MECCA TO FIGTREE JOHN 173 



little distance, almost the look of old ivory. Deeply 

 worn trails of bighorn marked the hillsides here and 

 there, and once the silence was broken by a far-off 

 bleat that only augmented the sense of solitude. 



It was a sultry, half-cloudy day when I moved 

 southward across the valley to the old Indian village 

 of Toro. There was little token of desert in the green 

 fields of alfalfa, willow-shaded reservoirs, and flocks 

 of water-loving blackbirds that I passed ; but along 

 the mountain-side ran the ancient sea-line, remind- 

 ing me that I was in one of Neptune's cellarages, 

 pumped dry by the sun. There used to be a little 

 newspaper published monthly at Thermal, that bore 

 the heading, "The Coachella Valley Submarine, 

 published 122 feet below sea-level." A humorous 

 sub-heading described this inoffensive sheet as "the 

 most low-down newspaper on earth." I know of 

 others to which such a character might be attributed 

 seriously enough. 



Arrived at Toro, I sought an interview with the 

 capitan. He bore the unromantic name of Joe Pete, 

 but was a good-looking, portly, friendly fellow, who 

 willingly showed me a good spot for my camp in a 

 grassy corner of his little farm. There were evidences 

 of thrift in his neat house of cement blocks and in 

 flourishing rows of grape-vines, cantaloupes, and so 

 forth; also in his wife, busy with the blackberry 

 patch. Two boys and half-a-dozen dogs made it their 

 business to interview me, and I was put through a 

 short but sharp examination: — "What your name?" 

 "Where you come from?" "Where you go?" 

 "When?" "Where you get you pony?" "How 



