190 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



saw the gunners. By the edge of the pool stood two 

 boys, a long and a short, both about twelve years 

 old. On the ground were a scrap of blanket, some 

 bits of food, and a half -gallon can of the lard-pail 

 kind. The boys were poorly dressed, one shoeless, 

 and neither of them in the pink of condition. It was 

 near sundown, and if these were their preparations 

 for supper, bed, and breakfast (to go no further) 

 they seemed inadequate, especially in view of their 

 surroundings. The smaller boy held a long, single- 

 barrel gun and the carcass of a dove. 



There was an air of uncertainty about the young- 

 sters as if they had been discussing their next move. 

 I asked whether they were camping there for the 

 night, and the half-hearted way in which they 

 "guessed so" seemed to show that they didn't 

 know what else to do. When I inquired where they 

 came from — " Indio," said the smaller and shoeless 

 boy, who seemed the captain of the enterprise. As 

 he glanced disconsolately this way and that I caught 

 sight of the stock of an old-fashioned revolver pro- 

 jecting from the pocket of his ragged overalls. 

 "How did you come?" "We walked," was the reply. 

 (Indio was about forty miles away.) " Is that all the 

 grub you have?" "No, I just got a bird" (exhibit- 

 ing the dove). "Well, you nearly got a man, too. 

 Where are you going?" " Borego Valley — I guess." 

 "Do you know how far that is?" "'Bout ten miles, 

 ain't it?" " Do you know the trail?" "No: I know 

 where it is though; over that way." "What do you 

 carry water in?" "That" — the little lard-pail. 

 "Do you know how far it is to the next water?" 



