A few of the soldiers who had staid on the Island to take care of
the post, carried poor Bailey to the boat, his casket wrapped in
the flag and followed by a little procession of women. I thought
I had never seen anything so sad.
The campaign lengthened out into months, but the California
winters are never very long, and before the troops came back the
hills looked their brightest green again. The campaign had ended
with no very serious losses to our troops and all was joyous
again, until another order took us from the sea-coast to the
interior once more.
CHAPTER XXIX
CHANGING STATION
It was the custom to change the stations of the different
companies of a regiment about every two years. So the autumn of
'82 found us on the way to Fort Halleck, a post in Nevada, but
differing vastly from the desolate MacDermit station. Fort
Halleck was only thirteen miles south of the Overland Railroad,
and lay near a spur of the Humboldt range. There were miles of
sage-brush between the railroad and the post, but the mountains
which rose abruptly five thousand feet on the far side, made a
magnificent background for the officers' quarters, which lay
nestled at the bottom of the foot-hills.
"Oh! what a lovely post!" I cried, as we drove in.
Major Sanford of the First Cavalry, with Captain Carr and
Lieutenant Oscar Brown, received us. "Dear me," I thought, "if
the First Cavalry is made up of such gallant men as these, the
old Eighth Infantry will have to look out for its laurels."
Mrs. Sanford and Mrs. Carr gave us a great welcome and vied with
each other in providing for our comfort, and we were soon
established.
It was so good to see the gay yellow of the cavalry again! Now I
rode, to my heart's content, and it was good to be alive; to see
the cavalry drill, and to ride through the canons, gorgeous in
their flaming autumn tints; then again to gallop through the
sage-brush, jumping where we could not turn, starting up rabbits
by the score.
That little old post, now long since abandoned, marked a pleasant
epoch in our life. From the ranches scattered around we could
procure butter and squabs and young vegetables, and the soldiers
cultivated great garden patches, and our small dinners and
breakfasts live in delightful memory.
At the end of two years spent so pleasantly with the people of
the First Cavalry, our company was again ordered to Angel Island.
But a second very active campaign in Arizona and Mexico, against
Geronimo, took our soldiers away from us, and we passed through a
period of considerable anxiety. June of '86 saw the entire
regiment ordered to take station in Arizona once more.
We travelled to Tucson in a Pullman car. It was hot and
uninteresting. I had been at Tucson nine years before, for a few
hours, but the place seemed unfamiliar. I looked for the old
tavern; I saw only the railroad restaurant. We went in to take
breakfast, before driving out to the post of Fort Lowell, seven
miles away. Everything seemed changed. Iced cantaloupe was served
by a spick-span alert waiter; then, quail on toast. "Ice in
Arizona?" It was like a dream, and I remarked to Jack, "This
isn't the same Arizona we knew in '74," and then, "I don't
believe I like it as well, either; all this luxury doesn't seem
to belong to the place."
After a drive behind some smart mules, over a flat stretch of
seven miles, we arrived at Fort Lowell, a rather attractive post,
with a long line of officers' quarters, before which ran a level
road shaded by beautiful great trees. We were assigned a half of
one of these sets of quarters, and as our half had no
conveniences for house-keeping, it was arranged that we should
join a mess with General and Mrs. Kautz and their family. We soon
got settled down to our life there, and we had various
recreations; among them, driving over to Tucson and riding on
horseback are those which I remember best. We made a few
acquaintances in Tucson, and they sometimes drove out in the
evenings, or more frequently rode out on horseback. Then we would
gather together on the Kautz piazza and everybody sang to the
accompaniment of Mrs. Kautz's guitar. It was very hot, of
course; we had all expected that, but the luxuries obtainable
through the coming of the railroad, such as ice, and various
summer drinks, and lemons, and butter, helped out to make the
summer there more comfortable.
We slept on the piazzas, which ran around the houses on a level
with the ground. At that time the fad for sleeping out of doors,
at least amongst civilized people, did not exist, and our
arrangements were entirely primitive.
Our quarters were surrounded by a small yard and a fence; the
latter was dilapidated, and the gate swung on one hinge. We were
seven miles from anywhere, and surrounded by a desolate country.
I did not experience the feeling of terror that I had had at Camp
Apache, for instance, nor the grewsome fear of the Ehrenberg
grave-yard, nor the appalling fright I had known in crossing the
Mogollon range or in driving through Sanford's Pass. But still
there was a haunting feeling of insecurity which hung around me
especially at night. I was awfully afraid of snakes, and no
sooner had we lain ourselves down on our cots to sleep, than I
would hear a rustling among the dry leaves that had blown in
under our beds. Then all would be still again; then a crackling
and a rustling - in a flash I would be sitting up in bed.
