ut moderately successful in what
he had undertaken, and now, as luck would have it, the necessity arose
for sending something more formidable than a mere detachment down into
the Tonto Basin, in search of a powerful band of Apaches who had broken
loose from the reservation and were taking refuge in the foot-hills of
the Black Mesa or among the wilds of the Sierra Ancha. As senior captain
of the two, Buxton became commander of the entire force,--two
well-filled troops of regular cavalry, some thirty Indian allies as
scouts, and a goodly-sized train of pack-mules, with its full complement
of packers, _cargadors_, and blacksmiths. He fully anticipated a lively
fight, possibly a series of them, and a triumphant return to his post,
where hereafter he would be looked up to and quoted as an expert and
authority on Apache-fighting. He knew just where the hostiles lay, and
was going straight to the point to flatten them out forthwith; and so
the little command moved off under admirable auspices and in the best of
spirits.

It was a four-days' hard march to the locality where Captain Buxton
counted on finding his victims; and when on the fourth day, rather tired
and not particularly enthusiastic, the command bivouacked along the
banks of a mountain-torrent, a safe distance from the supposed location
of the Indian stronghold, he sent forward his Apache Mojave allies to
make a stealthy reconnoissance, feeling confident that soon after
nightfall they would return with the intelligence that the enemy were
lazily resting in their "rancheria," all unsuspicious of his approach,
and that at daybreak he would pounce upon and annihilate them.

Soon after nightfall the scouts did return, but their intelligence was
not so gratifying: a small--a _very_ small--band of renegades had been
encamped in that vicinity some weeks before, but not a "hostile" or sign
of a hostile was to be found. Captain Buxton hardly slept that night,
from disappointment and mortification, and when he went the following
day to investigate for himself he found that he had been on a false
scent from the start, and this made him crabbed. A week's hunt through
the mountains resulted in no better luck, and now, having had only
fifteen days' rations at the outset, he was most reluctantly and
savagely marching homeward to report his failure.

But Mr. Billings had enjoyed the entire trip. Sleeping in the open air
without other shelter than their blankets afforded, scouting