The memory of the visit was 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
sun can shine at high noon in winter, when we crossed the
Colorado on the primitive ferryboat drawn by ropes, clambered up
into the great thorough-brace wagon (or ambulance) with its dusty
white canvas covers all rolled up at the sides, said good-bye to
our kind hosts of Fort Yuma, 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 and
trunks, 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 old blue uniforms made my heart glad. Every sound was
familiar, even the rattling of the harness with its ivory rings
and the harsh sound of the heavy brakes reinforced with old
leather soles.
