"Behind you," broke in the voice of the chief, "beginning at that peak you see fifty miles away in the distance, and which is known as Oak Springs Butte, is a section of the country containing over 3,000 square miles, equal in size to the states of Delaware and Rhode Island together, which is absolutely waterless. In that appalling land of thirst there is not a river, stream, or brook; a spring is a thing unknown; no well has ever been sunk, and even the Indian waterhole exists only in imagination. At rare, very rare intervals, a cloudburst may come upon the parched land, but five minutes later there is no sign of moisture save for a cup in a ravine or a crevice in a rock, where water may lie for twenty-four hours. It is dryer and hotter than the Great Sahara Desert of Africa, and wild and rough beyond belief."
"And has that awful place been covered by the Survey, too?" asked the boy.
"I did one quadrangle," answered Pedlar, "and there's a party in there this season."
"But how do they manage for water?"
"They tote every drop. And," with a grim meaning, "they are not taking baths twice a day at that!"
"On this other side," continued the chief of the party after a pause, turning round, "is a place you know well by reputation."
"That is the famous Death Valley?" queried Roger.
"That," said the chief, putting his heels to the mule's side and starting down the slope, "is the infamous Death Valley."
Half-way down the slope Pedlar halted and pointed to a sign on a box lid, stuck into a pile of stone.
"Gruesome advertising, that!" he commented.