"What can possess you, my virtuous friend? Where have you learned your lessons of life, if not in the school of experience? I must be in love with somebody, and lucky it is for me that I have such delightful material to waste a bit of my time and heart's affection upon. You see that I am refined enough to wish even my bacon to be of the choicest cut, and fricasseed to the most delicate brown, instead of fried in huge slices and served with chunks of bread."
They were riding slowly on through the dust and heat, and the elder officer turned and looked keenly into the face of handsome Captain Sherwood, who was stroking his small black mustache, and smiling at his inward fancies.
"Sherwood," he said, at last, "I must confess that I have never in my life realized the full meaning of all you imply until this hour. Men allow themselves to float down the current of custom and do and say many things which are, it seems to me, in my present mood, unmanly as well as impure. True, men of the world have always done the same things, and rarely stop to ask questions in regard to the matter; but—well, in fact, things look a little different now."
"What has changed the current of your opinion, my wise friend?"
"Something in the face of that haughty girl, as she looked her disdain to you, and the look of fierce hatred which that tall, red-bearded fellow gave you as he passed you, have set me to thinking. Maybe we are as guilty of crime in hunting out these people as were the Roman soldiers when they burned the Christians at the stake."
Sherwood gazed with more and more astonishment at the words of his friend, and at the close of the little, conscience-stricken speech, he burst into a hearty peal of laughter, and again and again he laughed as he recalled the absurdity of such a comparison.
"You must excuse me, old boy, but it is too utterly funny for words. These adulterous, ignorant, impudent 'Mormons' to be compared to the ancient Christians? Ha, ha, ha!"
The elder man winced a little under the fire of ridicule, but his own sense of right and honor told him his position was the true one, and he felt stealing over him a contempt and repugnance for the man who could so recklessly plan the destruction of innocent, helpless womanhood.
The soldiers reached the outskirts of their own camp late that afternoon, and as Col. Saxey gazed at the crowded hive of huts and tents, filled with men, a few women, and many squaws, which composed the nondescript village just across the stream from Camp Floyd, he felt a sense of horror and dislike for all that this motley crowd signified, which he had never before felt, and which was as surprising as it was new to him.
Camp Floyd had been laid out with the care and skill which characterized all the labors of General Johnston. At the hillside lay the officers' quarters, while down the river a little lower were stationed the quarters of the men, with the parade ground between. All the tents had been pitched on a low three-foot adobe foundation, thus giving some measure of comfort to their temporary structures. Outside the camp, and across the bridge which spanned the small mountain stream, was a collection of rude log huts, one or two small adobe houses, and a great many tents of all sizes, all pitched on the low adobe walls. Here were gathered the usual camp followers, those who did the store-keeping, the washing, the ironing, the makers and vendors of every commodity bought and sold in the camp. In this place all grades of camp-followers were sheltered.