FIGTREE JOHN TO BOREGO SPRINGS 189 



Rounded bushes of atrlplex, repeated without vari- 

 ation of size, color, or outline, and shapeless clumps 

 of sour-smelling suaeda, followed one another with 

 dreary monotony. A bit of arroAvweed or a stunted 

 screwbean was a boon by comparison. Ghosts of 

 drowned mesquits made a phantom procession by 

 the water's edge, and seemed, in the tremor of heat, 

 to be up to some weird antics, like skeletons playing 

 leapfrog. The vague shape of the Superstition Moun- 

 tains, on the southern horizon, gave the landscape 

 an extra touch of horror, recalling tales of men, not 

 a few, who have perished in attempts to reach the 

 treasure supposed to be hidden in that waterless 

 labyrinth. 



Fish Springs is marked by a growth of mesquits 

 and small cottonwoods, spread over a few acres of 

 damp land close to the border of the sea. The road, or 

 rather track, I had been following is used occasion- 

 ally by travellers to the Imperial Valley. The usual 

 mode of travel nowadays is by automobile, which 

 can cover the long distances quickly and, barring 

 accidents, without danger from lack of water. It 

 was significant of the sort of country I was entering 

 to find beside the road a sign-board pointing to the 

 water, with the warning, "Fill up. Last convenient 

 water for 45 miles." At Fish Springs itself the water 

 is brackish and tepid, nevertheless quite fair water 

 for the desert. In the pool were numbers of tiny fish 

 about the size of tadpoles. 



As I neared the place I was surprised to hear a 

 gun fired and the shot come peppering near, so I 

 let out a whistle; but I was more surprised when I 



