PINON WELL TO MECCA 149 



a ranch-house, though no trace of greenness was in 

 view as far as eye could see. I pushed on towards it, 

 indulging thoughts of eggs, "stove" bread, milk, 

 perchance a lettuce. But these hopes faded when 

 the supposed farm-house turned into the grouped 

 shanties of a small mine. However, I was welcomed 

 heartily by the three men on the place, and Kaweah 

 was entertained with barley and water — the latter 

 no trifling gift, for their supply must be replenished 

 at Twenty-nine Palms, four miles away. I was 

 eagerly questioned for news, for my items were only 

 five days old, while their last "news" had passed 

 into history two weeks before. The six men who 

 were concerned in developing the mine had formed 

 themselves into two shifts of three a side, taking 

 alternate spells at the works and "inside" (the term 

 used by desert men to signify the cities and the coast 

 country). The other shift was some days overdue, 

 ensnared by the charms of Los Angeles, and these 

 poor fellows were continually scanning the horizon, 

 like marooned sailors, for signs of the relieving party. 

 Evening was coming on, so I soon took the road. 

 Tracks led off to other small mines, reminders of the 

 lively days of the seventies, when this Twenty-nine 

 Palms district was a "camp" of renown. Before long 

 the palms came in sight, and we ended a long day's 

 march soon after sunset. I off-saddled under a Cot- 

 tonwood that stood near a deserted house, and found 

 pasturage for Kaweah in a little cienaga, or marshy 

 spot, formerly the site of a village of Chemehuevi 

 Indians from the Colorado River. I do not know 

 who now owns the land, and, what is of more ac- 



