Each side, every man in his best inspection
uniform, and every button shining. With eyes to the front and hands
down their sides they looked absurdly like wax figures waiting to be
"wound up," and I did want so much to tell the little son of General
Phillips to pinch one and make him jump. He would have done it, too,
and then put all the blame upon me, without loss of time.
The first sergeant came to meet us, and went around with us. There
were three long tables, fairly groaning with things upon them:
buffalo, antelope, boiled ham, several kinds of vegetables, pies,
cakes, quantities of pickles, dried "apple-duff," and coffee, and in
the center of each table, high up, was a huge cake thickly covered
with icing. These were the cakes that Mrs. Phillips, Mrs. Barker, and
I had sent over that morning. It is the custom in the regiment for the
wives of the officers every Christmas to send the enlisted men of
their husbands' companies large plum cakes, rich with fruit and sugar.
Eliza made the cake I sent over, a fact I made known from its very
beginning, to keep it from being devoured by those it was not intended
for.
The hall was very prettily decorated with flags and accoutrements, but
one missed the greens. There are no evergreen trees here, only
cottonwood. Before coming out, General Phillips said a few pleasant
words to the men, wishing them a "Merry Christmas" for all of us.
Judging from the laughing and shuffling of feet as soon as we got
outside, the men were glad to be allowed to relax once more.
At six o'clock Faye and I, Lieutenant Baldwin, and Lieutenant Alden
dined with Doctor and Mrs. Wilder. It was a beautiful little dinner,
very delicious, and served in the daintiest manner possible. But out
here one is never quite sure of what one is eating, for sometimes the
most tempting dishes are made of almost nothing. At holiday time,
however, it seems that the post trader sends to St. Louis for turkeys,
celery, canned oysters, and other things. We have no fresh vegetables
here, except potatoes, and have to depend upon canned stores in the
commissary for a variety, and our meat consists entirely of beef,
except now and then, when we may have a treat to buffalo or antelope.
The commanding officer gave a dancing party Friday evening that was
most enjoyable. He is a widower, you know. His house is large, and the
rooms of good size, so that dancing was comfortable. The music
consisted of one violin with accordion accompaniment. This would seem
absurd in the East, but I can assure you that one accordion, when
played well by a German, is an orchestra in itself. And Doos plays
very well. The girls East may have better music to dance by, and
polished waxed floors to slip down upon, but they cannot have the
excellent partners one has at an army post, and I choose the partners!
The officers are excellent dancers - every one of them - and when you
are gliding around, your chin, or perhaps your nose, getting a scratch
now and then from a gorgeous gold epaulet, you feel as light as a
feather, and imagine yourself with a fairy prince. Of course the
officers were in full-dress uniform Friday night, so I know just what
I am talking about, scratches and all. Every woman appeared in her
finest gown. I wore my nile-green silk, which I am afraid showed off
my splendid coat of tan only too well.
The party was given for Doctor and Mrs. Anderson, who are guests of
General Bourke for a few days. They are en route to Fort Union, New
Mexico. Mrs. Anderson was very handsome in an elegant gown of
London-smoke silk. I am to assist Mrs. Phillips in receiving New
Year's day, and shall wear my pearl-colored Irish poplin. We are going
out now for a little ride.
FORT LYON, COLORADO TERRITORY,
January, 1872.
WHEN we came over on the stage from Kit Carson last fall, I sat on top
with the driver, who told me of many terrible experiences he had
passed through during the years he had been driving a stage on the
plains, and some of the most thrilling were of sand storms, when he
had, with great difficulty, saved the stage and perhaps his own life.
There have been ever so many storms, since we have been here, that
covered everything in the houses with dust and sand, but nothing at
all like those the driver described. But yesterday one came - a
terrific storm - and it so happened that I was caught out in the
fiercest part of it.
As Faye was officer of the day, he could not leave the garrison, so I
rode with Lieutenant Baldwin and Lieutenant Alden. The day was
glorious - sunny, and quite warm - one of Colorado's very best, without
a cloud to be seen in any direction. We went up the river to the mouth
of a pretty little stream commonly called "The Picket Wire," but the
real name of which is La Purgatoire. It is about five miles from the
post and makes a nice objective point for a short ride, for the clear
water gurgling over the stones, and the trees and bushes along its
banks, are always attractive in this treeless country.
The canter up was brisk, and after giving our horses the drink from
the running stream they always beg for, we started back on the road to
the post in unusually fine spirits. Almost immediately, however,
Lieutenant Baldwin said, "I do not like the looks of that cloud over
there!" We glanced back in the direction he pointed, and seeing only a
streak of dark gray low on the horizon, Lieutenant Alden and I paid no
more attention to it.
