There was a flowing stream, a wide meadow, full
of what looked like pink clover, but was only a bitter weed, and
behind and before us the desert, in which our lively little camp was
the only life to be seen. We soon found that we were not beyond the
power of the spirits of Rawhide Peak. "O'er the far blue mountain"
came the whirlwind punctually at dinner-time, but, fortunately, we had
been somewhat beforehand with it, and had already stowed away our soup
safely. The dust could not get at the champagne which we drank in
honor of a wedding anniversary. Lighting our camp-fire, we forgot all
else in listening to stories of the war and its heroic life; of Indian
scares and massacres; of handfuls of men defending themselves behind
their dead horses and driving back the foe; of brave young fellows
lying cold and mutilated upon the Plains; of freezing storms of snow
and hail; and of the many hair-breadth 'scapes and perils of the
wilderness, till we all became Desdemonas of the hour. We felt that
though we were probably as safe as ever in our lives, yet there were
possibilities that gave our position just enough spice of danger to be
exciting.
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