At all events, Daggett was the real starting point, and the first "trick" in the journey was the crossing of Mohave River. The river was pretty sure to be deep--not with water but with sand. Whoever saw water in the channel, or "wash," of the Mohave? Perhaps the oldest settler may have seen it; at any rate he will so claim, for the oldest settler is always boastful; indeed, fairy-story telling is his inherent, bounden right. To make good his assertion he points to the bridge, and certainly the bridge is there; but as for the river, it may be on hand one day--perhaps an hour or so--in ten, twenty, or thirty years! Beyond the river a wide expanse of desert is before us, and then a beautiful lake comes into view. Real water, is it?--no; just the desert mirage, but it seems real enough to quench a genuine thirst. But the illusion is lessened by the surroundings, for we are approaching a dry sink--an old lake-bed that was filled with brackish water once when a cloud-burst that occurred in Calico Mountains had its busy day. Back of us are Calico Mountains, a picturesque clump of buttes, and the glimpse of them we get from the north explains why they were so named. And such colors! Their brilliant hues change like kaleidoscopic patterns with the sun's motion. On our right a trail diverges to Coyote Holes, made grewsome by one of many tragedies that have occurred in the region. This time it was a hold-up. A desert waif out of luck and ready cash waylaid the paymaster of Calico mines and relieved him of the money intended for the miners. The robber was soon trailed and he quickly discovered that his only safety lay in hiding. But where could he hide in that desolate flat? At Coyote Holes there is a spring and a small marsh. The robber buried himself in the mud till all but his face was covered and lay there while the posse searched. But the keen vision of an Indian scout did not fail. When the robber saw that he was surrounded, he put up a brave fight and went down, riddled with rifle-balls. The money was recovered. A little farther on is Garlic Springs. It is a common camping-place and like other camps is plentifully strewn with the evidence of the prospector's outfit--hundreds and hundreds of empty tin cans. In time we camp at Cave Springs in a little cove of the Avawatz Buttes. Once there came along a man who all said was half-witted. Perhaps he was, but his intelligence was keen enough to prompt him to claim the springs. By selling the water for quenching thirst at the rate of "four bits" a head for stock and "two bits" apiece for men, his spring proved the best gold mine in the district. There is no water ahead until we reach Saratoga Springs, a dozen miles beyond, and it is well that we take a small supply along, as the water there is unfit for either man or beast. There is a difference between Saratoga Springs, New York, and the springs bearing this high-sounding name in the Amargosa sink. [Illustration: Twenty-mule borax team]