BLYTHE TO COACHELLA VALLEY 347 



At last we passed into the canon, and black cliffs 

 rose high on either hand. The ground was again of 

 sand, and in the moonlight every track of bird, 

 snake, coyote, or bighorn showed sharp and clear. 

 Small trees leaned out from crannies to which they 

 clung by knotty roots, and from a cave came a 

 stream of shadowy bats with click of tiny teeth and 

 soundless flicker of wing. 



Somewhere near the mouth of the canon is a 

 tinaja known as Granite Tanks, but it was unlikely 

 that I could find it without daylight. We kept on 

 therefore for two or three miles, coming an hour be- 

 fore midnight to a group of small palms and mes- 

 quits which gave notice of water. Among them was 

 an old cabin, and near by it a spring. We both drank 

 deeply. It was eighteen hours since Kaweah had had 

 water, and the day had been hot, with unusually 

 heavy travelling. I dealt him a good feed of barley 

 and picketed him on the half-dry grass: then ate a 

 few cold mouthfuls, threw down my blankets, and 

 almost literally Jell asleep. 



Next day being Sunday, and forage sufficing, we 

 took it easy in camp, revelling in shade of palm and 

 willow and the proximity of plentiful water. In a 

 walk down the canon I noticed near the spring a fine 

 exhibition of Indian picture-writings. The figures 

 were scratched in firm outline on the faces of smooth 

 slabs of rock, and stood out white against the red of 

 the granite as clearly as if done but a year or two 

 ago. The canon by daylight was picturesque, the 

 high walls enclosing a gully-like passageway in 

 which grew the usual assortment of mountain 



