neither of us had visited those attractive "burgs" and elysiums of pleasure—for a long time—but the conditional, or "If" clause in this interview caused us to dubiously shake our heads—with feeling of hope, it is true, but not of elation—and not unmixed with some dread and apprehension for the future, hardly knowing what was before us in this, to us, most novel frontier adventure— It was now nearly dark, and wishing Mackenzie "Good Night", and stepping out into the gloom of approaching night to face the drizzle of a gathering "Norther," we (Lawton and the writer) shook hands and separated, both busily chewing the cud of reflection, inwardly cursing our reputed Civil War efficiency that had led to our selection for such "beastly" service, and industriously trying to digest and assimilate these most elaborate and elastic, carte blanche instructions the "Old Man" had given us— While we felt that in a measure, we were free lances—all freebooters, with nobody to say "Yea or Nay", our own Commanding officers with no one to disturb our independence of thought and action (and with such limited means of communication at that period and under such conditions, one can easily see that no such limitations could be imposed as are placed to-day), we also realized the terrible responsibility so suddenly thrust upon us, and the great risks we ran in dealing with determined men wrought up to such a desperate pitch as they were by alleged acts of injustice—and hard and fast conditions under which they were serving— All this aided, as we felt these men might be, by other equally bad gun-men—all over and down through that country wherever we might trail them.

I had selected Corporal John B. Charlton of Troop "F" for my civilian companion— I considered him one of the best non-commissioned officers in the regiment— While he had a free, rollicking, reckless, dare devil spirit about him—he was easily controlled, and perfectly amenable to discipline— He was a very handsome, intelligent, active, energetic man of about 24 years of age—and was on his second 5 years enlistment—his first having been in the Fifth Artillery— He was fully six feet—spare, sinewy, straight as an arrow—an athlete—one of the best riders, shots and hunters, and all round soldiers in the regiment— He had a straight nose—strong chin and steel-blue eyes, the glint of which, when he was aroused—looked dangerous when squinting down the sights of our old Spencer Carbines— He reminded me of that free, rollicksome—"devil-may-care" d'Artagnan, one of the "Three Musketeers"— He probably had a past like many other enlisted men who entered the regular army after the Civil War— If so, for obvious reasons, we never pried into that past. He entered into the spirit and novelty of this new adventure with commendable zeal, energy, spirit and enthusiasm— I felt that I knew my man perfectly, and that, under all circumstances, he would prove absolutely loyal to all duty and be faithful to whatever trust I reposed in him—

We were all well mounted, well armed, and had one good, well trained pack mule to carry our grub— We both had guides, the one assigned to the writer being William Rhodes, a rancher, who had been driven in to the shelter of the post by Indians, a very quiet, sturdy, honest and reliable man who knew the country fairly well within a radius of 40 miles, but beyond that his knowledge was no better than my own or any other man in the detachment, besides being one more man to feed and care for after he had got beyond his bailiwick as a post guide— I never took another guide beyond a 50 mile radius.

The Pursuit—A Howling "Norther"

At 7:15 we made the start—the writer taking the Weatherford stage road across the prairie, a mere trail— The "Norther" broke with full force, with alternate snow, rain, hail and sleet—a heavy gale driving it into our faces— We left the trail and rode into several freighters' camps, where they had sought shelter in the timber, at great risk to our lives—to search for the missing men but without learning anything— They had immense roaring fires which could be seen for a long distance, but so great was their fear of Indians, that we found them up and ready, rifle in hand—and behind their wagon bodies—determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible— It was hard to tear ourselves away from these huge fires—and plunge across the interminable prairies in the teeth of the increasing gale— We were none too warmly clothed— The men and horses—hardly recovered from their year's hard work—were beginning to show the effects and wear and tear of such a frightful storm. Believing that we should all perish if we continued the ride all night, and Rhodes, the guide, agreeing with me—upon his informing me that his brother had a ranch only a mile or two off the road, directions were given to him to head for the ranch by the shortest line so that we could secure the needed shelter— After a fearful struggle over several miles of an open stretch of prairie, breasting into the teeth of one of the worst blizzards ever recorded in Texas, we reached the ranch, the men and horses almost exhausted, and completely coated with ice— The ranch proved to be a low, one story log house, with several out-buildings—a ramshackly horse shed and corn crib— It was midnight— Several dogs announced our approach, and Rhodes aroused his brother— Ordering the men to unsaddle, blanket the horses with their saddle blankets, and to "tie in" under the "lee" of the buildings, the men to occupy the horse shed—Rhodes, the Corporals and the writer stalked into the shelter of the "shack"— There was but one room with a large stone fire place— Rhodes piled on the logs— The room had two beds in it— He and the writer, stripping off our outer frozen clothes, and hanging them up to dry in front of the blaze—occupied one bed—his brother, wife and infant child were in the other, while the two Corporals, with several large ranch dogs, curled up in their blankets on the open hearth— It was a "wild and wooly" night—when the baby wasn't crying the dogs were sniffing, growling, whining or whimpering over being disturbed by such an influx of strangers— We wore out the night with little or no sleep— When day broke it was found that the storm was still raging although the wind had somewhat abated— Feeding the horses liberally from Rhodes' corn cribs, for which we paid him generously—and after a hasty breakfast, we saddled up and started across the prairie to find the road— The country was one sheet of glare ice— Our horses were smooth shod— At the road we met Sergeant Faber of Troop "A" with a small detachment returning from some duty and going into Fort R. We learned from him that the deserters had been seen the night before in Weatherford, which was but a few miles away— We skated, slid and floundered along through the ice crust, a horse going down now and then until we reached a creek about one-half mile from W—— when the command halted and was placed in bivouac, concealed by heavy chaparral— Corporal Charlton was directed to get ready to accompany the writer at dark and afoot for a thorough search of the town and to begin to assume his role—

The Search—Amateur Army Detectives—The Corporal's Joke

We struck the town under cover of darkness, and proceeded to "comb" it, both heavily armed and with no insignia of rank on or about our citizens clothes or any indication that we were of the army— "Now, Corporal, you are to preserve your incognito— You are to deal with your Commanding Officer as though we are simply two friends or acquaintances on a night's drive through the 'slums'; there are to be no—'Yes, Sir!' or—'No, Sir!'— No deference is to be paid—him— Don't forget your part! You are to be simply—'Green',—and the other party is to be plain 'Brown'— Have your guns handy, and at a given