ith its wounded they had skipped, no one knew where. If Potts hadn't
been taken down with brain fever on top of his wound he would have
followed their trail, desertion or no desertion, but he was a broken man
when he got out of hospital. The last thing old Starr said to me was,
'Now, Gleason, I want you to be kind to my old sergeant; he served all
through the war, and I've never forgiven them in the First for going
back on him and refusing to re-enlist him; but the captains, one and
all, said it was no use; he had sunk lower and lower; was perfectly
unreliable; spent nine-tenths of his time in the guard-house and all his
money in whiskey; and one after another they refused to take him.'"

"How'd we happen to get him, then?" queried one of our party.

"He showed up at San Francisco, neat as a new pin; exhibited several
fine discharges, but said nothing of the last two, and was taken into
the regiment as we were going through. Of course, its pretty much as
they said in the First when we're in garrison, but, once out scouting,
days away from a drop of 'tanglefoot,' and he does first rate. That's
how he got his corporal's chevrons."

"He'll lose 'em again before we're back at Sandy forty-eight hours,"
growled Blake, strolling up to the party again.

But he did not. Prophecies failed this time, and old Potts wore those
chevrons to the last.

He was a good prophet and a keen judge of human nature as exemplified in
Gleason, who said that "the old man" was planning for a visit to the new
ranches above Fort Phoenix. A day or two farther we plodded along down
the range, our Indian scouts looking reproachfully--even sullenly--at
the commander at every halt, and then came the order to turn back. Two
marches more, and the little command went into bivouac close under the
eaves of Fort Phoenix and we were exchanging jovial greetings with our
brother officers at the post. Turning over the command to Lieutenant
Blake, Mr. Gleason went up into the garrison with his own particular
pack-mule; billeted himself on the infantry commanding officer--the
major--and in a short time appeared freshly-shaved and in the neatest
possible undress uniform, ready to call upon the few ladies at the post,
and of course to make frequent reference to "my battalion," or "my
command," down beyond the dusty, dismal corrals. The rest of us, having
come out for business, had no uniforms, nothing but the rough field,
scouting rig we wore on such duty, and ever