Jack was a man of few words, and seldom spoke much in times like
that.

So I lay very quiet in the bottom of the ambulance. I realized
that we were in great danger. My thoughts flew back to the East,
and I saw, as in a flash, my father and mother, sisters and
brother; I think I tried to say a short prayer for them, and that
they might never know the worst. I fixed my eyes upon my
husband's face. There he sat, rifle in hand, his features
motionless, his eyes keenly watching out from one side of the
ambulance, while a stalwart cavalry-man, carbine in hand, watched
the other side of the narrow defile. The minutes seemed like
hours.

The driver kept his animals steady, and we rattled along.

At last, as I perceived the steep slope of the road, I looked
out, and saw that the Pass was widening out, and we must be
nearing the end of it. "Keep still," said Jack, without moving a
feature. My heart seemed then to stop beating, and I dared not
move again, until I heard him say, "Thank God, we're out of it!
Get up, Mattie! See the river yonder? We'll cross that to-night,
and then we'll be out of their God d----d country!"

This was Jack's way of working off his excitement, and I did not
mind it. I knew he was not afraid of Apaches for himself, but for
his wife and child. And if I had been a man, I should have said
just as much and perhaps more.

We were now down in a flat country, and low alkali plains lay