Each packer was armed with carbine and revolver, for self-protection, but nothing could be expected of them, in the event of an attack, beyond looking out for the animals. Consequently the effective fighting strength of the command was a little over fifty white men--officers and soldiers--and not quite 200 Apache scouts, representing the various bands, Chiricahua, White Mountain, Yuma, Mojave, and Tonto. The first rays of the sun were beaming upon the Eastern hills as we swung into our saddles, and, amid a chorus of good-byes and God-bless-yous from those left behind, pushed down the hot and sandy valley of the San Bernardino, past the mouth of Guadalupe cañon, to near the confluence of Elias Creek, some twenty miles. Here camp was made on the banks of a pellucid stream, under the shadow of graceful walnut and ash trees. The Apache scouts had scoured the country to the front and on both flanks, and returned loaded with deer and wild turkeys, the latter being run down and caught in the bushes. One escaped from its captors and started through camp on a full jump, pursued by the Apaches, who, upon re-catching it, promptly twisted its head off. The Apaches were in excellent spirits, the “medicine-men” having repeated with emphasis the prediction that the expedition was to be a grand success. One of the most influential of them--a mere boy, who carried the most sacred medicine--was especially positive in his views, and, unlike most prophets, backed them up with a bet of $40. On May 2, 1883, breakfasted at 4 A.M. The train--Monach’s--with which we took meals was composed equally of Americans and Mexicans. So, when the cook spread his canvas on the ground, one heard such expressions as _Tantito’ zucarito quiero_; _Sirve pasar el járabe_; _Pase rebanada de pan_; _Otra gotita mas de café_, quite as frequently as their English equivalents, “I’d like a little more sugar,” “Please pass the sirup,” “Hand me a slice of bread,” “A little drop of coffee.” Close by, the scouts consumed their meals, and with more silence, yet not so silently but that their calls for _inchi_ (salt), _ikôn_ (flour), _pezá-a_ (frying-pan), and other articles, could be plainly heard. Martin, the cook, deserves some notice. He was not, as he himself admitted, a French cook by profession. His early life had been passed in the more romantic occupation of driving an ore-wagon between Willcox and Globe, and, to quote his own proud boast, he could “hold down a sixteen-mule team with any outfit this side the Rio Grande.” But what he lacked in culinary knowledge he more than made up in strength and agility. He was not less than six feet two in his socks, and built like a young Hercules. He was gentle-natured, too, and averse to fighting. Such, at least, was the opinion I gathered from a remark he made the first evening I was thrown into his society.