192 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



life, to see those poor little scamps as they started 

 up the dusty road. Over the big boy's shoulder the 

 long gun waved vaguely to and fro ; the little fellow 

 carried the can of water, with the bit of blanket 

 professionally rolled and slung by a cord at his back : 

 the revolver-butt protruding from his flapping over- 

 alls in comico-pathetic fashion. As I gauged it, it 

 was a case of running away from home. The Mexi- 

 cans by drinking their water had very likely saved 

 their lives. There is little doubt as to what would 

 have been the outcome if they had gone on. They 

 would have used up their water in the first ten miles: 

 would almost certainly never have reached Seven- 

 teen Palms, which is not easy to find even had their 

 strength held out so far: and if they had reached it 

 they would have drunk their fill of the half-poison- 

 ous stuff and promptly succumbed. More likely they 

 would have wandered about on a hopeless search 

 for Seventeen Palms and would have run the usual 

 course of thirst, delirium, insanity, death. 



To-morrow's march would be a long one, so I 

 turned in early. Mosquitoes were such a nuisance 

 about the spring that before long I had to move two 

 hundred yards away. Awaking after an hour or so, 

 I could hear Kaweah stamping restlessly, and had 

 to go over and rescue him also. The night was un- 

 usually warm and sleep unwilling to oblige. At last, 

 the murmur of the ripple on the shore and the rhyth- 

 mic chant of frogs sent me into an intermittent doze, 

 from which I arose by moonlight at half-past three, 

 not particularly refreshed. 



I gave Kaweah a hearty feed from the little store 



