In the morning, as we approached the town of Florence, the great
blue army wagon containing our household goods, hove in
sight - its white canvas cover stretched over hoops, its six
sturdy mules coming along at a good trot, and Sergeant Stone
cracking his long whip, to keep up a proper 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's countenance. He turned his heavy team about, and
promised to reach Camp MacDowell as soon as the animals could
make it. At Florence, we left the stage, and went to the little
tavern once more; the stage route did not lie in our direction, so
we must hire a private conveyance to bring us to Camp MacDowell.
Jack found a man who had a good pair of ponies and an open
buckboard. Towards night we set forth to cross the plain which
lies between Florence and the Salt River, due northwest by the
map.
When I saw the driver I did not care much for his appearance. He
did not inspire me with confidence, but the ponies looked strong,
and we had forty or fifty miles before us.
After we got fairly into the desert, which was a trackless waste,
I became possessed by a feeling that the man did not know the
way. He talked a good deal about the North Star, and the fork in
the road, and that we must be sure not to miss it.
It was a still, hot, starlit night. Jack and the driver sat on
the front seat. They had taken the back seat out, and my little
boy and I sat in the bottom of the wagon, with the hard cushions
to lean against through the night. I suppose we were drowsy with
sleep; at all events, the talk about 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
do not recollect any rocks on this road, Jack, when we came over
it in the ambulance," said I.
"Neither do I," he replied.
I looked for the North Star: I had looked for it often when in
open boats. It was away off on our left, the road seemed to be
ascending and rocky: 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 going
northwest."
"My dear, lie down and go to sleep; the man knows the road; he is
taking a short cut, I suppose," said the Lieutenant. There was
something not at all reassuring in his tones, however.
The driver did not turn his head nor speak.
