Only a few Indians were visible next morning on the reservation. A crowd of men hung round the village store at Fort Apache, or loafed under the trees in the square. A pretty girl on horseback smiled at us, conscious that her necklace of brass bells and celluloid mirrors made her the best dressed debutante in Apacheland. A very intelligent lad directed us to the trout stream where we hoped to see the trout fight for the privilege of landing on our bare hooks. The Apaches are round-headed Indians, rather sullen we were told, with staring round eyes, more stocky than the lithe Navajo, better able to account for themselves than the Papagoes; though in the past of ceaseless warfare, it has been give and take, the Apaches losing as often as the other tribes. In a land teeming with fish and game, they have become lazy, and the beautiful craftwork for which the tribe was formerly noted is seldom attempted by the younger generation. Their industry does not compare with that of the Hopis, who are constantly weaving baskets, baking pottery, or wresting meager crops from the land. Being the last tribe to take the warpath, not so many years ago, they are closely watched against another outbreak. [Illustration: A TROUT STREAM IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS, ARIZONA.] Bright and early we drove up the river fork, until what road there was ceased, and became a flight of steps, and our progress was made in standing jumps. The old lady outdid herself, and when her nose bumped against rocks too abrupt to ride over, actually gathered herself together like a hunter, and leaped over them. At last when the hilly trail began to cave in on the outer side, we abandoned the car and walked a mile farther to our camp, near a cottage whose owners were away. It was a beautiful glade we had selected for camp, so peaceful and remote that we seemed at the earth’s end. The White Mountains were indeed all they had been painted. Sunny fields leading to distant peaks, a glade with dimpling brown brooks, fallen logs, tiny cascades, baby whirlpools, sunlit shadows tempting to trout, a green tangle of summer overhead, and the delicious tang of pine-sweetened mountain air, ought to please the most exacting. We lacked only the trout, for, relying on their abundance, we had traveled light for food. Flecks of white in the brook showed this abundance no empty promise. Occasionally a shining body leaped in the air and splashed back into the brown water. Not the fourteen pound monsters of the northern lakes, these, but little brook trout, of a hand’s length, meltingly sweet to the taste. Our mouths already watered. Untangling our tackle, we started to dig for worms. We had been presented with a pailful of bait, but in the excitement of getting off had left it at the reservation.