TO WARNER'S SPRINGS 235 



from home, he is spotted at once as of Indian breed, 

 and often recognized as having been present at 

 some fiesta or other foregathering. "Ah-h-ha, where 

 you get that pony?" "Francisco Patencio, Palm 

 Springs," I would answer. "Ah, si, I know: good 

 pony you get: how much you pay?" — and so we 

 were launched. Indians and Mexicans never forget 

 a horse, and more easily recall the rider by his horse 

 than the horse by his rider. 



The San Ysidro Indians' farming land lies scat- 

 tered along the course of the creek. For miles I saw 

 below me little fenced scraps of bottom land planted 

 with beans, potatoes, com, or barley. The barley 

 was being harvested with the sickle, as it has been 

 ever since the padres taught the California tribes to 

 supplement Nature's roots, seeds, and game by a 

 little — not too much — exertion on their own part. 

 San Ysidro village itself is a dreary hamlet of a dozen 

 typical Indian houses, a tiny cemetery, and a brush 

 ramada for the accommodation of visitors to the 

 yearly fiesta. 



By now we had left the pines and were travelling 

 through less inviting country, so I was not sorry to 

 approach a wide valley which I recognized as the 

 Valle de San Jose, or Warner's Ranch. This tract of 

 nearly fifty thousand acres is one of the last of the 

 old land grants to remain unbroken since Mexican 

 times. Over the valley hung the smoke of a forest 

 fire. 



The road ran steadily down, opening a view of 

 the timbered Volcan Mountain far to the south. 

 Finding a trail that made direct for the settlement 



