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UP THE VALLEY OF THE GILA.
The December sun was shining brightly down, as only the Arizona sun can shine at high noon in winter, when we crossed the Colorado on the primitive ferryboat drawn by ropes, clambered up into the great thorough-brace wagon (or ambulance) with its dusty white canvas covers all rolled up at the sides, said good-bye to our kind hosts of Fort Yuma, and started, rattling along the sandy main street of Yuma City, for old Camp MacDowell.
Our big blue army wagon, which had been provided for my boxes and trunks, rumbling along behind us, empty except for the camp equipage.
But it all seemed so good to me: I was happy to see the soldiers again, the drivers and teamsters, and even the sleek Government mules.

The old blue uniforms made my heart glad.

Every sound was familiar, even the rattling of the harness with its ivory rings and the harsh sound of the heavy brakes reinforced with old leather soles.
Even the country looked attractive, smiling under the December sun.

I wondered if I had really grown to love the desert.