86 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



a stretch, Kaweah secundus did full honor to his 

 name. 



On the morning of starting I had been up since 

 four o'clock, and we got on the move while Palm 

 Springs was yet rubbing its eyes. As we passed the 

 Reservation there came the chatter of orioles break- 

 fasting with nonchalance on old Rosa's early figs 

 at forty cents a pound. The racket, checked while 

 the thieves listened with bored amusement to the 

 rattle of her warning bell, — a kerosene can with 

 horseshoe clapper, hung high among the branches 

 of the patriarchal tree, and operated by Rosa's foot, 

 so as not to interfere with the fashioning of baskets 

 or tortillas, — went on again the moment the tattoo 

 was ended. Not so, I guessed, the slumbers of her 

 neighbors. 



Turning northward I struck toward the western 

 point of the great sand-hills that rise conspicuously 

 across the valley. I had long been tantalized by 

 their artificial shape, their mysterious changes of 

 color, and the secret of what lay behind them, 

 whether palmy canon, wind-swept mesa, or char- 

 acteristic characterless plain. I meant now to find 

 a way in their rear, more interesting than the regu- 

 lar road down the valley, already familiar to the 

 point of tediousness. 



Before we were a mile on the way, certain doubts 

 that I had had as to Mesquit's good-will toward the 

 expedition hardened into certainty of trouble. Of all 

 the crimes that are latent in these complicated 

 beasts, the most terrifying is that of lying down 

 under the pack. In my dealings with Mesquit hith- 



