We All Wept; I Embraced Them All, And Jack Lifted Me Into The
Ambulance; Mrs. Kendall Gave A Last Kiss
To our little boy;
Donahue, our soldier-driver, loosened up his brakes, cracked his
long whip, and away we went,
Down over the flat, through the
dark MacDowell canon, with the chollas nodding to us as we
passed, across the Salt River, and on across an open desert to
Florence, forty miles or so to the southeast of us.
At Florence we sent our military transportation back and staid
over a day at a tavern to rest. We met there a very agreeable and
cultivated gentleman, Mr. Charles Poston, who was en route to his
home, somewhere in the mountains nearby. We took the Tucson stage
at sundown, and travelled all night. I heard afterwards more
about Mr. Poston: he had attained some reputation in the literary
world by writing about the Sun-worshippers of Asia. He had been a
great traveller in his early life, but now had built himself some
sort of a house in one of the desolate mountains which rose out
of these vast plains of Arizona, hoisted his sun-flag on the top,
there to pass the rest of his days. People out there said he was
a sun-worshipper. I do not know. "But when I am tired of life and
people," I thought, "this will not be the place I shall choose."
Arriving at Tucson, after a hot and tiresome night in the stage,
we went to an old hostelry.
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