YUMA TO BLYTHE 319 



supper rather than spend time over cooking while 

 that wonderful afterglow filled the sky. The porch 

 of a disused building where I spread my blanket 

 proved to be the battlefield of the rats of Picacho 

 and the camp cat, who charged across me from time 

 to time. 



We took our way In the morning down a pictur- 

 esque canon along which a light railroad used to run 

 between the river and the mines. Rusty rails and 

 machinery were strewn about, adding their quota of 

 raggedness to piles of broken rock and old railway 

 ties. The colors of the walls were extraordinary, 

 splashed about in a way that suggested the upset- 

 ting of cauldrons of molten rock, pink, lavender, 

 scarlet, green, and blue. The cool gray of smoke- 

 trees made an excellent foil for these lively effects. 



On the river-bank at the mouth of the canon were 

 the remains of the old town of Picacho, its popula- 

 tion reduced to two or three families. This region 

 for many miles up the river is a land of yesterday : of 

 mines worked out, towns and settlements dead or 

 dying. Yet it may revive, for mineral country can 

 never be safely said to be dead. Any day the grizzled 

 old man with pick and shovel, frying-pan and gold- 

 pan, may strike a blow that will bring it to life liter- 

 ally as if by magic. Looking at that extent of moun- 

 tains, all known or guessed to be mineralized, but 

 in great part unprospected, one feels that bonanzas 

 by scores might be hidden there. 



The store, where I had counted on replenishing 

 my saddle-bags, was closed, this not being one of 

 the bi-weekly mail days. But at the adjoining house 



