These two rivers, the Gila and Salado, lay directly across our path to Fort Whipple and Prescott, for which we were now bound--Gov. McCormick and wife to return to their home there, and T. and I to look after U. S. post-office and military affairs there generally. They were both, swollen and turbid; nobody had forded them, for a month; and they were still at freshet height, and rising--without bridge or ferry. As nothing better could be done, we decided to halt at Maricopa Wells for a few days, as we could neither get forward to Prescott nor backward to Yuma, though the delay was most vexatious at such an out-of-the-world place, where the mail was so intermittent, and their freshest newspaper more than a month old. We spent the time in writing up our note-books, and in studying the Pimas and Maricopas; but the days wore heavily on, with small prospect of the waters subsiding. Finally, after waiting nearly a week, chafing at the delay, we heard of a little row-boat owned by a German, down at the McDowell crossing of the Gila, which it was reported would suffice to ferry us over, if we took our ambulances well to pieces. We would then have to mount the boat on a wagon and transport it thirty miles or so, overland to the Salado, and there repeat the operation; but this was better, than halting indefinitely at the Wells. We had been told, there was no boat, available for such a purpose; but I determined to see what we could do, with this one. Of course, it would be slow work, and perhaps dangerous, ferrying over two swollen rivers, by piecemeal thus. But it seemed better, than being embargoed and flood-stayed here--practically five hundred miles away from everywhere--and with no news from "inside" or civilization, for over a month now. As to whether we would succeed, we could only say _nous verrons_, or _quien sabe_; but meant to try, anyhow.