"Why not try a march on foot, Henry?" suggested his brother. "It might
prove a useful experience."

"Let me suggest something better," said I. "Tie your pony to the back
of that wagon, and crawl in on top of the bedding and have your nap
out."

Henry disdained to reply, but with a long and shivering yawn relapsed
into silence.

In a little more than six hours we reached the Rio Puerco, and forded
its roily, brackish current to a camping-place on the other side.
Harry, who with daylight and warmth had recovered his good-humor,
examined the odometer and reported the distance travelled to be 18.65
miles. He entered in his note-book that the Spanish name Puerco meant,
as a noun, hog, and as an adjective, dirty. He thought the river well
named. He also mentioned that on the eastern side of the stream there
was an excellent camping-place, but that much pains had been taken to
ford it to a very poor one. After pondering this apparently
unreasonable movement he asked: "Why did we not camp on that grassy
park on the opposite side?"

"I suppose it appears to you there can be no good reason for crossing
to this side?" I asked, in reply.

"It does seem even more absurd than starting on a march just after
midnight--something like going into a wood-shed to rest on a wood-pile
when one could as well go into a parlor and rest on a divan."

"And certainly," added Frank, "we have gained nothing in distance in