g inside the ambulances.
I wore a small derringer, with a narrow belt filled with cartridges. An
incongruous sight, methinks now, it must have been. A young mother, pale
and thin, a child of scarce three months in her arms, and a pistol belt
around her waist!

I scarcely looked back at Camp Apache. We had a long day's march before
us, and we looked ahead. Towards night we made camp at Cooley's ranch,
and slept inside, on the floor. Cooley was interpreter and scout, and
although he was a white man, he had married a young Indian girl, the
daughter of one of the chiefs and was known as a squaw man. There
seemed to be two Indian girls at his ranch; they were both tidy and
good-looking, and they prepared us a most appetizing supper.

The ranch had spaces for windows, covered with thin unbleached muslin
(or manta, as it is always called out there), glass windows being then
too great a luxury in that remote place. There were some partitions
inside the ranch, but no doors; and, of course, no floors except adobe.
Several half-breed children, nearly naked, stood and gazed at us as
we prepared for rest. This was interesting and picturesque from many
standpoints perhaps, but it did not tend to make me sleepy. I lay gazing
into the fire which was smouldering in the corner, and finally I said,
in a whisper, "Jack, which girl do you think is Cooley's wife?"

"I don't know," answered this cross and tired man; and then added, "both
of 'em, I guess."

Now this was too awful, but I knew he did not intend for me to ask any
more questions. I had a difficult time, in those days, reconciling what
I saw with what I had been taught was right, and I had to sort over my
ideas and deep-rooted prejudices a good many times.

The two pretty squaws prepared a nice breakfast for us, and we set out,
quite refreshed, to travel over the malapais (as the great lava-beds in
that part of the country are called). There was no trace of a road. A
few hours of this grinding and crunching over crushed lava wearied us
all, and the animals found it hard pulling, although the country was
level.

We crossed Silver Creek without difficulty, and arrived at Stinson's
ranch, after traveling twenty-five miles, mostly malapais. Do not for a
moment think of these ranches as farms. Some of them were deserted sheep
ranches, and had only adobe walls standing in ruins. But the camp must
have a name, and on the old maps of Arizona these names are still to be
found. Of cou