“Then we cannot cross directly eastward?” queried the lieutenant.
“No, señor. Even the Indians cannot. It is the Mohave Desert. But if you desire to travel east, after crossing this pass you should follow south along the foot of the mountains, where is water and grass, to the Spanish Trail to Santa Fé. By this route have just returned six Indians of a great river of the desert, who have been here trading with my people. For two days on my way to San Fernando I am travelling the same road, myself, and I will gladly be your guide.”
They thanked him, and accepted his offer.
[XXI]
THE VENGEANCE OF KIT CARSON
The Christian Indian of the San Fernando mission rejoined the march, the next morning; amidst gooseberries, humming-birds, and yellow flowers, looked down upon by snow-caps, the pass was threaded; and a very different crossing of the Sierra Range was this, from that experienced but a few weeks back!
Unexpectedly to all the company, as the trail wound down among the foot-hills on the eastern side of the range the desert unfolded to view. There it lay, waiting, like a flat, prone dragon. There it lay, as the guide had asserted: arid, burning, white-hot, with occasional blackish ridges breaking its surface like scales, and with its fevered breath, like a mist, quivering above.
“The great llanos—plains,” announced the guide, dramatically waving his hand. “They have no water, they have no grass; every animal that goes upon them dies.”
“The Mohave Desert, I reckon it air,” said Kit Carson, meditatively surveying. “I crossed it twice, on that Californy trip, but the trail we made war lower down.”