under on the
wagon. Near Bloxton, or where Bloxton now is, four miles west of
Patagonia, we managed to upset the wagon, and half the whiskey and wheat
never was retrieved. We had the wherewithal to "fix things" with the
officers, however, and went unreproved, even making a tidy profit
selling what stuff we had left to the soldiers.

At that time the company maintained gardens on a part of what afterwards
was the Sanford Rancho, and at one time during 1868 I was gardening
there with three others. The gardens were on a ranch owned by William
Morgan, a discharged sergeant of our company. Morgan had one Mexican
working for him and there were four of us from the Fort stationed there
to cultivate the gardens and keep him company--more for the latter
reason than the first, I believe. We took turn and turn about of one
month at the Fort and one month at the gardens, which were about
fourteen miles from the Fort.

One of us was Private White, of Company K. He was a mighty fine young
fellow, and we all liked him. Early one morning the five of us were
eating breakfast in the cabin, an illustration of which is given, and
White went outside for something. Soon afterward we heard several
reports, but, figuring that White had shot at some animal or other, we
did not even get up from our meal. Finally came another shot, and then
another, and Morgan got up and peered from the door. He gave a cry.

"Apaches!" he shouted. "They're all around! Poor White----"

It was nip-and-tuck then. For hours we kept up a steady fire at the
Indians, who circled the house with blood-curdling whoops. We killed a
number of them before they finally took themselves off. Then we went
forth to look for White. We found our comrade lying on his back a short
distance away, his eyes staring unseeingly to the sky. He was dead. We
carried him to the house and discussed the situation.

"They'll come back," said Morgan, with conviction.

"Then it's up to one of us to ride to the Fort," I said.

But Morgan shook his head.

"There isn't a horse anywhere near," he said.

We had an old army mule working on the gardens and I bethought myself of
him.

"There's the mule," I suggested.

My companions were silent. That mule was the slowest creature in
Arizona, I firmly believed. It was as much as he could do to walk, let
alone gallop.

"Somebody's got to go, or we'll all be killed," I said. "Let's draw
lots."

They agreed and we found five straws, one of them