headed down toward the mouth of Mesquite 
Canyon. It looked very much lke the one that 
came up that same canyon three weeks before, 
the only difference being that the man who drove 
the sheep was now walking instead of riding. 
Back there by the ashes of the campfire near 
the water-hole lay his saddle horse with an 
Indian’s bullet in its body. 
That evening the quail family searched all 
around the camp for the usual supply of mes- 
quite beans but could not find any. For a few 
days they came but without better success, 
and before long doubtless they forgot all about 
the little girl and the food that she had been so 
happy in providing for them. 
The stone foundation is now partly covered 
with cactus; but it still stands, as I saw with 
my own eyes not so very long ago, and when I 
went down to the water-hole in the evening 
with a bucket I met there a fine plumed desert 
quail and with him a family of well-grown young. 
*“Cha-chea, cha-chea,” he called as he ran off 
into the bushes. 
213 
