September 12, 1866. Molly let me know that I’m to be a father come next spring. An old blue coat like myself a father! Good news comes in bunches; I was made Sergeant Major today, with a salary increase to $23. That should keep a family of five! [Illustration: Army Escort Wagon. From diorama in Fort Museum.] [Illustration: “The Guard is Mounted, Sir.”] Sat watching Kit Carson, our commander, this evening. He stood alone on the parade grounds after retreat; the last soft sound of the bugle had died away and the troops had been dismissed. Carson stood looking up at that towering flag staff for about five minutes before he turned away. He looked uncomfortable in his uniform, as he always does. A more unmilitary man I’ve never known—and yet a better commander none of us would ever want. He makes up for his lack of book-learning with his knowledge of everything there is to know of hunting, trapping, Indian fighting and woods lore. He’s a short man, about five feet four, with legs so bowed he looks astride a horse even when he’s walking. Here at Garland, Colonel Carson has kept open house—open to all passersby (Indian and White) and even to soldiers and their wives. The wild tribe of children he brought with him are as untamed as the beasts of the mountains. One thing about it, though, when a dispute arises between Indians and settlers, the first to be called in is our “Kitty,” as the Utes call him. I’ve seen him sitting in the middle of them, laughing and joking in Spanish or Ute tongue, making hand movements for each word he speaks. Maybe it helps him to be understood.