In a few hours he returned with the overwhelming news that he found a dispatch awaiting him at that post, ordering him to return immediately to his company at Camp MacDowell, as the Eighth Infantry was ordered to the Department of California.
Ordered "out" at last! I felt like jumping up onto the table, climbing onto the roof, dancing and singing and shouting for joy! Tired as we were (and I thought I had reached the limit), we were not too tired to take the first stage back for Florence, which left that evening.

Those two nights on the Tucson stage are a blank in my memory.

I got through them somehow.
In the morning, as we approached the town of Florence, the great blue army wagon containing our household goods, hove in sight--its white canvas cover stretched over hoops, its six sturdy mules coming along at a good trot, and Sergeant Stone cracking his long whip, to keep up a proper pace in the eyes of the Tucson stage-driver.
Jack called him to halt, and down went the Sergeant's big brakes.
Both teams came to a stand-still, and we told the Sergeant the news.
Bewilderment, surprise, joy, followed each other on the old Sergeant's countenance.

He turned his heavy team about, and promised to reach Camp MacDowell as soon as the animals could make it.

At Florence, we left the stage, and went to the little tavern once more; the stage route did not lie in our direction, so we must hire a private conveyance to bring us to Camp MacDowell.