142 HORSE, FOOT, AND DRAGOONS. 



habitants — flannel -shirted, heavily booted government team- 

 sters — standing expectantly in front. Rustle, boys, rustle ! fresh 

 horses to carry us on to the distant river and to the boat that 

 is to take us back again to home and friends — our only chance, 

 perhaps, for days, if not weeks, for the season is late, and the 

 river falling in spite of the heavy rains. The brimming cup 

 of sweet warm milk, handed to us with ready hospitality, fresh 

 from the cows standing in the fenced - off space behind the 

 ranch, we drink thankfully, and then on again through the 

 steadily increasing downpour of the rain. Ride ! through the 

 rows of sage-brush, glistening silvery blue in the wet, onward 

 and still onward, to the bare hills miles in front of us, beyond 

 which we know the river is swiftly flowing. Ride ! guided by 

 the endless line of poles supporting the military telegraph line 

 that runs from the lonely frontier garrison we rode out from 

 at daybreak this morning. Ride ! past the long train of wag- 

 ons, creeping slowly towards us, drawn by their patient, long- 

 horned "bull teams," and freighted with supplies for Uncle 

 Sam's " boys in blue," some of whom, trudging along through 

 the mud, or peering at us from under the canvas covering of 

 the foremost wagon, wave their hats in greeting to us. A 

 mounted officer — rubber-coated, glistening wet — hails us, and 

 wheeling his horse about, gallops alongside of us, with polite 

 request to forward a forgotten message to the little outpost we 

 are bound for. Thanking us, and with hearty " good-by, good- 

 luck," he canters back again, riding with the free, easy, firm 

 seat of the American cavalryman ; and " slacking not speed nor 

 drawing rein," we turn to look back at the already distant 

 wagons as they wind along the trail, their white covers almost 

 melting into the prevailing moist gray of the atmosphere, and 

 relieving only against the dark expanse of prairie. Ride ! up 

 through gently rising openings in the hills now, their bare, 



