nine in the morning
The young May moon was sinking to rest , its pure pallid light shining faintly in contrast with the ruddy glow of some distant beacon in the mountains beneath . Ever since nightfall the rock buttress at the pass had been reflecting the lurid glare of the leaping flames as , time and again , unseen but busy hands heaped on fresh fuel and sent the sparks whirling in fiery eddies to the sky . Languid and depressed after a long day 's battling with the fierce white sunshine , horses and men would gladly have spent the early hours of night dozing at their rude bivouac in the Christobal . Ever since nine in the morning , after a long night march , they had sought such shade as the burning rocks might afford , scooping up the tepid water from the natural tanks at the bottom of the cañon and thanking Providence it was not alkali . The lieutenant commanding , a tall , wiry , keen-faced young fellow , had made the rounds of his camp at sunset , carefully picking up and scrutinizing the feet of his horses and sending the farrier to tack on here and there a starting shoe . Gaunt and sunburned were his short-coupled California chargers , as were their tough-looking riders ; fetlocks and beards were uniformly ragged ; shoes of leather and shoes of iron showed equal wear . A bronze-faced sergeant , silently following his young chief , watched him with inquiring eyes and waited for the decision that was to condemn the command to another night march across the desert , or remand them to rest until an hour or so before the dawn .