SHY LIFE IN THE DESERT 225 



My good fortune, be it accounted greater or 

 less, came about in this way. 



Six or seven miles across the desert, where 

 the plain comes to an end at the buried Rillito 

 River, and the foothills of the Catalinas begin 

 to rise from the opposite bank, are the adobe 

 ruins (hospital, barracks, and what not) of Old 

 Camp Lowell, a relic of the Apache wars. I had 

 heard of the place (in fact, I had been happy 

 enough to meet a young man who is camping 

 there with his brother), and started early one 

 morning to visit it. 



Perhaps it was because of the earliness of the 

 hour, though the sun was well above the hori- 

 zon; at any rate, I had gone but a short dis- 

 tance before my steps were arrested by the sight 

 of a gray, long-legged, wolfish-looking animal 

 not far ahead. He had seen me first, I think 

 (strange if he had not, so alert as every motion 

 showed him to be), and was already considering 

 his course of action, starting away, then stopping 

 to look back. My glass covered him at once (he 

 was easily within gunshot), and then, following 

 a turn of his head, I saw that he had a compan- 

 ion. The second one had already crossed the 

 trail, and the question between the two seemed 

 to be whether he should come back or the other 

 should follow him. The point was quickly de- 



