Tucson lay far to the south of us, and was even hotter than this place.

But there was nothing to be done; we packed up, I with a heavy heart, Jack with his customary stoicism.
With the grief which comes only at that time in one's life, and which sees no end and no limit, I parted from my friends at Camp MacDowell.
Two years together, in the most intimate companionship, cut off from the outside world, and away from all early ties, had united us with indissoluble bonds,--and now we were to part,--forever as I thought.
We all wept; I embraced them all, and Jack lifted me into the ambulance; Mrs.Kendall gave a last kiss to our little boy; Donahue, our soldier-driver, loosened up his brakes, cracked his long whip, and away we went, down over the flat, through the dark MacDowell canon, with the chollas nodding to us as we passed, across the Salt River, and on across an open desert to Florence, forty miles or so to the southeast of us.
At Florence we sent our military transportation back and staid over a day at a tavern to rest.

We met there a very agreeable and cultivated gentleman, Mr.Charles Poston, who was en route to his home, somewhere in the mountains nearby.

We took the Tucson stage at sundown, and travelled all night.

I heard afterwards more about Mr.Poston: he had attained some reputation in the literary world by writing about the Sun-worshippers of Asia.