PiNON WELL TO MECCA 145 



below In some recent explosion. My friendly trees 

 ceased at once at the foot of the canon, leaving only 

 the Joshuas, which always seem to have been ar- 

 rested in the midst of some uncouth antics, brandish- 

 ing daggers like a juggler. Deer tracks were plenti- 

 ful, and within half a mile I met the three varieties 

 of quail, mountain, valley, and desert, or Gambel, 

 a thing I have never noted elsewhere. Far to the 

 east rose a ragged range, even odder in skyline than 

 the rest. 



Another road went ofT now to the left, leading to 

 the Lost Horse Mine, and my own route became a 

 doubtful sort of track, with little sign of travel. In 

 a pile of rock that I skirted I had been told I should 

 find one of those natural tanks of water {tinaja is the 

 common Spanish word) on which the desert travel- 

 ler often has to place precarious trust — precarious 

 because they are mere rain catchments. This one is 

 known as Squaw Tanks. I easily found the place, 

 being led to it by my nose. A small quantity of slimy 

 liquid remained, nauseous with putrefying bodies of 

 birds, rats, and lizards. A man perishing of thirst 

 might have brought himself to drink it, but would 

 probably not have survived the draught. It was no 

 disappointment to me, for my canteens were newly 

 filled, but the incident had a moral for me, neverthe- 

 less. 



At the crest of a long rise I looked out over an- 

 other great plain studded with brick-red rock piles 

 and carrying a thin growth of Joshua trees that 

 spread to the horizon, a ghastly pretence of forest. 

 In the shimmer of heat they seemed to claw the air. 



