TO WARNER'S SPRINGS 231 



It was nearly sunset when we struggled up the 

 last rise and crossed the pass at about five thousand 

 feet. A short descent brought us to water, but forage 

 was scanty, and tired as we were it was necessary 

 to push on. Two miles farther we climbed a second 

 crest, and looked down on a little green valley. This 

 was the home of old Santiago Segundo, the patri- 

 arch of the San Ygnacio Indians. At the house we 

 found Santiago, his son Felipe, three or four pic- 

 turesque squaws, and half a dozen unfriendly dogs. 

 The old man was a memorable figure. Tall and well 

 built, with features more of Egyptian than of our 

 Western Indian cast, and a bearing of natural dig- 

 nity, from sandalled feet to thick white hair he 

 looked the ideal Indian chief. 



Our request for permission to camp by the stream 

 was refused (the only time I have been denied at an 

 Indian's, but I could not complain, for the Indian 

 has good reason to be suspicious of white strangers). 

 It was dark when we came to a larger valley en- 

 circled by pine-clad heights, where we found the 

 rancheria of San Ygnacio. It is a romantic situation, 

 like an eagle's eyrie on the craggy crest of the moun- 

 tains: on one hand is the desert, far and steep below; 

 on the other the long seaward slope, fifty miles as 

 the crow flies, to the Pacific. 



Disappointment met us at the first house we 

 tried, which belonged to the tribal policeman; but 

 the next attempt brought better fortune, for smiling 

 Mary Jane Segundo, the very type of good-humor, 

 made us welcome to camp, hay, anything we wished. 

 This was a relief, for the day's travel, perhaps twenty 



