In the Giant Cactus Belt 185 
if they do not kill, they wound mortally in most 
cases. They. used to come into camp sometimes to 
have a ‘‘pow-pow’’—great parties of them, and we 
_had always to be on our guard lest they should break 
out and attack us suddenly. Horrible great men, all 
but naked and painted to look uglier than Nature 
made them, with their dreadful sheaves of arrows and 
their cruel faces. One could never trust them and I 
used to be in agonies of terror when there were many 
about. We never were attacked though we had 
more than one alarm: we were too cautious for them. 
But the worst was when my husband had to go out 
scouting. Then I confess I was in terror. It seemed 
to me I never should see him come back, and each 
time it grew worse—at least my fear did—for every 
now and then they would bring back wounded men, 
sometimes they brought dead ones—they never left 
any to be scalped. But oh, it was sad to see the poor 
fellows coming back to die slowly and painfully so far 
away from home. I knew most of my husband’s 
men and would visit and try to comfort them, but 
there was little to be done except by kind words. 
We had no comforts for the sick, no fresh meat, no 
milk or eggs, only canned provisions on which chiefly 
we lived. I have hated canned food ever since. 
It was very sad, and sadder still to make them ready 
for their graves when they died. The poisoned 
arrows were almost always fatal and caused great 
suffering. 
They knew, however, they would have a soldier’s 
funeral, even in that distant desert, and although 
I had not a flower to lay on their coffin, they knew I 
would do what I could and it pleased them. Yet I 
