282 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



I was startled from my mood by a gleam of mov- 

 ing light to my right, then another on the left. For a 

 moment I was puzzled, then knew they must be 

 automobiles on the San Diego-Imperial road, which 

 here runs parallel and close to the Mexican border, 

 and also to the newly built railway. Half an hour 

 later we limped into Coyote Wells. While I watered 

 Kaweah a lounging, unseen Mexican proposed the 

 regular trio of questions: De donde viene? Adonde va? 

 and Cuando sale? Where are you from? Where are 

 you going? and, When do you start? His reply to 

 my own inquiry for the direction of Wellson's quar- 

 ters was the eternal Quien sabe? which is their way 

 of dodging unnecessary syllables. 



I found Wellson at his camp beyond the railroad. 

 A friend (or partner, as the word goes) of his had a 

 sort of house, where Wellson kept a little stock of 

 hay and barley. Our nags could now make up ar- 

 ' rears. We were all pretty well used up by the day's 

 work, about thirty-five miles in distance, but the 

 equal of fifty in labor. Yet, though the hardest, it 

 was also the best day of my desert travels thus far. 

 We ate a cold meal and lay down too tired to unroll 

 our blankets or even take off our boots. I don't 

 think I changed posture till I awoke at daybreak. 



By daylight Coyote Wells took its place as the 

 dustiest, dismallest hamlet in my knowledge. The 

 items of its total ugliness are half a score of board- 

 and-canvas shacks and a cube of sheet-iron, the 

 railway building. I returned from my tour feeling 

 almost suicidal, and for relief ate my breakfast by a 

 stack of sweet-smelling pine ties, the only thing of 



