Following a rough kind of road, that led up the base of the hills for about two miles, we entered what I imagine was the crater of an extinct volcano nearly circular, about a mile in diameter, and shut in on every side by columnar walls of basalt. There was a weird desolation about the place that forcibly reminded me of the Wolf’s Glen in Der Freischütz—a fit haunt for Zamiel! Scarce a trace of forest-life was to be seen, not a tree or flower; everything looked scorched and cinderous, like the _débris_ of a terrible fire, and smelt like a limekiln on a summer-night. A long narrow house, resembling a cattle-shed, stood in the centre of this circle. ‘Waal, Cap’en, I guess we’ve made the ranch anyhow,’ said the Major, as we drew up at the door of this most uninviting-looking establishment. ‘A mighty tall smell of brimstone,’ he further added, ‘seems coming up from “Old Hoof’s” stove-pipe. Calkilate he’s doing a tallish kind of dinner below.’ I had no time to reply, ere the host, owner, and general manager of the Tuscan Springs made his appearance. ‘How’s your health, Doctor?’ inquired the Major. ‘I’ve brought up Cap’en —— to have a peep at your location; he’s mighty curious about these kind of diggins.’ ‘Waal, Cap’en,’ said the Doctor, in a long drawling voice, ‘I am glad to see you. I raither guess you don’t see such nat’ral ready-made places, for curin’ jist every sickness, in the old country as we have in California.—Here, boy, put up the mustangs: and now step in, and I’ll tell old aunty to scramble up some eggs and bacon, and then we can take a look round the springs.’ Aunty was a quaint specimen of the feminine gender, not at all suggestive of the gentler sex. Her features were small, but sharply cut. She was bent naturally, but not from age, and reminded me of a witch. One would not have felt at all astonished at seeing her mount a broomstick, and start on an aërial trip over the burnt-up rocks. But all honour to her skill as a cook,—she did her fixings admirably!