The first afternoon-stage that day was a long and terrible one. The poor horses could hardly drag our crazy wagon, up to its hubs in potash; and yet we knew our only safety, in case of attack, was a running fight. We must fire from our windows as the horses flew. About four o'clock we entered a terrible defile, which seemed planned by Nature for treachery and ambush. The great, black, porphory and trachyte rose three hundred feet above our heads, their lower and nearer ledges being all so many natural parapets to fire over, loop-holed with chinks to fire through. There were ten rifles in our party. We ran them out, five on a side, ready to send the first red villain who peeped over the breastworks to quick perdition. Our six-shooters lay across our laps, our bowie-knives were at our sides, our cartouche-boxes, crammed with ready vengeance, swung open on our breast-straps. We sat with tight-shut teeth, -- only muttering now and then to each other, in a glum undertone, "Don't get nervous, --don't throw a single shot away, -- take aim, -- remember it's for home!"
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