The soldiers reached the outskirts of their own camp late that afternoon, and as Col. Saxey gazed at the crowded hive of huts and tents, filled with men, a few women, and many squaws, which composed the nondescript village just across the stream from Camp Floyd, he felt a sense of horror and dislike for all that this motley crowd signified, which he had never before felt, and which was as surprising as it was new to him. Camp Floyd had been laid out with the care and skill which characterized all the labors of General Johnston. At the hillside lay the officers' quarters, while down the river a little lower were stationed the quarters of the men, with the parade ground between. All the tents had been pitched on a low three-foot adobe foundation, thus giving some measure of comfort to their temporary structures. Outside the camp, and across the bridge which spanned the small mountain stream, was a collection of rude log huts, one or two small adobe houses, and a great many tents of all sizes, all pitched on the low adobe walls. Here were gathered the usual camp followers, those who did the store-keeping, the washing, the ironing, the makers and vendors of every commodity bought and sold in the camp. In this place all grades of camp-followers were sheltered. Men were there, some few decent and eager only for the labor and exchange of money for that labor which came to them; others willing to buy and sell anything on earth which could be traded off. The most of them were drunken, carousing, miserable wretches, possessed of no impulse but that of a selfish and sensual gratification. Here a coarse woman, with a flaunting air and a ribald jest, passed through the throng, and there a squaw sat beside the road, her eyes red with the whisky she had sold herself for, and her face horrible with the soulless leer of savage, half-drunken invitation. A wave of horror passed over the sensitive face of Col. Saxey as this accustomed scene appeared to him for the first time in its true colors. He almost hated himself that he was a man. Sherwood noticed nothing unusual, and as they passed a woman with a red scarf across her shoulder, he tossed her a coin, as he said lightly: "There is enough for two drunks, Liz, and don't try to run them both into one, either; for the last time you did that, you raised such a row that the Colonel threatened to have the whole place cleaned out." Louisiana Liz, as she was called, screamed back her thanks, and with her large, dark, but bleared and blood-shot eyes she flashed up at the young man her most fascinating gaze. Arrived at their own quarters, the officers were met by an orderly, who instructed them to report at headquarters that evening.