How broken plunged¹ the steep descent! How barren! Desolate² and rent By earthquake shock, the land lay dead, Like some proud king in old-time slain³. An ugly skeleton, it gleamed In burning sands. The fiery⁴ rain Of fierce volcanoes here had sown Its ashes. Burnt and black and seamed With thunder-strokes and strewn With cinders⁵. Yea, so overthrown⁶, That wilder men than we had said, On seeing this, with gathered breath, "We come on the confines of death!"—JOAQUIN MILLER⁷.  
Six good cavalrymen galloped⁸ along by our side, on the morning of April 24th, 1875, as with two ambulances, two army wagons⁹, and a Mexican guide, we drove out of Camp Apache at a brisk trot¹⁰.
 
The drivers were all armed, and spare rifles hung inside the ambulances. I wore a small derringer, with a narrow belt filled with cartridges¹¹. 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 ranch¹², and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was interpreter and scout¹³, 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.
 
The ranch had spaces for windows, covered with thin unbleached muslin (or manta, as it is always called out there), glass windows being then too great a luxury in that remote place. There were some partitions inside the ranch, but no doors; and, of course, no floors except adobe¹⁴. Several half-breed children, nearly naked, stood and gazed at us as we prepared for rest. This was interesting and picturesque¹⁵ from many standpoints perhaps, but it did not tend to make me sleepy. I lay gazing into the fire which was smouldering in the corner, and finally I said, in a whisper, "Jack¹⁶, which girl do you think is Cooley's wife?"
 
"I don't know," answered this cross and tired man; and then added, "both of 'em, I guess."
 
Now this was too awful, but I knew he did not intend for me to ask any more questions. I had a difficult time, in those days, reconciling what I saw with what I had been taught was right, and I had to sort over my ideas and deep-rooted prejudices a good many times.
 
The two pretty squaws prepared a nice breakfast for us, and we set out, quite refreshed, to travel over the malapais (as the great lava¹⁷-beds in that part of the country are called). There was no trace of a road. A few hours of this grinding and crunching¹⁸ over crushed lava wearied us all, and the animals found it hard pulling, although the country was level.
 
We crossed Silver Creek¹⁹ without difficulty, and arrived at Stinson's ranch, after traveling twenty-five miles, mostly malapais. Do not for a moment think of these ranches²⁰ as farms. Some of them were deserted²¹ sheep ranches, and had only adobe walls standing²² in ruins. But the camp must have a name, and on the old maps of Arizona these names are still to be found. Of course, on the new railroad maps, they are absent. They were generally near a spring or a creek, consequently were chosen as camps.
 
Mrs. Bailey had her year-old boy, Howard, with her. We began to experience the utmost inconvenience from the lack of warm water and other things so necessary to the health and comfort of children. But we tried to make light of it all, and the two Lieutenants²³ tried, in a man's way, to help us out. We declared we must have some clean towels for the next day, so we tried to rinse²⁴ out, in the cold, hard water of the well, those which we had with us, and, as it was now nightfall and there was no fire inside this apparently²⁵ deserted ranch, the two Lieutenants stood and held the wet towels before the camp-fire until they were dry.
 
Mrs. Bailey and I, too tired to move, sat and watched them and had each our own thoughts. She was an army girl and perhaps had seen such things before, but it was a situation that did not seem quite in keeping with my ideas of the fitness of things in general, and with the uniform in particular. The uniform, associated in my mind with brilliant functions, guard-mount, parades and full-dress weddings—the uniform, in fact, that I adored. As I sat, gazing at them, they both turned around, and, realizing how almost ludicrous they looked, they began to laugh. Whereupon we all four laughed and Jack said: "Nice work for United States officers! hey, Bailey?"
 
"It might be worse," sighed the handsome, blond-haired Bailey.
 
Thirty miles the next day, over a good road, brought us to Walker's ranch, on the site of old Camp Supply. This ranch was habitable in a way, and the owner said we might use the bedrooms; but the wild-cats about the place were so numerous and so troublesome in the night, that we could not sleep. I have mentioned the absence of windows in these ranches; we were now to experience the great inconvenience resulting therefrom, for the low open spaces furnished great opportunity for the cats. In at one opening, and out at another they flew, first across the Bailey's bed, then over ours. The dogs caught the spirit of the chase, and added their noise to that of the cats. Both babies began to cry, and then up got Bailey and threw his heavy campaign boots at the cats, with some fitting remarks. A momentary²⁶ silence

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