TO SAN FELIPE CITY 265 



a thousand feet, and is merely a long ridge, mainly 

 interesting for its deadly reputation among both 

 Indians and whites. From this side it had a peculiar 

 piebald look, unlike any other range I have seen. 



We rode southeasterly toward a low clay ridge 

 beyond which lay the Salton Sea. The ground was 

 a dead level of silt that rose in puffs and lingered in 

 the nostrils like acrid smoke. Shells glittered every- 

 where, almost the only thing for the eye to notice, 

 for the vegetation was reduced to an occasional hum- 

 mock of mesquit of which only the topmost twigs 

 showed above the mound of soil that struggled to en- 

 gulf them. I tried to imagine some addition or sub- 

 traction by which the landscape might be rendered 

 more depressing, but had to admit that the maxi- 

 mum was reached : it was wholly, conscientiously bad. 



Sand and gravel succeeded to silt as we ap- 

 proached the ridge. Pebbles of unusual colors were 

 strewn about, mingled with odd-looking bits of 

 black baked clay, some like fragments of tile, some 

 in large balls or grotesque shapes such as children 

 make from a lump of plaster. Large flakes of mica 

 glittered here and there, objects of awe to the simple 

 Indian mind, which, I notice, takes brightness in 

 any form to be significant — good or bad medicine. 

 I looked for animal life but saw none, except, rarely, 

 the track of a lizard. Even flies were absent; as a 

 matter of fact, they almost disappear from the 

 desert during the hottest weeks of summer. 



The black clay continued for miles, usually as a 

 capping to layers of red and yellow. Turning south- 

 ward we made direct for the mountain, picking our 



