The two forward troops are the enemy, and are distinguished by wearing
brown canvas stable-frocks. These shortly move out through the post, and
are seen no more.
Now comes the sun. By the shades of Knickerbocker's _History of New
York_ I seem now to have gotten at the beginning; but patience, the sun
is no detail out in the arid country. It does more things than blister
your nose. It is the despair of the painter as it colors the minarets of
the Bad Lands which abound around Adobe, and it dries up the company
gardens if they don't watch the _acequias_ mighty sharp. To one just out
of bed it excuses existence. I find I begin to soften towards the
Colonel. In fact, it is possible that he is entirely right about having
his old trumpets blown around garrison at this hour, though it took the
Captain's boot to prove it shortly since.
The command moves out, trotting quickly through the blinding clouds of
dust. The landscape seems to get right up and mingle with the
excitement. The supple, well-trained horses lose the scintillation on
their coats, while Uncle Sam's blue is growing mauve very rapidly. But
there is a useful look about the men, and the horses show condition
after their long practice march just finished. Horses much used to go
under saddle have well-developed quarters and strong stifle action. Fact
is, nothing looks like a horse with a harness on. That is a job for
mules, and these should have a labor organization and monopolize it.
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