236 MULE-HUNTING EXPEDITION. 
On either side the hills were covered with wild 
oat as thick as it could grow; its golden-yellow 
tints, contrasting with the dark glossy-green of 
the cypress, the oak, and the manzanata, had an 
indescribably charming effect. As we advanced 
the valley gradually narrowed, until it became a 
mere canon (the Spanish for funnel), shut in by 
vast masses of rock that looked like heaps of 
slag and cinder—bare, black, and treeless. A 
small stream of bitter, dark, intensely salt water 
trickled slowly through the gorge. 
Following a rough kind of road, that led up 
the base of the hills for about two miles, we en- 
tered what I imagine was the crater of an extinct 
voleano; nearly circular, about a mile in dia- 
meter, and shut in on every side by columnar 
walls of basalt. There was a weird desolation 
about the place that forcibly reminded me of the 
Wolf’s Glen in Der Freischiitz—a fit haunt for 
Zamiel! Scarce a trace of forest-life was to be 
seen, not a tree or flower; everything looked 
scorched and cinderous, like the débris of a ter- 
rible fire, and smelt like a limekiln on a sum- 
mer-night. A long narrow house, resembling 
a cattle-shed, stood in the centre of this circle. 
‘Waal, Cap’en, I guess we’ve made the ranch 
anyhow,’ said the Major, as we drew up at the 
