My bones ached, and I felt like crying.
We gave the poor ponies time to breathe, and took a bite of cold
food ourselves.
Ah! that blighted and desolate place called Picket Post! Forsaken
by God and man, it might have been the entrance to Hades.
Would the ponies hold out? They looked jaded to be sure, but we
had stopped long enough to breathe them, and away they trotted
again, down the mountain this time, instead of up.
It was broad day when we reached the fork of the road, which we
had not been able to see in the night: there was no mistaking it
now.
We had travelled already about forty miles, thirty more lay
before us; but there were no hills, it was all flat country, and
the owner of these brave little ponies said we could make it.
As we neared the MacDowell canon, we met Captain Corliss marching
out with his company (truly they had lost no time in starting for
California), and he told his First Lieutenant he would make slow
marches, that we might overtake him before he reached Yuma.
We were obliged to wait at Camp MacDowell for Sergeant Stone to
arrive with our wagonful of household goods, and then, after a
mighty weeding out and repacking, we set forth once more, with a
good team of mules and a good driver, to join the command.
