242 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



strong to be defeated, still live about the locality. 

 A few miles farther on I met a little procession of 

 three wagons. On the seat of the first were two In- 

 dian women : one was driving, the other held upright 

 a small wooden cross. In the bed of the wagon was 

 a child's coffin, roughly made and unpainted. The 

 other wagons held Indian men, women, and chil- 

 dren, some of whom carried withered flowers and 

 greenery. It was the funeral of a San Felipe boy on 

 its way to the old burying-ground. The sad-eyed 

 women, the lonely road, the sun, the dust, the old, 

 universal errand, brought home to me a sense of 

 gratitude in our common humanity; and as I stood 

 uncovered, I claimed the Indian child for flesh of 

 my flesh, spirit of my spirit, in no empty phrase 

 my little brother. 



It was past noon when we came to the San Felipe 

 ranch- house. The old, picturesque house of adobe 

 which I knew twenty years before had been re- 

 placed by a pretentious building that was out of 

 keeping with its surroundings. The owner seldom 

 visits the place, which is left to the management of 

 Teodoro, the Indian vaquero, with a caretaker for 

 the house. I bought some hay for Kaweah, and 

 camped near the house. The night was enlivened by 

 episodes between the coyotes and the ranch dogs, 

 Bones, a greyhound, and Maje, a mongrel. "Bo-o- 

 o-o-o-o-ones!" went the coyotes in derisive chorus, 

 ending with howls of laughter: then "Ma-a-a-a-a- 

 a-aje! Ya-a-ah, Ma-a-a-a-a-a-aje!" and again fits 

 of maudlin glee. Out would charge Bones and the 

 Major with robustious challenge, but the enemy, 



