Leaving me at the tavern, my husband drove out to Fort Lowell, to
see about quarters and things in general. In a few hours he
returned with the overwhelming news that he found a dispatch
awaiting him at that post, ordering him to return immediately to
his company at Camp MacDowell, as the Eighth Infantry was ordered
to the Department of California.
Ordered "out" at last! I felt like jumping up onto the table,
climbing onto the roof, dancing and singing and shouting for joy!
Tired as we were (and I thought I had reached the limit), we were
not too tired to take the first stage back for Florence, which
left that evening. Those two nights on the Tucson stage are a
blank in my memory. I got through them somehow.
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.
