming, corporal, so that is impossible. Your tent was placed here some days ago by the post commander, for the accommodation of visiting officers who have since gone. Captain Bayard has assigned it to you."

"Then we are to have the tent to ourselves?"

"Yes."

"Isn't that just jolly, Frank?"

"Fine. To-morrow we'll place a short rail across the back for our saddles and saddle-blankets, two pegs in the tent-pole for bridles, and raise a box somewhere for curry-combs and brushes."

"Can't we have Vic here, too, sir?" asked Henry.

"And leave me all alone?" I replied.

"You wouldn't mind it, would you, sir?"

"Well, I'll leave it to Vic. You may make a bed for her, and we'll see which she will occupy—yours, or her old bed near mine."

"All right, sir; we'll try it to-night."

"Now something about yourselves, boys. Your tent is to be always pitched on the left of mine; you are to take your meals with the officers, and your ponies will be taken care of by one of the men who—"

"That will not do, sir," interrupted Frank. "Father has always required us to take care of our arms, clothing, and horses like other soldiers, just as we always did in the valleys, you know. He says an officer who rides on a march, particularly an infantry officer, should not require a soldier who has marched on foot to wait upon him."

"Very well; do as you choose."

I returned to my own tent and went to bed. Placing two candles on a support near my pillow, I tucked the lower edge of the mosquito-bar under the edge of my mattress, and, settling back comfortably, proceeded to read the last instalment of news from "the States"—news which had been fifteen days on the way from the Missouri. As I read of battle, siege, and march I was conscious that the boys were having some difficulty in inducing Vic to remain with them. When at last all was quiet, except their regular and restful breathing, a soft nose was thrust up to my pillow, and I opened an aperture in the netting large enough to exchange affectionate greetings, and Vic cuddled down on her bed beside mine and went to sleep. This was always her custom thereafter. While she was very fond of the boys, and spent most of her waking hours with them, no persuasion or blandishments could prevent her, when she knew the boys had dropped into unconsciousness, from returning to my tent, offering me a good-night assurance of her unchanged affection, and going to sleep upon her old bed.

The time had now come for us to begin our march to Arizona. Company F had arrived, and the boy corporals were again in possession of their beautiful horses. Grain, hay, and careful attendance had put new graces into the ponies' shapes, and kind treatment had developed in each a warm attachment for its young master.

The first day of our march was spent in crossing the Rio Grande del Norte and making camp four miles beyond the opposite landing. There was a ferry-boat at Los Pinos, operated by the soldiers of the post, capable of taking over four wagons at a time.

We rose at an earlier hour than usual, and by daybreak our train of eighty-nine wagons, drawn by five hundred and thirty-four mules, was on its way to the river. The two boy corporals joined me as I followed the last wagon. Mounted on their handsome animals, with carbines on their right hips, revolvers in their belts, portmanteaus behind their saddles, and saddle-pouches on each side, they were, indeed, very warlike in appearance.

The two detachments of cavalry and their officers, accompanied by a paymaster and a surgeon, proceeded at once to the river, crossed and went into camp, leaving the infantry and its officers to perform the labor of transferring, from one shore to the other, wagons and mules, a herd of three hundred beef cattle, and a flock of eight hundred sheep. The boy corporals also remained behind to act as messengers, should any be required.

"MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE"

"MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE"

Mules and oxen swam the stream, but the sheep were boated across. On the last trip over our attention was attracted by a sudden shouting up-stream, followed by a rapid discharge of fire-arms. In the river, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were several objects making their way towards the western shore. When near the bank, and in shoaling water, we saw the objects rise, until three Indians and three ponies stood revealed. As soon as they reached the shore the men sprang into their saddles and rode rapidly away.

A shout from our rear caused us to look towards the shore we had just left, and we saw the post-adjutant sitting on his horse on the embankment. He said: "Three Navajos have escaped from the guard. Send word to Captain Bayard to try to recapture them. If they get away they will rouse their people against you, and your march through their country will be difficult."

I wrote a brief message, handed it to Corporal Frank, and when the boat touched the western landing he dashed off at full speed in the direction of camp.

The afternoon was well advanced when Henry and I, with the infantry, entered the first camp of our march. We found Frank awaiting our arrival, and learned from him that Captain Bayard had sent two detachments of cavalry in pursuit of the Indians, and that they had returned after a fruitless attempt to follow the trail.

On our first evening in camp many of the officers and civilians gathered in groups about the fires for protection against the mosquitoes, to smoke, to discuss the route, and to relate incidents of other marches. Captain Bayard took from his baggage a violin, and, retiring a little apart, sawed desperately at a difficult and apparently unconquerable exercise. There I found him at the end of a tour of inspection of train and animals, and obtained his sanction to a plan for the employment of the boy corporals.

I proceeded to tell the boys what their duties would be. Corporal Frank was to see to the providing of wood, water, and grass while we were on the march. He was further instructed that he was to conform his movements to mine, and act as my messenger between the train, the main body, and the rear guard. These were to be his regular duties, but he was to hold himself in readiness for other service, and be on the alert for any emergency.

The odometer with which to measure the distance to Prescott was placed in charge of Corporal Henry, and he was told to strap this to the spokes near the hub of the right hind wheel of the last wagon in the train, taking care that the wagon should start from the same point where it had turned from the main road into camp the previous day. He was to report the distance we had marched to the commanding officer at guard-mounting, which, on the march, always takes place in the evening instead of morning, as at posts and permanent camps. After reaching Fort Wingate, and taking up the march beyond, he would ride with the advance, and act as messenger of communication with the rear; but until then he would ride with his brother and me.

The next morning found all ready for a start at three o'clock. The boy corporals found it a hardship to be wakened out of a sound sleep to wash and dress by starlight and sit down to a breakfast-table lighted by dim lanterns. There was little conversation. All stood about the camp-fires in light overcoats or capes, for Western nights are always cool.

When the boys and I started to ride out of camp we were, for a few moments, on the flank of the infantry company. It was noticeable that although the men were marching at "route step," when they are not required to preserve silence, few of them spoke, and very rarely, and they moved quite slowly. Corporal Henry, at the end of a prolonged yawn, asked, "Are we going to start at this hour every morning, sir?"

"Yes, usually," I replied.

"How far do we go to-day, Frank?"

"Eighteen miles is the scheduled distance," answered Frank.

"How fast do men march?"

"Three miles an hour," said I.

"Then we shall be in camp by ten o'clock. I don't see the sense of yanking a fellow out of bed in the night."

"Of course, Henry, there's a good reason for everything done in the army," observed Frank, with soldierly loyalty.

"Where's the sense of marching in the dark when the whole distance can be done in six hours, and the sun rises at five and sets at seven? I prefer daylight."

Evidently our youngest corporal had not had his sleep out, and was out of humor.

"Will you please explain, sir?" asked Frank.

"With pleasure," I answered. "It is more comfortable to march in the early morning, when it is cool. Marches rarely exceed fifteen or twenty miles a day, except where the distance between watering-places is more than that. Sometimes we are obliged to march forty miles a day."

"Seems to me the officers are very tender of the men," observed the sleepy Henry. "Fifteen and twenty miles a day, and five or six hours on the road, can't tire them much."

"Why not try a march on foot, Henry?" suggested his brother. "It might prove a useful experience."

"Let me suggest something better," said I. "Tie your pony to the back of that wagon, and crawl in on top of the bedding and have your nap out."

Henry disdained to reply, but with a long and shivering yawn relapsed into silence.

In a little more than six hours we reached the Rio Puerco, and forded its roily, brackish current to a camping-place on the other side. Harry, who with daylight and warmth had recovered his good-humor, examined the odometer and reported the distance travelled to be 18.65 miles. He entered in his note-book that the Spanish name Puerco meant, as a noun, hog, and as an adjective, dirty. He thought the river well named. He also mentioned that on the eastern side of the stream there was an excellent camping-place, but that much pains had been taken to ford it to a very poor one. After pondering this apparently unreasonable movement he asked: "Why did we not camp on that grassy park on the opposite side?"

"I suppose it appears to you there can be no good reason for crossing to this side?" I asked, in reply.

"It does seem even more absurd than starting on a march just after midnight—something like going into a wood-shed to rest on a wood-pile when one could as well go into a parlor and rest on a divan."

"And certainly," added Frank, "we have gained nothing in distance in crossing. The march is to be short to-morrow."

"Still, boys, there is quite as good a reason for doing this as for starting early to avoid the heat of the day. These Far Western streams have a trick of rising suddenly; very rarely, to be sure, but frequently enough to cause commanding officers to be on their guard. A rainfall fifty or seventy-five miles up-stream might send down a volume of water that would make it impassable for several hours or several days, according as the fall is large or small; so the rule in the army is, 'cross a stream before camping.'"

"Have you ever been caught by a rise, sir?"

"Twice. Once on this very stream, near its mouth. I was in command of a small escort to a train. The wagon-master advised me to cross, but I was tempted by a fine meadow on the lower side, in contrast to a rough place on the opposite side, to take my chances. I was compelled to remain there five days. The other delay was on the Gallina; but that was rising when we approached and we had no choice about crossing. We were delayed that time but two days."

"I heard the paymaster and surgeon grumbling about the folly of crossing just now," said Frank.

"Very likely; this is their first march in the Far West."

"The captain and lieutenants heard them, but did not explain, as you have. Why was that?"

"There are two reasons. One is that in the army, as well as out of it, 'tenderfeet' are left to learn by experience; the other is that our surgeon resents being cautioned or advised. Now, boys, after dinner you had better take a siesta. By doing so you will find it less difficult to make an early start to-morrow morning."

"Thank you," replied Frank. "Tom Clary and George Hoey have told us that a nap is the correct thing after dinner on the march. Henry and I are going to try it."

"I am sorry, sir," added Henry, "that I was so ill-humored this morning. I will try to do as the soldiers do when they first start out—say nothing till day breaks."

"The early start was a surprise to you; you will be prepared for it hereafter."

A reverberating peal of thunder interrupted our conversation and caused us to glance towards the west. There we saw a mass of dark clouds rolling down upon us. Bolt after bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky and from sky to earth, and peal after peal of thunder crashed upon our ears.