In the fall of 1899, David Cairns, the youngest of the American war-correspondents, stood hungry and desolate in the plaza of the little town of Alphonso, two days’ cavalry march below Manila—­when Pack-train Thirteen arrived with provisions.  The mules swung in with drooping heads and lolling tongues, under three-hundred-pound packs.  The roars of Healy, the boss-packer, filled the dome of sky where a young moon was rising in a twilight of heavenly blue—­dusk of the gods, indeed.  A battalion of infantry in Alphonso had been hungry for three days—­so the Train had come swiftly, ten hours on the trail, and forced going.  It was a volunteer infantry outfit, and apt to be a bit lawless in the sight of food.  Some of the men began pulling at the packs.  Healy and his iron-handed, vitriol-tongued crew beat them back with the ferocity of devils—­and had the battalion cowed and whimpering, before the officers withdrew the men and arranged an orderly issue of rations.

Meanwhile, David Cairns watched the tall, young cook, lean, tanned, and with an ugly triangle of fresh sunburn under his left shoulder-blade, where his shirt had been torn with a thorn that day.  He loosed the aparejos and mantas, containing the kitchen-kit; almost magically a fire was started.  Water was heating a moment later and slabs of bacon began to writhe....  Savage as he was from hunger, it was marvellously colorful to the fresh-eyed Cairns—­his first view of a pack-train.  The mules, relieved of their burdens, were rolling on the dusty turf.  Thirty mountain-mules, under packs one-third their own weight, and through the pressure of a Luzon day; dry, empty, caked with sweat-salt—­yet there were not a few of those gritty beasts that went into the air squealing, and launched a hind-foot at the nearest rib or the nearest star, or pressed close to muzzle the bell-mare—­after the restoring roll.  Then, some of the packers drove them down to water, while others made ready the forage and grain-bags; infantry fires were lit; the provisions turned over; detachments came meekly forward for rations, and the lifting aroma of coffee enchanted the warm winds.  Cairns remembered all this when the sharp profile of battle-fronts grew dull in memory.

And now Bedient had three great pans of bacon sizzling, a young mountain of brown sugar piled upon a Poncho, a big can of hard-tack broken open, and the coffee had come to boil under his hands—­three gallons at least.  The watered mules had to do just so much kicking, so much braying at the young moon; had to be assured just so often, through their queer communications, that the bell-mare was still in the land of picket-line—­before nose-bags were fastened.  Then, with all the pack rigging in neat piles before the picket-line, and the untouched stores covered and piled, the packers came in with their mess-tins and coffee-cups.