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believed there was a trail which, near the ranch, became a road.
    Provisional Squadron resumed the march. As the night lengthened the stars receded, so that there was little light. The cold was now absolute. Men rode stiff and swaying in the saddle, wrapped to the ears in blankets with jaws clamped against teeth-chatter. Frost plumed from nostrils. There was no talk, only the click of hoofs, the squeak of leathers, the tink of bit-rings, the huff of three hundred animals breathing hard. After much time the trail narrowed, climbing higher, winding among the breadloaf hills, and orders passed back to dismount and lead in columns of troopers, or single file. Night march without moon across unfamiliar terrain is the most difficult cavalry maneuver. These men and beasts had had enough. In total dark the trail could not be seen. Over rocks men stumbled, drunk with fatigue, reins grasped in one frozen hand, with the other trying to hold to the tail of the horse ahead. When grip was broken the file spread out, men at the rear of a platoon lost and cursing until the point halted and the inevitable series of collisions occurred. Mules of the Machine-Gun Troop and the pack train, carrying heavier loads, were so played out and bewildered, a handkerchief having been wound about the clapper of the bell on the white lead horse, ‘Blinky Jim’, that they had to be hauled along. To keep awake was agony. When, each hour, a ten-minute halt was called to breathe the horses, most men sank blanket-wrapped to the ground and slept instantly, holding reins in hands. Those who tried to drink found canteens skim-frozen. Icicles formed in the stubble of the chin. Noses bled freely from height and many men suffered headaches. For those whose faculties were not too numbed to think, discomfort was increased by certainty that this was no more than another wild-goose chase, that they would reach the objective only to learn the Villistas were long gone. For three hours the pace was a forced walk. Finally open ground, high and level, was struck, and word came down the column. They were within a mile of sight of Ojos Azules . There would be an hour’s halt to rest and feed again. Fires were permitted. At 03.50 hours there would be an officers’ call.
    In darkness men put on nose-bags, but did not unsaddle. Fires flared. They saw that they were in a large upland hollow atop a range, or corderilla . About the fires men clustered shuddering with cold, their finger ends sore from freezing, thawing canteens, heating coffee and hard bread.
    Major Thorn and Private Hetherington built a small fire for themselves. Through the afternoon and night they had not exchanged a dozen words. As they ate and drank the enlisted man asked again if there might be a fight, and the officer replied he did not know. Hetherington said he had heard there would be no cavalry after this campaign, that when the Expedition returned to the States the regiments would be given trucks to ride or retrained as infantry to fight in the big war across the pond. Major Thorn said he, too, had heard the rumors.
    Just then a strangling sound groaned in the hollow. Major Thorn went forward along the line, avoiding the firelight. He did not wish to speak to anyone, and since this was a squadron of the 12th, of which he had been Executive Officer at Columbus for almost two years, he knew every officer, nearly every man. The strangling sound came from the fire next to the farthest. It was that of the Apache Scouts who had been all day the advance guard. Curious, he had watched them that morning in Gral . Trias . A detachment of twenty had just been brought down from Oklahoma for scout duty. They were short men, averaging five feet six, but proportioned like deer, small-boned, their arms and legs roped with sinew; long black hair overflowed their campaign hats and they wore multi-colored neckerchiefs with concho slides made of silver; uniforms fitted them unnaturally. First Sergeant Chicken, who had served