By the end of the dry season the water trails of the Ceriso are worn to
a white ribbon in the leaning grass, spread out faint and fanwise toward
the homes of gopher and ground rat and squirrel. But however faint to
man-sight, they are sufficiently plain to the furred and feathered folk
who travel them. Getting down to the eye level of rat and squirrel kind,
one perceives what might easily be wide and winding roads to us if they
occurred in thick plantations of trees three times the height of a man.
It needs but a slender thread of barrenness to make a mouse trail in the
forest of the sod. To the little people the water trails are as country
roads, with scents as signboards.
It seems that man-height is the least fortunate of all heights from
which to study trails. It is better to go up the front of some tall
hill, say the spur of Black Mountain, looking back and down across the
hollow of the Ceriso. Strange how long the soil keeps the impression of
any continuous treading, even after grass has overgrown it. Twenty years
since, a brief heyday of mining at Black Mountain made a stage road
across the Ceriso, yet the parallel lines that are the wheel traces show
from the height dark and well defined. Afoot in the Ceriso one looks in
vain for any sign of it. So all the paths that wild creatures use going
down to the Lone Tree Spring are mapped out whitely from this level,
which is also the level of the hawks.
There is little water in the Ceriso at the best of times, and that
little brackish and smelling vilely, but by a lone juniper where the
rim of the Ceriso breaks away to the lower country, there is a perpetual
rill of fresh sweet drink in the midst of lush grass and watercress. In
the dry season there is no water else for a man's long journey of a
day. East to the foot of Black Mountain, and north and south without
counting, are the burrows of small rodents, rat and squirrel kind. Under
the sage are the shallow forms of the jackrabbits, and in the dry
banks of washes, and among the strewn fragments of black rock, lairs of
bobcat, fox, and coyote.
The coyote is your true water-witch, one who snuffs and paws, snuffs and
paws again at the smallest spot of moisture-scented earth until he has
freed the blind water from the soil. Many water-holes are no more than
this detected by the lean hobo of the hills in localities where not even
an Indian would look for it.
It is the opinion of many wise and busy people that the hill-folk pass
the ten-month interval between the end and renewal of winter rains, with
no drink; but your true idler, with days and nights to spend beside the
water trails, will not subscribe to it. The trails begin, as I said,
very far back in the Ceriso, faintly, and converge in one span broad,
white, hard-trodden way in the gully of the spring. And why trails if
there are no travelers in that direction?
I have yet to find the land not scarred by the thin, far roadways of
rabbits and what not of furry folks that run in them. Venture to look
for some seldom-touched water-hole, and so long as the trails run with
your general direction make sure you are right, but if they begin to
cross yours at never so slight an angle, to converge toward a point left
or right of your objective, no matter what the maps say, or your memory,
trust them; they know.
It is very still in the Ceriso by day, so that were it not for the
evidence of those white beaten ways, it might be the desert it looks.
The sun is hot in the dry season, and the days are filled with the
glare of it. Now and again some unseen coyote signals his pack in a
long-drawn, dolorous whine that comes from no determinate point, but
nothing stirs much before mid-afternoon. It is a sign when there begin
to be hawks skimming above the sage that the little people are going
about their business.
We have fallen on a very careless usage, speaking of wild creatures as
if they were bound by some such limitation as hampers clockwork. When we
say of one and another, they are night prowlers, it is perhaps true only
as the things they feed upon are more easily come by in the dark, and
they know well how to adjust themselves to conditions wherein food is
more plentiful by day. And their accustomed performance is very much
a matter of keen eye, keener scent, quick ear, and a better memory of
sights and sounds than man dares boast. Watch a coyote come out of his
lair and cast about in his mind where he will go for his daily killing.
You cannot very well tell what decides him, but very easily that he has
decided. He trots or breaks into short gallops, with very perceptible
pauses to look up and about at landmarks, alters his tack a little,
looking forward and back to steer his proper course.
I am persuaded that the coyotes in my valley, which is narrow and beset
with steep, sharp hills, in long passages steer by the pinnacles of
the sky-line, going with head cocked to one side to keep to the left or
right of such and such a promontory.
I have trailed a coyote often, going across country, perhaps to where
some slant-winged scavenger hanging in the air signaled prospect of
a dinner, and found his track such as a man, a very intelligent man
accustomed to a hill country, and a little cautious, would make to the
same point. Here a detour to avoid a stretch of too little cover, there
a pause on the rim of a gully to pick the better way,--and it is usually
the best way,--and making his point with the greatest economy of effort.
Since the time of Seyavi the deer have shifted their feeding ground
across the valley at the beginning of deep snows, by way of the Black
Rock, fording the river at Charley's Butte, and making straight for the
mouth of the canon that is the easiest going to the winter pastures on
Waban. So they still cross, though whatever trail they had has been long
broken by ploughed ground; but from the mouth of Tinpah Creek, where
the deer come out of the Sierras, it is easily seen that the creek, the
point of Black Rock, and Charley's Butte are in line with the wide bulk
of shade that is the foot of Waban Pass. And along with this the deer
have learned that Charley's Butte is almost the only possible ford,
and all the shortest crossing of the valley. It seems that the wild
creatures have learned all that is important to their way of life
except the changes of the moon. I have seen some prowling fox or coyote,
surprised by its sudden rising from behind the mountain wall, slink in
its increasing glow, watch it furtively from the cover of near-by brush,
unprepared and half uncertain of its identity until it rode clear of the
peaks, and finally make off with all the air of one caught napping by an
ancient joke. The moon in its wanderings must be a sort of exasperation
to cunning beasts, likely to spoil by untimely risings some fore-planned
mischief.
But to take the trail again; the coyotes that are astir in the Ceriso of
late afternoons, harrying the rabbits from their shallow forms, and the
hawks that sweep and swing above them, are not there from any mechanical
promptings of instinct, but because they know of old experience that the
small fry are about to take to seed gathering and the water trails. The
rabbits begin it, taking the trail with long, light leaps, one eye and
ear cocked to the hills from whence a coyote might descend upon them at
any moment. Rabbits are a foolish people. They do not fight except with
their own kind, nor use their paws except for feet, and appear to have
no reason for existence but to furnish meals for meat-eaters. In flight
they seem to rebound from the earth of their own elasticity, but keep a
sober pace going to the spring. It is the young watercress that tempts
them and the pleasures of society, for they seldom drink. Even in
localities where there are flowing streams they seem to prefer the
moisture that collects on herbage, and after rains may be seen rising on
their haunches to drink delicately the clear drops caught in the tops of
the young sage. But drink they must, as I have often seen them mornings
and evenings at the rill that goes by my door. Wait long enough at the
Lone Tree Spring and sooner or later they will all come in. But here
their matings are accomplished, and though they are fearful of so little
as a cloud shadow or blown leaf, they contrive to have some playful
hours. At the spring the bobcat drops down upon them from the black
rock, and the red fox picks them up returning in the dark. By day the
hawk and eagle overshadow them, and the coyote has all times and seasons
for his own.
Cattle, when there are any in the Ceriso, drink morning and evening,
spending the night on the warm last lighted slopes of neighboring hills,
stirring with the peep o' day. In these half wild spotted steers the
habits of an earlier lineage persist. It must be long since they have
made beds for themselves, but before lying down they turn themselves
round and round as dogs do. They choose bare and stony ground, exposed
fronts of westward facing hills, and lie down in companies. Usually by
the end of the summer the cattle have been driven or gone of their own
choosing to the mountain meadows. One year a maverick yearling, strayed
or overlooked by the vaqueros, kept on until the season's end, and so
betrayed another visitor to the spring that else I might have missed.
On a certain morning the half-eaten carcass lay at the foot of the black
rock, and in moist earth by the rill of the spring, the foot-pads of a
cougar, puma, mountain lion, or whatever the beast is rightly called.
The kill must have been made early in the evening, for it appeared that
the cougar had been twice to the spring; and since the meat-eater drinks
little until he has eaten, he must have fed and drunk, and after an
interval of lying up in the black rock, had eaten and drunk again. There
was no knowing how far he had come, but if he came again the second
night he found that the coyotes had left him very little of his kill.
Nobody ventures to say how infrequently and at what hour the small fry
visit the spring. There are such numbers of them that if each came once
between the last of spring and the first of winter rains, there would
still be water trails. I have seen badgers drinking about the hour when
the light takes on the yellow tinge it has from coming slantwise through
the hills. They find out shallow places, and are loath to wet their
feet. Rats and chipmunks have been observed visiting the spring as late
as nine o'clock mornings.
The larger spermophiles that live near the spring and keep awake to work
all day, come and go at no particular hour, drinking sparingly. At long
intervals on half-lighted days, meadow and field mice steal delicately
along the trail. These visitors are all too small to be watched
carefully at night, but for evidence of their frequent coming there are
the trails that may be traced miles out among the crisping grasses. On
rare nights, in the places where no grass grows between the shrubs, and
the sand silvers whitely to the moon, one sees them whisking to and fro
on innumerable errands of seed gathering, but the chief witnesses of
their presence near the spring are the elf owls. Those burrow-haunting,
speckled fluffs of greediness begin a twilight flitting toward the
spring, feeding as they go on grasshoppers, lizards, and small, swift
creatures, diving into burrows to catch field mice asleep, battling with
chipmunks at their own doors, and getting down in great numbers toward
the long juniper. Now owls do not love water greatly on its own account.
Not to my knowledge have I caught one drinking or bathing, though on
night wanderings across the mesa they flit up from under the horse's
feet along stream borders. Their presence near the spring in great
numbers would indicate the presence of the things they feed upon. All
night the rustle and soft hooting keeps on in the neighborhood of the
spring, with seldom small shrieks of mortal agony. It is clear day
before they have all gotten back to their particular hummocks, and if
one follows cautiously, not to frighten them into some near-by burrow,
it is possible to trail them far up the slope.
The crested quail that troop in the Ceriso are the happiest frequenters
of the water trails. There is no furtiveness about their morning drink.
About the time the burrowers and all that feed upon them are addressing
themselves to sleep, great flocks pour down the trails with that
peculiar melting motion of moving quail, twittering, shoving, and
shouldering. They splatter into the shallows, drink daintily, shake out
small showers over their perfect coats, and melt away again into the
scrub, preening and pranking, with soft contented noises.
After the quail, sparrows and ground-inhabiting birds bathe with the
utmost frankness and a great deal of splutter; and here in the heart of
noon hawks resort, sitting panting, with wings aslant, and a truce to
all hostilities because of the heat. One summer there came a road-runner
up from the lower valley, peeking and prying, and he had never any
patience with the water baths of the sparrows. His own ablutions were
performed in the clean, hopeful dust of the chaparral; and whenever
he happened on their morning splatterings, he would depress his glossy
crest, slant his shining tail to the level of his body, until he looked
most like some bright venomous snake, daunting them with shrill abuse
and feint of battle. Then suddenly he would go tilting and balancing
down the gully in fine disdain, only to return in a day or two to make
sure the foolish bodies were still at it.
Out on the Ceriso about five miles, and wholly out of sight of it, near
where the immemorial foot trail goes up from Saline Flat toward Black
Mountain, is a water sign worth turning out of the trail to see. It is
a laid circle of stones large enough not to be disturbed by any ordinary
hap, with an opening flanked by two parallel rows of similar stones,
between which were an arrow placed, touching the opposite rim of the
circle, thus it would point as the crow flies to the spring. It is the
old, indubitable water mark of the Shoshones. One still finds it in the
desert ranges in Salt Wells and Mesquite valleys, and along the slopes
of Waban. On the other side of Ceriso, where the black rock begins,
about a mile from the spring, is the work of an older, forgotten people.
The rock hereabout is all volcanic, fracturing with a crystalline
whitish surface, but weathered outside to furnace blackness. Around
the spring, where must have been a gathering place of the tribes, it is
scored over with strange pictures and symbols that have no meaning to
the Indians of the present day; but out where the rock begins, there is
carved into the white heart of it a pointing arrow over the symbol
for distance and a circle full of wavy lines reading thus: "In this
direction three [units of measurement unknown] is a spring of sweet
water; look for it."