342 CALIFORNIA DESERT TRAILS 



was at hand and I could almost pity the bully now 

 that his power was waning. 



So it was fine to watch each rift or ridge of moun- 

 tain flush to full life as it was overtaken by the 

 tide of light: to note the kindling of beacon be- 

 yond beacon, and, in fancy, to see it carried on from 

 Cockscombs to Cottonwoods, then to Santa Rosa, 

 San Jacinto, and San Gorgonio, and thence along 

 the great Sierra wall where snowfield, glacier, and 

 many an icy lake I knew would start to a sudden 

 glory of rose or sapphire. I saw the forests stir in the 

 wind of dawn, the deer go down to the brook, the 

 cyclamens and gentle lavender daisies awake and 

 smile as when we awoke and smiled together. Sud- 

 denly I asked myself. Why, what am I doing here, 

 raking among the bones of the earth? I have wasted 

 a precious summer, and, what is worse, gone back on 

 my friends. A bad, bad mistake. . . . Well, at least 

 I know one more corner of my inheritance. 



Rounding a spur of the Ironwood Mountains 

 (sometimes called the McCoys, after one out of sev- 

 eral worthies of that name who figure in the epic of 

 the West) we travelled for some miles through what 

 might be termed, for the desert, a forest of iron- 

 woods. Many of the trees were twenty feet high and 

 some of them nearly two feet in diameter of trunk. 

 Kaweah had a fancy for the young twigs, so I gave 

 him ten minutes to browse as there was no prospect 

 of hay until we reached Mecca. 



Wide spaces of this mesa were covered with the 

 black pebbles I had noted in other localities. They 

 formed a sort of pavement, and had the look of acta- 



