It took us two days, to cross the Salado thus, and I need scarcely say, they were long and anxious ones. We were now in a region infested by Apaches, and we had to be constantly on the alert to guard against surprise. Late in the afternoon of the second day, leaving our teamsters and little escort to get the ambulances together and repack them, we proceeded up the Salado to Fort McDowell—the commandant there having heard of our approach, and sent an ambulance to bring us. It was some fifteen miles, part of the way through a dreaded Apache cañon; but we passed safely on, though we did not reach the post until after nightfall. We found the post—the largest and finest in Arizona—short of rations, and wholly out of forage, as it had been for several weeks, because of the spring freshets, as it was alleged, though there was plenty at Maricopa Wells, which it would seem might have been got there, if we could. This was suggested to the officer in charge, and no doubt was well heeded. We remained there until the next afternoon, inspecting the post and its bearings (it seemed admirably located for its work, well into the Apache country, protecting the valley of the Salado and the Gila), and then returned to our ambulances at the Crossing. The next morning, by sunrise, we were up and off, for the Prescott road—if we could find it. At Fort McDowell, they told us, we could never reach it. Some said it was thirty miles off—others claimed it was fifty or sixty, with an impassable country between. The only thing known definitely was, that there was no road at all down the north bank of the Salado, though we were sure to strike the regular Prescott road, if we kept along down that bank of the river far enough, and could get through. We might meet Apaches anywhere, they said, for it was one of their favorite tramping grounds, or we might go through unmolested, depending on circumstances. We had expected to get an escort of a dozen cavalry-men here, to accompany us to Prescott; but six cavalry-men, and six mounted infantry-men, were all the post could spare. The horses of these, though the best on hand, were so broken down for want of forage, that part were sent back before we got three miles out; and of the balance, only five went through to Prescott with us, by extra care and regular feeding with the grain, which we had taken the precaution to bring along from Maricopa Wells. An army wagon, with a six-mule team, also from Fort McDowell, furnished transportation for our escort, as the cavalry-horses successively gave out.
For the first fifteen miles or so, after leaving the Crossing, we found a well-broken road, used the year before as a hay-road from the river-bottoms to Fort McDowell. But, ultimately, this ended in a bend of the Salado, and from there on all was wild and unbroken—a veritable terra incognita. We found the Salado crookeder than a ram's horn, or a mesquite tree, or anything else that is most crooked and involved. Laying our course partly by the compass, and partly by the Salado's fringe of cottonwoods, we struck across from bend to bend of the river, sure only of one thing, and that was—keeping near to water. We found the river bottoms, as a rule, thick with chemisal, relieved here and there by dense mesquite groves, looking in the distance like old orchards, through which it was almost impossible to penetrate with ambulance or wagon. Now and then we had to flank a slough, or flounder through a quicksand, and sundown still found us pushing along through these bottoms, though we had made fully thirty miles since morning. We went into camp by the riverside just at dusk, thoroughly worn out, and not without a degree of anxiety, as we had crossed a number of Indian trails during the day, though none seemed fresh. Our animals were well blown, especially the cavalry horses, and the best we could do for them was a bite of corn, as we had no hay along, of course, and it was too late to graze them.
The night passed wearily away, but without cause for alarm, and early next morning we were again on the move. A drive, or rather struggle, of three miles or so through the mesquite and chemisal, brought us out to an ill-defined track, bearing away in the supposed direction of Wickenburg (and so to Prescott), and we resolved to take that, though certain it was not the regular road. We had heard of a "cut-off," or by-road somewhere there, made by a Lt. Du Bois some months before, and we concluded this must be his road. At all events, we were desperately tired of struggling through the mesquite and chemisal, and concluded we would follow this track up for a while anyhow. It was lucky we did; for, after rather too much easting for the first few miles, it finally struck directly across the Agua Frio, and came into the true Prescott road near White Tanks. This Agua Frio, usually one of Arizona's "dry rivers," we found with three feet of water in it, and bad quicksands beneath that. However, we discovered a practicable crossing, and soon after nightfall reached the vicinity of White Tanks, some thirty miles, since morning.
Here we camped by the roadside, glad to have struck the regular Wickenburg or Prescott road at last, and went supperless to sleep—for fear our fire, if made, might disclose us to the Indians. We could find no water for our poor animals, and the next morning would have missed our accustomed coffee even, had we not taken the precaution to keep our water-kegs well filled. Of course, we broke camp early, and moved wearily on to the Hassayampa, some ten or twelve miles, where we halted to water up and lunch. This Hassayampa, ordinarily, is another "dry river," like the Agua Frio, but we found three feet or more of water in it, and bottomless quicksands nearly everywhere. Our road, then the only road from Southern to Northern Arizona, ran directly up the Hassayampa, for some twelve or fifteen miles here, using the river-bed as a roadway, as the only practicable route through the mountains, and nobody had ventured through for a month or more.
The Hassayampa itself flows through a wild and rocky cañon, with high precipitous walls on either side; and it was soon apparent, that our only alternative was either to flounder through its quicksands, or retrace our steps to Maricopa Wells. The latter was out of the question, as our rations and forage were both about exhausted, and, besides, our improvised ferry-boat had returned to the Gila; so that the only thing left for us was to try the Hassayampa, and get through, somehow, at all hazards. We had heard of a trail, across the ridge and over the mountains, by the Vulture Mine, and so into Wickenburg, by a roundabout course; but a careful reconnoissance revealed no trace of it. We called a "council of war," and discussed the "situation," pro and con, with due gravity, and finally decided that there was nothing for us to do, but to ascend the Hassayampa; and so, into it we plunged. And, verily, it was a plunge. Nothing but a prolonged flounder, and plunge, from ten a. m. to six p. m.! Now into the stream; now out on a sand-bank; now deep into a quicksand; crossing and recrossing, from side to side, to take advantage of any land—not less than fifteen or twenty times in the course of the twelve miles! Sometimes a cavalry-man on horseback, "prospecting" the way for the ambulances, would go down, until it seemed impossible to extricate him and his horse. Again, an infantry-man, on foot, would suddenly sink in to his armpits, and call out to his comrades to come and rescue him. Then an ambulance would slip to one side, and half of it commence sinking, while the other half remained on solid ground. Then our six-mule team would go in, and half of the mules would flounder over the tongue, or turn a summerset out of the harness, and, perhaps, come near drowning, before they could be extricated, while the rest would be all right. Now we would be all ashore, clambering along the rocky walls of the cañon, to give the ambulances a better chance; and now, all hands would be out into the water, to start a stalled team, and then such a whooping and shouting, such a whipping and tugging at the wheels, one seldom sees equalled. I campaigned with McClellan, on the Peninsula; I was with Burnside in his Mud Campaign, after Fredericksburg; we had bad roads down in Tennessee and Georgia, when after Joe Johnston and Hood. But this tedious and toilsome drive, through the cañon and quicksands of the Hassayampa, beat all these; and we never would have got through, had we not had light loads, and skilful, plucky, magnificent drivers.
As it was, we just managed by good luck to struggle through, and got into Wickenburg about dusk, with our animals thoroughly blown, and ourselves pretty well used up. It had taken us just a week, to come through from Maricopa Wells, usually a drive of a day or two—or three, at the farthest. But the Gila and Salado were still unfordable, and we would have been detained at the Wells, probably, for a fortnight or more yet, had it not been for Louis' boat. We found we were the first party through in a month, and nobody was expected to venture the Hassayampa either way, for a month or so to come. Of course, with such rivers and roads—rivers without either bridges or ferries, and roads that follow the beds of rivers—our only conclusion was, that Arizona was in no hurry, for either population or business; and, I judge, this is about so. She must bridge her streams, and construct good substantial roads—at least between all chief points—before she can expect to grow and prosper. This is fundamental in all civilized communities, and she would have recognized it long since, had her population been more from the busy North, than from the indolent, happy-go-lucky South.