down and go to sleep; the man knows the road; he is taking
a short cut, I suppose," said the Lieutenant. There was something not at
all reassuring in his tones, however.

The driver did not turn his head nor speak. I looked at the North Star,
which was getting farther and farther on our left, and I felt the gloomy
conviction that we were lost on the desert.

Finally, at daylight, after going higher and higher, we drew up in an
old deserted mining-camp.

The driver jerked his ponies up, and, with a sullen gesture, said, "We
must have missed the fork of the road; this is Picket Post."

"Great Heavens!" I cried; "how far out of the way are we?"

"About fifteen miles," he drawled, "you see we shall have to go back to
the place where the road forks, and make a new start."

I nearly collapsed with discouragement. I looked around at the ruined
walls and crumbling pillars of stone, so weird and so grey in the
dawning light: it might have been a worshipping place of the Druids.
My little son shivered with the light chill which comes at daybreak in
those tropical countries: we were hungry and tired and miserable: my
bones ached, and I felt like crying.

We gave the poor ponies time to breathe, and took a bite of cold food
ourselves.

Ah! that blighted and desolate place called Picket Post! Forsaken by God
and man, it might have been the entrance to Hades.

Would the ponies hold out? They looked jaded to be sure, but we had
stopped long enough to breathe them, and away they trotted again, down
the mountain this time, instead of up.

It was broad day when we reached the fork of the road, which we had not
been able to see in the night: there was no mistaking it now.

We had travelled already about forty miles, thirty more lay before us;
but there were no hills, it was all flat country, and the owner of these
brave little ponies said we could make it.

As we neared the MacDowell canon, we met Captain Corliss marching
out with his company (truly they had lost no time in starting for
California), and he told his First Lieutenant he would make slow
marches, that we might overtake him before he reached Yuma.

We were obliged to wait at Camp MacDowell for Sergeant Stone to arrive
with our wagonful of household goods, and then, after a mighty weeding
out and repacking, we set forth once more, with a good team of mules
and a good driver, to join the command. We bade the Sixth Cavalry people
once more good-bye, but I was so n