206 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



that had just "pulled in," en route to Borego Valley. 

 In the morning, when the drove was getting under 

 way, we were passing the compliments at the corral 

 bars with two of the vaqueros. Names were ex- 

 changed. "And who is that young fellow?" one of 

 us asked, pointing to a lively young "puncher" in 

 red shirt and well-worn "chaps," who was rounding 

 up the stragglers. "That 'young fellow' is this fel- 

 low's wife," one of the men answered, indicating 

 his companion. El habito no hace al monje (the 

 dress does not make the monk), says the Spanish 

 proverb. 



The old house bore testimony to many years of 

 usage by cattle-men, surveyors, prospectors, and 

 other haunters of the open spaces. On the back door 

 I found an elaborate decoration, dated four months 

 earlier. The two men who signed it stated them- 

 selves to be in search of that old will-o'-the-wisp of 

 prospectors, the Peg- Leg Mine; and in lightness of 

 heart had drawn a picture representing Peg-Leg 

 Smith himself "looking at Borego Springs from 

 Gold Hill." The great man was realistically shown 

 mounted on a burro, pipe in mouth, pick on shoul- 

 der, and "peg" advanced as if hospitably greeting 

 the beholder. 



Peg-Leg Smith, who might by courtesy be called 

 the patron saint of California prospectors, deserves 

 more than passing reference. In the course of this 

 journey I came on his tracks so often that at times 

 I felt almost haunted. To be for two hours in com- 

 pany with a prospector and not have Peg- Leg come 

 into the conversation is among the impossible things 



