TO AGUA CALIENTE 241 



which carried mails and passengers between St. 

 Louis and San Francisco on a bi-weekly schedule, 

 with twenty-one days for running time. 



Too soon the oaks were left behind, and with 

 them went the shade. The road trended steadily 

 down, and already the desert seemed to be sucking 

 my vital juices. Before us opened the San Felipe 

 Valley, midway between mountains and desert and 

 showing the characteristic features of both. The 

 moving specks on the gray expanse were cattle, for 

 it was still stockman's country, though rainfall here 

 is unreliable, and disaster often points the moral of 

 the cattleman's besetting temptation, overstocking 

 the range. 



An old pioneer, Wilson by name, keeps a pretence 

 of a store on this road, about midway between 

 Warner's and the San Felipe. As a store it is merely 

 a joke, and I take its real purpose to be that of a 

 trap to detain the passer-by until the old fellow has 

 satisfied his curiosity. He is the antiquity of the 

 region, but unfortunately is so deaf that conversa- 

 tion, short of roaring, was impossible. The process of 

 business is simple. The customer walks about and 

 collects what he needs, if he can find it, from the all 

 but empty shelves, while the old gentleman hobbles 

 close behind and keeps the reckoning. 



A cluster of decaying adobes at the foot of the 

 mountain marked the deserted village of the San 

 Felipe Indians. This small rancheria shared the fate 

 of the Agua Caliente village when the Warner 

 Indians were evicted, fifteen years ago. One or two 

 families, whose instinct for the old home was too 



