That evening we camped in the valley of the Guigochic, on another beautiful mountain stream, where a little park of an acre or two gave our mules some sweet alpine grasses, which warranted us in believing that half the morning would not be passed in chasing over the hills to find stray mules, as is so often the case in Mexico when these beasts are turned loose to search for their food. We were all thoroughly tired with our first day's ride on mule-back, but nevertheless turned in to help the cook, as we realized that we wanted something to eat that night. The tent was pitched between two magnificent pines of enormous size, and I slept to the music of the wind in their branches. We left our camp by the light of the camp fire next morning and started over the crest of one of the steepest mountains overlooking our camp. Halfway up the steep trail we passed two graves of stone heaps surmounted by rough wooden crosses. At this spot a man and his wife had been killed by the Apaches a few years ago. These same Apaches had penetrated too far into Tarahumari land, and after a disastrous encounter with the latter were fleeing themselves, when they met the defenseless Mexican and his wife and killed them. This was the farthest point west where a white person had been killed by Apache Indians in this part of Chihuahua. After climbing this hill of 1500 or 1600 feet our trail still led upward, the mountains growing steeper and steeper. When we reached the top of one peak we would immediately begin the zigzag descent, then climb up another and down again. Sometimes the trail wound over a bald, rocky peak, where steps by long years of use had been worn deep in the soft rock; and into these little places the mules would carefully place their feet, there really being no other foothold for them. Again there would be a chain of gigantic stairs leading down some steep mountain side, where one could look hundreds of feet, and see tall trees that from such an elevation resembled small shrubs. The nimble and sure-footed animals would place all four feet together and jump down from one step to another, oftentimes more than their own height, so that one felt sure of being sent flying over the cliff, Again, the trail would be over the loose, rolling stones, and the little animals would fairly slide down these dangerous places. By noon we reached the quaint little civilized pueblo of Tarahumari Indians named Naqueachic, they living in rude log houses instead of caves or cliff dwellings.