A LADY IN CAMP.
Camp "Andrew Jackson," in the southern part of Arizona, had not always been without that brightest star on the horizon of an army officer's outpost life, "A lady in camp." If you happened to be of sufficiently good social standing, and clever fellow enough to be received and entertained by the officers of the One Hundred and First Cavalry—which had long garrisoned Camp Andrew Jackson—one or the other of them might tell you, confidentially, lounging in a quartermaster-made chair under the ramáda of the sutler-store, as far as he knew it, the story of this lady.
Camp Andrew Jackson was a two-company post; and the officers of both companies, or the number remaining—after a liberal deduction by detached service, furlough, and sick-list—had congregated one day, years ago, to discuss the chances of the major's arrival in the course of the night or the following day. The place of congregating was the sutler-store, or the ramáda in front of it; time, between "stables" and "retreat."
"Don't I tell you," asserted young Grumpet, in his most emphatic manner, "don't I tell you that when I was in Tucson, the general told me that he should not be able to let the major have more than five men and a corporal for escort from Tucson out here; and do you think that Major Stanford, with that young wife of his—a shining mark for Apache arrows—would venture on the road, in broad daylight, with this small number? No, indeed. I tell you he'll start out from Tucson about this time, reach Davidson's Springs at midnight, and get in here toward morning in good order and condition."
"Seems to me I shouldn't be afraid to start out from Tucson, and go anywhere in broad daylight, with my wife," said old Captain Manson, the post-commander, grimly.
An amused expression passed over the faces of the younger officers; everybody in camp knew, from hearsay, if not from personal observation, that the captain and his wife lived like "cats and dogs" when they were together, and that he would probably have let her go out from Tucson anywhere, in broad daylight and all alone, without the slightest fear or compunction, had she been in Arizona.
"For my part," continued Mr. Grumpet, who had been assigned to the One Hundred and First, and ordered to Arizona immediately after graduating from West Point, one year ago, "I shall be rejoiced to welcome a lady to the camp. One grows rusty at these outposts in the course of years, without the refining influence of ladies' society—without opportunities of any kind for cultivating and improving one's intellect and manners."
"The One Hundred and First has always had an excellent library, embracing books suited to a wide range of capacities and intellect, from a 'First Reader' to 'Corinne' and the 'Cosmos.' And, as far as tournure and manners are concerned," continued the gruff captain in a lower tone, and turning to the post-adjutant beside him, "why, I'm sure the doctor and I have made Chesterfieldian prodigies of Tom, the pup; Bruin, the grizzly; and Chatter, the parrot!"
From the laugh that followed, the junior lieutenant of Company "F" knew that something had been said to create this merriment at his expense; but he consoled himself with the thought that "old Manson" felt sore because Major Stanford would relieve him in the command of the post, and probably make him (Grumpet) post-adjutant, as he belonged to the major's company. Left in command of Company "F" by the senior lieutenant's absence, and officer of the day at the same time, Mr. Grumpet felt that he had no more time to devote to this class of mortals; so, bidding them a disdainful "Adieu," he proceeded to his own quarters, where he arranged sash, sabre, and belt to the greatest advantage on his sprightly person, and then awaited the summons to the parade-ground.
Whatever his meditations might have been, as his eyes wandered over the interminable sand-waste before him, they were interrupted by the spectacle of a cloud of dust arising in the distance. Quickly returning to his brother officers, he called their attention to this phenomenon.