"Hello, here you are again,"
they seemed to say.
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. (A relay of mules had been sent to
meet us at the Salt River, but by some oversight, we had missed
it.)
Jack had told me of the curious cholla cactus, which is said to
nod at the approach of human beings, and to deposit its barbed
needles at their feet. Also I had heard stories of this deep, dark
canon and things that had happened there.
Fort MacDowell was in Maricopa County, Arizona, on the Verde
River, seventy miles or so south of Camp Verde; the roving bands
of Indians, escaping from Camp Apache and the San Carlos
reservation, which lay far to the east and southeast, often found
secure hiding places in the fastnesses of the Superstition
Mountains and other ranges, which lay between old Camp MacDowell
and these reservations.
Hence, a company of cavalry and one of infantry were stationed at
Camp MacDowell, and the officers and men of this small command
were kept busy, scouting, and driving the renegades from out of
this part of the country back to their reservations. It was by no
means an idle post, as I found after I got there; the life at
Camp MacDowell meant hard work, exposure and fatigue for this
small body of men.
As we wound our way through this deep, dark canon, after
crossing the Salt River, I remembered the things I had heard, of
ambush and murder.
