sticking in the mud,
and hence the transportation was growing so short that I began to
fear trouble in getting subsistence up for the men. Still, it would
not do to withdraw, so I made a trip to Arbuckle chiefly for the
purpose of reorganizing the transportation, but also with a view to
opening a new route to that post, the road to lie on high ground, so
as to avoid the creeks and mud that had been giving us so much
trouble. If such a road could be made, I hoped to get up enough
rations and grain from the cornfields purchased to send out a
formidable expedition against the Cheyennes, so I set out for
Arbuckle accompanied by my quartermaster, Colonel A. J. McGonigle.
"California Joe" also went along to guide us through the scrub-oaks
covering the ridge, but even the most thorough exploration failed to
discover any route more practicable than that already in use; indeed,
the high ground was, if anything, worse than the bottom land, our
horses in the springy places and quicksands often miring to their
knees. The ground was so soft and wet, in fact, that we had to make
most of the way on foot, so by the time we reached Arbuckle I was
glad to abandon the new road project.

Finding near Arbuckle more fields of corn than those already
purchased, I had them bought also, and ordered more of the horses
back there to be fed. I next directed every available mule to be put
to hauling rations, having discovered that the full capacity of the
transportation had not yet been brought into play in forwarding
stores from Gibson, and with this regulation of the supply question I
was ready to return immediately to Camp Sill. But my departure was
delayed by California Joe, who, notwithstanding the prohibitory laws
of the Territory, in some unaccountable way had got gloriously tipsy,
which caused a loss of time that disgusted me greatly; but as we
could not well do without Joe, I put off starting till the next day,
by which time it was thought he would sober up. But I might just as
well have gone at first, for at the end of the twenty-four hours the
incorrigible old rascal was still dead drunk. How he had managed to
get the grog to keep up his spree was a mystery which we could not
solve, though we had had him closely watched, so I cut the matter
short by packing him into my ambulance and carrying him off to Camp
Sill.

By the time I got back to Sill, the Arapahoes were all in at the
post, or near at hand. The promised surrender of