In our trains the mules are not bridled, but are taught to follow the lead of a “bell-horse,” an animal with a bell around its neck, and either led or ridden by one of the packers. Wherever that bell goes, the other mules will follow, regardless of obstructions or anything else. In my judgment, nothing can compare with the pack-mule for transportation in the field. Wagons are useful as long as there are good, hard roads to follow; but enemies have an unpleasant way of going away from the roads into hills and mountains, or across trackless plains, and there is where the mule is not merely valuable, but absolutely essential. These pack animals can keep up, not only with the infantry, but also with fast-moving bodies of mounted troops. The “packers” of the American army are civilian _attachés_, but they are a very essential part of the force. They are nearly all men from the West, and are generally of the cow-puncher stamp, afraid of nothing, not even of work. These packers did some of the most heroic work during the Santiago campaign, although they never got any credit for it, and are seldom mentioned in despatches. They are to the army what the stokers are to the navy--the very means of life; yet bound to go on doing that hard, undistinguished work, with no applause from the great unthinking public. They are never seen in parades and reviews, yet to them belongs a great portion of the credit for these displays. The packers of the army are accustomed to go into the very firing line to deliver ammunition. It is indeed a memorable sight to witness these men in action, and to watch their indifference to the danger that is singing about their heads. Very picturesque are these Western packers, with their happy abandon and their oblivion to worry. They wear no uniform, they have no regiment to be proud of; they are just plain, good-natured, hard-working civilians of the great West. The only arms they carry are their own Colts, just as they carried them in New Mexico or Montana. One day, when the fighting was at its height in front of Santiago, a pack-train came up to the line with a welcome supply of rations and ammunition; and after the boxes had been dumped on the ground, and the men were prying the lids off with their bayonets, one of the packers strolled up to the trenches and drawled, “I ain’t had a crack at a greaser since I left the reservation, so here goes.” He stepped out on the embankment, in full view of the enemy, and emptied his six-shooter towards the little low city in front of us. As the Spanish trenches at this point were fully a quarter of a mile away, his pistol did not produce a panic among them, but he enjoyed his prank. [Illustration: An improvised commissariat cart in South Africa.] “Well, I reckon I must have got four out o’ that six,” he remarked, as he began to reload. “You’d better come down out of that, or one of the other two will get you,” called a soldier.