130 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



buying fodder for Kaweah from the supply he car- 

 ried with him for his own horses. 



At four o'clock of the morning of the last day of 

 June I left my mesquit bivouac. A camp of Mexican 

 onion-pickers was already astir as I passed, fire was 

 twinkling under coffee-pot, and men, women, boys, 

 girls, and dogs, to the total of a score, were loafing 

 and yawning with that air of entire leisure which 

 is a mark of their race, and which I, for one, find 

 rather enviable. I like to come on these camps, 

 especially at evening. There is in them a touch of 

 the patriarchal — padre in blue "jumper" beneath 

 some rustling cottonwood, rolling and smoking eter- 

 nal cigarettes: Juanitos and Conchitas in troops 

 clambering over him like caterpillars or tumbling in 

 congenial dust: madre an attractive figure in reboso 

 or with splendid unbound tresses, preparing frijoles 

 or chile con came, or, more likely, Yankee canned 

 beef: and Alberto picking out the latest ditty on his 

 mandolin, wherewith to capture the heart of Encar- 

 nacion, at the neighboring camp, after supper. 

 Rarely does one hear any word of contention, for 

 family affection runs strong in the blood of our 

 lightly esteemed neighbors from over the line. 



At the cross-road I halted to wait for my teamster 

 and enjoy a sunrise. The morning was half cloudy, 

 and the sun threw shifting lights on the mountains 

 to south and west, bringing to view cafions and 

 abysses that I had never known were there. These 

 bare walls have a trick of concealing important 

 features in a way that is impossible with wooded or 

 brush-covered mountains. Some momentary rela- 



