close at last, and the fierce sun of the desert sinking down on the horizon, when our little cavalcade wound round the bend in the trail, and we sighted the little adobe inclosure—half fort, half corral—called by courtesy 'The Station,' near the Picacho, on the old overland road, between Tucson and San Xavier del Bac, in southern Arizona, and the Pima villages on the Gila.
"We had left the upper valley of the Rio Grande too early in the season by a month, at least; and our trip thus far, on the road to California, had been a hard one. The coarse, dry bunch-grass, or gaieta, never abundant on this route, was unusually scarce that summer; and, as we were forced to guard our animals night and day, to prevent a surprise and capture by the Apaches, they got scarcely enough of it to keep life within them. We were hurrying on as rapidly as possible for the Gila, where we could purchase corn-fodder and barley from the friendly Indians, and proposed to camp for some time and recruit our worn-down stock, before turning westward toward the Colorado and the Pacific Coast. As we were unpacking that evening on the Picacho, I missed a package containing a valuable set of mathematical and drawing instruments, and some important papers, which I could not afford to lose. They had been put, with other articles, on a pack-mule, in the morning; but, having been carelessly corded, had worked loose and fallen off on the road, without being noticed. Finding I could borrow a fresh horse at the station, I determined to ride back up the trail in the cool of the evening
