d become in Mexico a welcome occupant of the large
pyramidal tent which housed the correspondents attached to the
Expedition. We would sit for hours hearing him tell his stories of the
plains and the deserts of Chihuahua.

English and I were sitting on his bed at one corner of the barrack room,
rows of cots ranged each side of the wall and on these were the snoring
men of the battery. The room was dimly illuminated by a candle on a
shelf over English's head and another candle located on another shelf in
the opposite corner of the room. There was a man in bed in a corner
reading a newspaper by the feeble rays of the candle.

Suddenly we heard him growl and tear the page of the newspaper in half.
His exclamation attracted my attention and I looked his way. His hair
was closely cropped and his head, particularly his ears and forehead,
and jaw, stamped him as a rough and ready fighter.

"That's Kid Ferguson, the pug," English whispered to me, and then in
louder tones, he enquired, "What's eating on you, kid?"

"Aw, this bunk in the paper," replied Ferguson. Then he glared at me
and enquired, "Did you write this stuff?"

"What stuff?" I replied. "Read it out."

Ferguson picked up the paper and began to read in mocking tones
something that went as follows:

"Isn't it beautiful in the cold early dawn in France, to see our dear
American soldiers get up from their bunks and go whistling down to the
stables to take care of their beloved animals."

English laughed uproariously.

"The Kid don't like horses no more than I do," he said. "Neither one of
us have got any use for them at all. And here, that's all they keep us
doing, is tending horses. I went down there the other morning with a
lantern and one of them long-eared babies just kicked it clean out of my
hand. The other morning one of them planted two hoofs right on
Ferguson's chest and knocked him clear out of the stable. It broke his
watch and his girl's picture.

"You know, Mr. Gibbons, I never did have any use for horses. When I was
about eight years old a horse bit me. When I was about fifteen years old
I got run over by an ice-wagon. Horses is just been the ruination of me.

"If it hadn't been for them I might have gone through college and been
an officer in this here army. You remember that great big dairy out on
the edge of the town in El Paso? Well, my dad owned that and he lost all
of it on the ponies in Juarez. I just hate horses.

"I know everything t