I had my own canteen hung up in the ambulance, but the water in
it got very warm and I learned to take but a swallow at a time,
as it could not be refilled until we reached the next spring - and
there is always some uncertainty in Arizona as to whether the
spring or basin has gone dry. So water was precious, and we could
not afford to waste a drop.
At about noon we reached a forlorn mud hut, known as Packwood's
ranch. But the place had a bar, which was cheerful for some of
the poor men, as the two days' marches had been rather hard upon
them, being so "soft" from the long voyage. I could never
begrudge a soldier a bit of cheer after the hard marches in
Arizona, through miles of dust and burning heat, their canteens
long emptied and their lips parched and dry. I watched them often
as they marched along with their blanket-rolls, their haversacks,
and their rifles, and I used to wonder that they did not
complain.
About that time the greatest luxury in the entire world seemed to
me to be a glass of fresh sweet milk, and I shall always remember
Mr. Packwood's ranch, because we had milk to drink with our
supper, and some delicious quail to eat.
Ranches in that part of Arizona meant only low adobe dwellings
occupied by prospectors or men who kept the relays of animals for
stage routes. Wretched, forbidding-looking places they were!
Never a tree or a bush to give shade, never a sign of comfort or
home.
Our tents were pitched near Packwood's, out in the broiling sun.
They were like ovens; there was no shade, no coolness anywhere;
we would have gladly slept, after the day's march, but instead we
sat broiling in the ambulances, and waited for the long afternoon
to wear away.
The next day dragged along in the same manner; the command
marching bravely along through dust and heat and thirst, as
Kipling's soldier sings:
"With its best foot first
And the road
a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground
Exactly like the last".
Beal's Springs did not differ from the other ranch, except that
possibly it was even more desolate. But a German lived there, who
must have had some knowledge of cooking, for I remember that we
bought a peach pie from him and ate it with a relish. I remember,
too, that we gave him a good silver dollar for it.
The only other incident of that day's march was the suicide of
Major Worth's pet dog "Pete." Having exhausted his ability to
endure, this beautiful red setter fixed his eye upon a distant
range of mountains, and ran without turning, or heeding any call,
straight as the crow flies, towards them and death.
