In the summer of 1848, with the Mexican-American War over and the United States newly in possession of vast lands west of Texas, eighteen-year-old Samuel Chamberlain of Boston found himself at a crossroads. He had served as a dragoon in Mexico, and while he felt sorry to part with the comrades who had become his only friends, he also had a strong desire to see California. Through the influence of a friend, he obtained the position of wagonmaster at sixty-five dollars a month, far better than the seven dollars he had received as a soldier. On the 18th of July, the expedition intended for New Mexico and California departed Walnut Springs, near Monterey.

It was a fine-looking column, its men dressed in bright red flannel shirts and black broad-brimmed hats, with the cavalry under Major Lawrence P. Graham and the whole detachment commanded by Brevet Lieutenant Colonel John Washington. Chamberlain was given charge of fifty wagons. As he prepared to dine at camp, a woman rode up with a note addressed to him.

It recommended the bearer, a Miss Ellen Ramsey, as desirous of going to California, and suggested he contract a Scotch marriage with her to enable her to do so. She was a full six feet tall, splendidly proportioned, with clear complexion, deep blue eyes, and golden hair. She told him she had landed in Texas with other Scottish emigrants, lost her parents to disease, and now wanted to go west. An order prohibited all except married females from traveling with the troops.

With blushes, Chamberlain tried to decline her offer, but she laughed at his bashfulness. She proposed they live together for a year, after which they could marry if they wished or separate in peace. He surrendered at discretion. She set up his tent with a rug, a looking glass, and a comfortable bed with snow-white sheets.

She was an excellent cook, owned her own horse, and proved a model mistress. The arrangement was not so bad after all. Her example seemed contagious. Just as they were ready to start, a train of wagons came into sight, preceded by a horseman recognized by all as Sarah Borginnis, the celebrated Great Western.

She asked Colonel Washington for permission to accompany the expedition, and was told that if she would marry one of the dragoons and be mustered in as a laundress, she could go. She replied that she would marry the whole squadron, and rode along the line calling out who wanted a wife with fifteen thousand dollars and the biggest leg in Mexico. After some hesitation, Davis of Company E accepted. Such was the morale of the army in Mexico.

The command marched through the haciendas of northern Mexico, resting animals and enjoying the hospitality of local officials. At one town, the officers ordered all wagons repaired regardless of whether they required it, which took four days, during which the men were treated to bullfights. Chamberlain began to genuinely like and respect Ellen, who was only eighteen and did not regard their arrangement as the least wrong, as it was a custom of her country. She was perfectly faithful to him, made excellent pies, sewed for the officers’ wives, and was always busy and good-natured.

One evening, Chamberlain and two sergeants went into town and ended up at a fandango full of ugly-looking cutthroats. A Mexican knifed one of the sergeants in the side. Chamberlain drew his revolver and shot the assailant dead. Two more shots laid out two more of the attackers, and the mob fell back.

The men barricaded themselves in the stone house, but pistol balls were poured in through the windows. Near midnight, the sounds of the mob ceased, replaced by the regular step of soldiers. A patrol arrived and took them prisoners. The lieutenant was much pleased, kicking over the dead man and exclaiming that one was a famous assassin named Juan Ramirez, known as El Escorpion, for whose head there was a reward of one thousand dollars.

The reward had been paid to the valorous lieutenant, which explained why he wanted the affair kept quiet. The patrol escorted the wounded sergeant and Chamberlain back toward camp, then left them. What followed, Chamberlain later confessed, he was not very clear about. They had drunk freely.

As they sat on the sidewalk, they were suddenly rushed by a crowd. Chamberlain received a blow on the head, and his face was covered with blood. He fired the remaining chambers of his revolver and dashed through the crowd, using his pistol as a club. He reached the river, where he found the wounded sergeant in a faint.

The camp was almost within stone’s throw, and he could easily have reached it alone. But his duty was plain: save his sergeant or go under with him. He raised the man onto his back and waded into the river, which was over two feet deep and twenty yards wide. Stones flew around them.

One struck the sergeant, bringing Chamberlain to his knees. He staggered and fell into the water, knowing the attackers were on him and that he could do no more. Then a woman’s voice cried out, “Courage, Jack. I am here.

” It was Ellen, with a number of dragoons. He was pulled from the river, his scalp badly bruised and cut, but his thick skull still sound. The next day, Major Rucker called on him and gave him a regular damning, swearing that it was all his fault and that if the sergeant died, he would have him hung. But the Mexican commander reported that a patrol had killed five bandits, including the famous assassin.

Ellen, however, had been blue and gloomy for some days. She finally confessed that she had received an offer of marriage from a countryman of hers, a wagonmaster going to Santa Fe. She said that if Chamberlain offered the least objection, she would refuse the offer and go with him to California. But she was convinced he would never marry her, and since she now had a chance to become an honest woman, she did not think it right to throw it away.

Chamberlain raved at first, but his better nature prevailed. He knew the marriage was the best thing for the poor girl’s happiness. He gave his free consent. The marriage took place at headquarters before they left Chihuahua.

Chamberlain gave the bride away. When she departed, he felt desolate. Too late, he was sorry he had let her go. The command marched on to the scene of Colonel Doniphan’s battle at Sacramento, then split, with one force heading for Santa Fe and the other, under Major Graham, moving off toward California.

The country to the northwest of Chihuahua was practically unknown. The citizens told fabulous stories of great cities in the far north, of rivers running over beds of gold pebbles, and of beautiful women who fought on horseback. Chamberlain, with a warm imagination, was prepared for many startling adventures. But the march was badly managed.

The commander, Major Graham, proved incompetent. Marches were ill-timed, without proper care for grass and water, and in a country of plenty, the animals suffered for forage. Wagons fell to pieces, tires came off, and constant halting soured the disposition of all. Graham cursed everyone, and Chamberlain came in for more than his share of the abuse.

One day, when one of his wagons broke down, the major damned and swore at him and said he would disrate him. Chamberlain imprudently replied that as the major had the power, he might do as he pleased. Graham swore to hang him and ordered him brought along as a prisoner. His horse and revolver were taken from him.

He walked for several days, though the guard from his old squadron permitted him to ride when the major was out of sight. Near Tucson, they came upon the Mission of San Xavier del Bac, built in 1668, standing in the midst of a desert inhabited by the Papago Indians. Chamberlain was sketching the place from a scaffold when Graham rode up, snatched the book from his hands, threw it in his face, and ordered him tied up for two hours and then put in handcuffs. The next day, he sketched again and was tied up again.

Tucson was very hot, and tied up in the sun, Chamberlain felt his skin commencing to crack. Then a strange white man rode up, drew a Bowie knife, and coolly cut him down. The man was seized and tied up himself. He was small and wiry, dressed in a half-Indian, half-Mexican costume, armed with a heavy Kentucky rifle, a revolver, and a huge knife.

He howled like a coyote, bellowed like a bull, and intermingled his strange oaths in a mixture of Spanish, English, and Chinook. He called himself Tom Hitchcock, and he mentioned the name Glanton. The name recalled to Chamberlain the tragic scene he had witnessed in the Bear Exchange in San Antonio years before. Hitchcock belonged to a band of hunters employed by the governor of Sonora, known as the scalp hunters, commanded by John Glanton of Texas, the desperado of the Bear Exchange.

Chamberlain made up his mind to escape and join Glanton’s company. Hitchcock advised him to join Satan and go to hell at once, but finding Chamberlain in earnest, he promised to help. That night, Chamberlain reflected on the step he was about to take, to separate himself from all civilization and friends, to join a band of outlaws, for the scalp hunters were considered such even by the half-savage frontiersman. It was an act to make one think.

In the morning, Hitchcock was released. During the march, a solitary horseman was seen hanging on the rear, and Chamberlain knew it was his outlaw. He waved a handkerchief three times, the agreed signal, and the answer came back with the cry of a coyote. Chamberlain got his pay from Captain Chapman, then went to an old comrade, Happy Jack, who provided him with his horse, revolver, knife, two holster pistols, and a long-range Hall rifle.

After dark, he eluded the sentinel and rode forth into the dark desert, friendless and alone. He reached the mesa and looked back on the camp in the valley. He broke down and cried like a child. Come to the test, he found he was not so much of the heroic mold as he imagined.

He was aroused by a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Hitchcock. In his presence, all feelings of despondence fled. He was ready for adventure.

They traveled through the Sierra Chiricahua, a retired place well known to Glanton’s band. Hitchcock gave him an insight into the wild, lawless life of the Indian hunters of Sonora. Glanton was paid fifty dollars for every Apache scalp brought in. He had recently returned from an unsuccessful hunt in the Navajo country, where he had lost eleven men and not a scalp to show for it.

He was now encamped at the Presidio of Fronteras, and hearing of a large body of Americans on the road, had dispatched men to intercept them and obtain recruits. Crossing an elevated plain where the great pitahaya cactus grew in abundance, they spotted a long column of horsemen in single file. Apaches on the war trail. They came yelling across the plain, brandishing their lances.

Chamberlain dismounted, rested his rifle on his saddle, drew a bead on a large warrior, and fired. The Indian sprang to the ground. His companions fled. The wounded warrior dragged himself to the brink of a deep barranca, sang his death chant, and plunged into the awful abyss.

“Five pesos gone to hell,” cried Tom. The Indian had cheated them out of his hair. Chamberlain moved on in silence, affected greatly. He felt as if he had committed a murder.

He was safe, the warrior had never harmed him, and he was on his own soil. Yet he had killed him. They reached a dark canyon as night fell. Hitchcock disappeared, and all was still.

Then a wild shriek of laughter seemed to burst from the solid rock, caught up and repeated from a thousand points, mingled with the reports of firearms and wild yells. Chamberlain was certain he was in the midst of a terrific combat. He hid behind a boulder and made ready for a struggle. But no one assailed him.

Then the walls were lit up by a bright light held by a wild-looking figure. It was Hitchcock. The canyon possessed a remarkable echo, which had so alarmed him. A single rifle shot and sundry whoops had the effect of a severe conflict in which hundreds were engaged.

Hitchcock led him up into a large cave fifty feet above the ravine, a hiding place often used by Glanton’s men, who kept provisions and fuel stored there. They ate a hearty meal, and Chamberlain slept safe and sound, though the dying Indian troubled him in his dreams. In the morning, they ate breakfast, saddled up, and left Hitchcock’s ranch, descending out of the canyon into the desert, Chamberlain now bound for the camp of John Glanton and his scalp hunters.