But That Fatal Spirit Of Unrest From Which I Thought To Escape,
And Which Ruled My Life For So Many
Years, sometimes asserts its
power, and at those times my thoughts turn back to the days when
we were all
Lieutenants together, marching across the deserts and
mountains of Arizona; back to my friends of the Eighth Infantry,
that historic regiment, whose officers and men fought before the
walls of Chapultepec and Mexico, back to my friends of the Sixth
Cavalry, to the days at Camp MacDowell, where we slept under the
stars, and watched the sun rise from behind the Four Peaks of the
MacDowell Mountains: where we rode the big cavalry horses over
the sands of the Maricopa desert, swung in our hammocks under the
ramadas; swam in the red waters of the Verde River, ate canned
peaches, pink butter and commissary hams, listened for the
scratching of the centipedes as they scampered around the edges
of our canvas-covered floors, found scorpions in our slippers,
and rattlesnakes under our beds.
The old post is long since abandoned, but the Four Peaks still
stand, wrapped in their black shadows by night, and their purple
colors by day, waiting for the passing of the Apache and the
coming of the white man, who shall dig his canals in those arid
plains, and build his cities upon the ruins of the ancient Aztec
dwellings.
The Sixth Cavalry, as well as the Eighth Infantry, has seen many
vicissitudes since those days.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 258 of 274
Words from 68667 to 68916
of 72945
