their blankets on the floor of the long veranda, at the hacienda, and, lying down upon them, while away the earlier part of the night, fighting mosquitoes and swapping lies, which were about equally abundant at that time in camp.
Some years previous to this time, the Mojaves of the Colorado Valley, becoming tired of inglorious peace, and panting for war and its triumphs and renown, concluded to go on an expedition up the Gila, and clean out the Pimos and Maricopas, their old friends and allies against the Apaches. The campaign opened auspiciously. The first skirmish resulted in the rapid retreat of the Pimos, with the loss of four bucks and one squaw, toward their main village, farther up the valley. But the second fight resulted differently, and the Mojaves retreated in confusion toward the Colorado, with the loss of half their force, and with their thirst for military glory whipped clean out of them.
Now it happened, almost as a matter of course since trouble was going on, that Concatenation Bill was in the vicinity when the fight took place—or, at least, had heard the particulars from some one who had been—and, as was his custom, had worked up the incidents and details into a wonderful romance, like unto that of the adventures of the Cid, of which you may be sure he was the central figure and hero, and he never tired of relating it, with endless variations, to any crowd who could be got to listen to the story. No one about the camp knew aught to the contrary; so, for want of contradiction, the story was accepted for its face, and became one of the acknowledged and
