The December sun was shining brightly down, as only the Arizona sun can shine at high noon in winter, when we crossed the Colorado on the primitive¹ ferryboat drawn² by ropes, clambered up into the great thorough-brace wagon³ (or ambulance) with its dusty white canvas covers all rolled up at the sides, said good-bye to our kind hosts of Fort Yuma, and started, rattling⁴ along the sandy main street of Yuma City, for old Camp MacDowell.  
Our big blue army wagon, which had been provided for my boxes and trunks, rumbling⁵ along behind us, empty except for the camp equipage.
 
But it all seemed so good to me: I was happy to see the soldiers again, the drivers and teamsters, and even the sleek⁶ Government mules⁷. The old blue uniforms made my heart glad. Every sound was familiar, even the rattling of the harness with its ivory rings and the harsh sound of the heavy brakes reinforced with old leather soles.
 
Even the country looked attractive, smiling under the December sun. I wondered if I had really grown to love the desert. I had read somewhere that people did. But I was not paying much attention in those days to the analysis of my feelings. I did not stop to question the subtle fascination⁸ which I felt steal over me as we rolled along the smooth hard roads that followed the windings⁹ of the Gila River. I was back again in the army; I had cast my lot with a soldier, and where he was, was home to me.
 
In Nantucket, no one thought much about the army. The uniform of the regulars was never seen there. The profession of arms was scarcely known or heard of. Few people manifested any interest in the life of the Far West. I had, while there, felt out of touch with my oldest friends. Only my darling old uncle, a brave old whaling captain, had said: "Mattie, I am much interested in all you have written us about Arizona; come right down below and show me on the dining-room map just where you went."
 
Gladly I followed him down the stairs, and he took his pencil out and began to trace. After he had crossed the Mississippi, there did not seem to be anything but blank country, and I could not find Arizona, and it was written in large letters across the entire half of this antique map, "Unexplored."
 
"True enough," he laughed. "I must buy me a new map."
 
But he drew his pencil around Cape¹⁰ Horn and up the Pacific coast, and I described to him the voyages I had made on the old "Newbern," and his face was aglow¹¹ with memories.
 
"Yes," he said, "in 1826, we put into San Francisco harbor and sent our boats up to San Jose for water and we took goats from some of those islands, too. Oh! I know the coast well enough. We were on our way to the Ar'tic Ocean then, after right whales."
 
But, as a rule, people there seemed to have little interest in the army and it had made me feel as one apart.
 
Gila City was our first camp; not exactly a city, to be sure, at that time, whatever it may be now. We were greeted by the sight of a few old adobe¹² houses, and the usual saloon. I had ceased, however, to dwell upon such trifles as names. Even "Filibuster," the name of our next camp, elicited¹³ no remark from me.
 
The weather was fine beyond description. Each day, at noon, we got out of the ambulance, and sat down on the warm white sand, by a little clump¹⁴ of mesquite, and ate our luncheon¹⁵. Coveys of quail¹⁶ flew up and we shot them, thereby¹⁷ insuring a good supper.
 
The mules trotted¹⁸ along contentedly............