276 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



ment, a half sense of recognition, as if something 

 nudged and whispered — "Your primal home. 

 Come back." 



The day was of the usual midsummer heat, and 

 the horses were getting played out while we were 

 yet many miles from the expected water. The mare 

 was in great distress, but there was no help for it, 

 we must go on. Coyote Mountain was near at hand, 

 a sullen monster of brown. Every quarter-mile 

 brought some novelty to sight. In crossing a bench 

 of reddish clay I noticed numbers of bullets of some 

 heavy metallic stuff, the size of marbles and per- 

 fectly round. Then came a tract covered with peb- 

 bles, various in color, but as even in shape and di- 

 mension as if carefully sorted. Again, plates of clear 

 gypsum, as large as small window-panes and nearly 

 an inch thick, projected from the sides of a gully. 

 Next, stumbling over lumps of some brittle material, 

 I found that they were compact clods of oyster 

 shells (we were a few hundred feet above sea-level). 

 It was a region to charm the geologist, though not 

 the botanist. A few wretched creosotes and ocotillos 

 alone held on to life, shrivelled, leafless, and half 

 ossified. 



Wellson now pointed out a red ridge, two miles 

 ahead, which was the landmark for our water-hole. 

 How to get to it, though, was a question. Before us 

 stretched a tangle of gullies and washes, braided 

 together like one's interlaced fingers. The two miles 

 might turn to twenty, and nightfall find us as far 

 from water as ever. We consulted, and resolved to 

 make a direct dash for the place. Down we went 



