Even "Filibuster," the name of our next camp, elicited no remark from me.
The weather was fine beyond description.

Each day, at noon, we got out of the ambulance, and sat down on the warm white sand, by a little clump of mesquite, and ate our luncheon.

Coveys of quail flew up and we shot them, thereby insuring a good supper.
The mules trotted along contentedly on the smooth white road, which followed the south bank of the Gila River.

Myriads of lizards ran out and looked at us.

"Hello, here you are again," they seemed to say.
The Gila Valley in December was quite a different thing from the Mojave desert in September; and although there was not much to see, in that low, flat country, yet we three were joyous and happy.
Good health again was mine, the travelling was ideal, there were no discomforts, and I experienced no terrors in this part of Arizona.
Each morning, when the tent was struck, and I sat on the camp-stool by the little heap of ashes, which was all that remained of what had been so pleasant a home for an afternoon and a night, a little lonesome feeling crept over me, at the thought of leaving the place.