An ugly skeleton, it gleamed In burning
sands. The fiery rain Of fierce volcanoes here had sown Its
ashes. Burnt and black and seamed With thunder-strokes and strewn
With cinders. Yea, so overthrown, That wilder men than we had
said, On seeing this, with gathered breath, "We come on the
confines of death!" - JOAQUIN MILLER.
Six good cavalrymen galloped along by our side, on the morning of
April 24th, 1875, as with two ambulances, two army wagons, and a
Mexican guide, we drove out of Camp Apache at a brisk trot.
The drivers were all armed, and spare rifles hung inside the
ambulances. I wore a small derringer, with a narrow belt filled
with cartridges. An incongruous sight, methinks now, it must have
been. A young mother, pale and thin, a child of scarce three
months in her arms, and a pistol belt around her waist!
I scarcely looked back at Camp Apache. We had a long day's march
before us, and we looked ahead. Towards night we made camp at
Cooley's ranch, and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was
interpreter and scout, and although he was a white man, he had
married a young Indian girl, the daughter of one of the chiefs
and was known as a squaw man. There seemed to be two Indian girls
at his ranch; they were both tidy and good-looking, and they
prepared us a most appetizing supper.
