234 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



cheerful blue, no longer the pale, glary azure of the 

 desert. Grass waved along the roadside — what a 

 contrast to chollas! Late flowers brightened the 

 path, replacing gray burro-weed and snaky ocotillo. 

 Kingly oaks for dull mesquit; winey breath of cedar 

 instead of acrid alkaline dust; frank bird in place of 

 furtive reptile — it was a blessed exchange. And 

 yet, and yet — already I felt the magic, the mag- 

 netism, of the old, wonderful desert, drawing me 

 back: back to its dreariness, silence, and secrecy, 

 its cruelty of heat and thirst, its infinite expanse, its 

 ageless mystery and calm, its threat of death, its 

 passionless repose. I am no misanthrope : I love my 

 fellow men, indeed, I eagerly claim my right in 

 mortality. But there is a presence in that quietude, 

 a sense of wisdom and of the sadness that goes with 

 it, which something in me recognizes as brotherhood 

 too. The mountains, the ocean, the forest, go deep 

 in their spell, but the desert goes deepest of all. 



McSandy, anxious to reach civilization and sup- 

 plies, had gone on ahead. Kaweah and I were well 

 content to idle in this elysium of roadside springs, 

 fresh green fodder, and beguiling sights and sounds. 

 Some few miles along, a neat little house appeared, 

 the owner sitting patriarchally under its sheltering 

 oaks. It proved to be Sibimoat, capitan of the Indi- 

 ans of San Ysidro. Half a dozen young bucks were 

 loafing on the porch, inert, hardly speaking, simply 

 enjoying the passage of time, while their saddled 

 ponies stood about with drooping heads. I had often 

 known Kaweah to act as mutual friend and breaker 

 of ice when we came among Indians. However far 



