The Gila Valley in December was quite a different thing from the
Mojave desert in September; and although there was not much to
see, in that low, flat country, yet we three were joyous and
happy.
Good health again was mine, the travelling was ideal, there were
no discomforts, and I experienced no terrors in this part of
Arizona.
Each morning, when the tent was struck, and I sat on the
camp-stool by the little heap of ashes, which was all that
remained of what had been so pleasant a home for an afternoon and
a night, a little lonesome feeling crept over me, at the thought
of leaving the place. So strong is the instinct and love of home
in some people, that the little tendrils shoot out in a day and
weave themselves around a spot which has given them shelter. Such
as those are not born to be nomads.
Camps were made at Stanwix, Oatman's Flat, and Gila Bend. There
we left the river, which makes a mighty loop at this point, and
struck across the plains to Maricopa Wells. The last day's march
took us across the Gila River, over the Maricopa desert, and
brought us to the Salt River. We forded it at sundown, rested our
animals a half hour or so, and drove through the MacDowell canon
in the dark of the evening, nine miles more to the post. A day's
march of forty-five miles.
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