340 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



El Picacho were unmistakable, though mere ghosts 

 of hazy blue. Near at hand to the north rose the 

 purple ridge of the Marias, shading into the dimmer 

 Ironwoods, and those into the long wavering chain 

 of the Chuckwallas, around or through which I was 

 to find a way. A glance behind showed a wilderness 

 of uneasy outlines that stood for Arizona. 



Ten miles out I found the ranch of a solitary set- 

 tler who had sunk a well and obtained a flow of 

 water, small indeed, but enough to make a promising 

 experiment with dates, spineless cactus, and other 

 likely novelties. Here I put up for the night, but 

 gained the unwelcome news that water was not to be 

 had at Ford's Well, some twenty miles out, where I 

 had meant to make my next camp. This threw me 

 on a waterless stretch of about forty miles, either to 

 Gruendike's Well or Com Springs. As an alterna- 

 tive, I could strike across to Wiley's Well, and then 

 by an old road along the southern base of the Chuck- 

 wallas. The latter plan involved two thirty-mile 

 stretches between water, but seemed preferable on 

 Kaweah's account. I resolved on the shorter spans. 



As I was saddling up next morning a prospector 

 chanced along. He was driving a buckboard with 

 two small mules, and was bound for Blythe, having 

 come by way of Wiley's Well. Was I going that way? 

 he asked. I told him, Yes. "How long rope have you 

 got?" he inquired. "Forty feet," I said, indicating 

 Kaweah's picket-rope. "That won't do you no 

 good," he remarked. "It's sixty foot down to water. 

 If I had n't had them two long tie-ropes I 'd have 

 starved when I got there yesterday. Some 



