I wish that anything in the heavens, on the earth, or in the waters under
the earth would give me now such an emotion as I experienced in the shadow
of that "great rock in a weary land."
I was not a pilgrim, but an engineer _attache_ to an expedition through
Dakota and Montana, to inspect some new military posts. The expedition
consisted, where the Indians preserved the peace, of the late General W.B.
Hazen, myself, a cook and a teamster; elsewhere we had an escort of
cavalry. My duty, as I was given to understand it, was to amuse the
general and other large game, make myself as comfortable as possible
without too much discomfort to others, and when in an unknown country
survey and map our route for the benefit of those who might come after.
The posts which the general was to inspect had recently been established
along a military road, one end of which was at the North Platte and the
other--there was no other end; up about Fort C.F. Smith at the foot of the
Big-Horn Mountains the road became a buffalo trail and was lost in the
weeds. But it was a useful road, for by leaving it before going too far
one could reach a place near the headwaters of the Yellowstone, where the
National Park is now.
By a master stroke of military humor we were ordered to return (to
Washington) via Salt Lake City, San Francisco and Panama. I obeyed until I
got as far as San Francisco, where, finding myself appointed to a second
lieutenancy in the Regular Army, ingratitude, more strong than traitors'
arms, quite vanquished me: I resigned, parted from Hazen more in sorrow
than in anger and remained in California.
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