nearby troops. I've got six waggons an' a escort of twenty men. For
myse'f, at the r'ar of the procession, I journeys proudly in a
amb'lance. Our first camp is goin' to be on top of the mesa out a
handful of miles from the Fort.

"'The word goes along the line to observe a heap of caution an' not
straggle or go rummagin' about permiscus, for the mountains is alive
with hostiles. It's five for one that a frownin' cloud of 'em is
hangin' on our flanks from the moment we breaks into the foothills.
No, they'd be afoot; the Apaches ain't hoss-back Injuns an' only fond
of steeds as food. He never rides on one, a Apache don't, but he'll
camp an' build a fire an' eat a corral full of ponies if you'll furnish
'em, an' lick his lips in thankfulness tharfore. But bein' afoot won't
hinder 'em from keepin' up with my caravan, for in the mountains the
snow is to the waggon beds an' the best we can do, is wriggle along the
trail like a hurt snake at a gait which wouldn't tire a papoose.

"'We've been pushin' on our windin' uphill way for mighty likely half a
day, an' I'm beginnin'--so dooms slows is our progress--to despair of
gettin' out on top the mesa before dark, when to put a coat of paint on
the gen'ral trouble the lead waggon breaks down. I turns out in the
snow with the rest, an' we-all puts in a heated an' highly profane
half-hour restorin' the waggon to health. At last we're onder headway
ag'in, an' I wades back through the snow to my amb'lance.

"'As I arrives at the r'ar of my offishul waggon, it occurs to me that
I'll fill a pipe an' smoke some by virchoo of my nerves, the same bein'
torn and frayed with the many exasperations of the day. I gives my
driver the word to wait a bit, an' searchin' forth my tobacco outfit
loads an' lights my pipe. I'm planted waist deep in the mountain