262 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



mind saying, that came near bringing tears. When 

 it comes to magnanimity, few of us can equal the 

 average horse or hound. 



Under a greasewood bush I noticed an old shoe. 

 It had belonged, Wellson said, to a man who, the 

 year before, had gone crazy for want of water 

 and had here thrown away clothes, shoes, blankets, 

 everything — the usual line of action — and, raving 

 and naked, had wandered across the desert until, by 

 luck, he came to one of the canals of the Imperial 

 Valley irrigation system, some twenty miles away. 

 There he was found, lying in the water, out of his 

 senses and famishing for food, but too weak to 

 travel farther. In this case rescue came just in time 

 and the man eventually recovered. 



The fact that I was again below sea-level was 

 registered both in the shells that sprinkled the pow- 

 dery plain and in the water-line at the foot of the 

 mountain. To the south, Signal Mountain, an iso- 

 lated peak beyond the Mexican line, showed near 

 at hand. Ahead was Santa Rosa, and a few miles to 

 the east the haze of the plain shaded to faint blue 

 where the Salton lay anaemic under the fierce 

 evaporation. Behind us rose the spur of the Pen- 

 insular Range through which we had yesterday 

 threaded our way. 



At length appeared a derrick, and a dot or two 

 beside it. This was our destination. The horses 

 quickened their pace, and as we approached I was 

 relieved to hear a hail, for I had been worrying over 

 the possibility that the place might be deserted and 

 the pump out of order. In that case we should have 



