BOREGO SPRINGS TO LOS COYOTES 215 



without reason, the unpleasant nameof "Hell-Hole." 

 It is a small bit of country, but so maze-like in its 

 ramifications that to enter is probably to remain. 

 I have talked to a man who, with a companion, was 

 once caught in this death-trap. He narrated with 

 vivid details the events of days during which they 

 wandered about, trying gully after gully for a way 

 of escape, and hourly losing heart and hope. Luckily 

 it was winter, so thirst, the deadliest enemy, was 

 not to be feared ; and they had food enough for some 

 days. It was by mere chance that, on the fourth day, 

 they stumbled out into the world that they hardly 

 hoped to see again. There is a fascination for me in 

 these ill-favored bits of geography; but in August, 

 with a horse and but a gallon and a half of water, it 

 seemed best to confine myself to guessing which of 

 those furnace-like canon-mouths might be the re- 

 puted gateway to Hades. 



Patches of salt-grass began to appear, mixed 

 among wide expanses of alkali (salitres, as the Mexi- 

 cans call them) for which this unwholesome grass 

 has a liking. The country looked as if it had been 

 flooded with a saturated solution of salt: in places 

 the very grass-blades sparkled with the salty incrus- 

 tation, and Kaweah's hoofs kicked the stuff before 

 us like snow. After a few miles I saw something 

 ahead which looked like a house and windmill. 

 This was a surprise, though I knew that within late 

 years land-hungry settlers had turned their atten- 

 tion to Borego Valley. On close approach the house 

 proved to be a wagon and the windmill a derrick. 

 Some one had made an attempt to find water, but 



