out to look him up. They went directly to the river, and there they
found him, just on the other side of the hill--dead. He had been shot
by some fiendish Indian soon after leaving his companion. The mule has
never been found, and is probably in a far-away Indian village, where
he brays in vain for the big rations of corn he used to get at the
government corral.

Last Monday, soon after luncheon, forty or fifty Indians came rushing
down the drive in front of the officers' quarters, frightening some of
us almost out of our senses. Where they came from no one could tell,
for not one sentry had seen them until they were near the post. They
rode past the houses like mad creatures, and on out to the company
gardens, where they made their ponies trample and destroy every
growing thing. Only a few vegetables will mature in this soil and
climate, but melons are often very good, and this season the gardeners
had taken much pains with a crop of fine watermelons that were just
beginning to ripen. But not one of these was spared--every one was
broken and crushed by the little hoofs of the ponies, which seem to
enjoy viciousness of this kind as much as the Indians themselves.

A company of infantry was sent at once to the gardens, but as it was
not quite possible for the men to outrun the ponies, the mischief had
been done before they got there, and all they could do was to force
them back at the point of the bayonet. Cavalry was ordered out, also,
to drive them away, but none of the troops were allowed to fire upon
them, and that the Indians knew very well. It might have brought on
an uprising!

It seems that the Indians were almost all young bucks out for a
frolic, but quite ready, officers say, for any kind of devilment. They