THE LAND OF LITTLE RAIN 



ing through the golden dust above his eigh- 

 teen mules. The land had called him. 



The palpable sense of mystery in the 

 desert air breeds fables, chiefly of lost trea- 

 sure. Somewhere within its stark borders, 

 if one believes report, is a hill strewn with 

 nuggets ; one seamed with virgin silver ; 

 an old clayey water-bed where Indians 

 scooped up earth to make cooking pots 

 and shaped them reeking with grains of 

 pure gold. Old miners drifting about the 

 desert edges, weathered into the semblance 

 of the tawny hills, will tell you tales like 

 these convincingly. After a little sojourn 

 in that land you will believe them on their 

 own account. It is a question whether it 

 is not better to be bitten by the little horned 

 snake of the desert that goes sidewise and 

 strikes without coiling, than by the tradition 

 of a lost mine. 



19 



