Boiling Springs are a night's ride--perhaps twenty miles--beyond. We give our team three hours of rest and start therefor, stopping in the mean time for a midnight feed, where most unexpectedly we find some excellent grazing for our horses. By daylight we are at the Springs and in a locality much like the Bad Lands of South Dakota. But the "boiling" industry apparently is taking a vacation, for the water is not too warm for one's hands and face--and certainly it is refreshing. We are in a "sink," or the dry bed of a lake, and the cliffs of clay have been sculptured into existence by the Amargosa River. Sometimes, when a dissipated cloud tumbles its contents into the region, the Amargosa is filled bank full with water; but few prospectors have seen more than a trickling stream flowing in its bed. We turn our way out of the wagon-trail toward Funeral Range to find the canyon of Furnace Creek, and in time we are clambering up a narrow gulch between the multicolored strata of clay buttes. Not a vestige of life, not even the horned-toad or the trail of the kangaroo-rat is to be seen. Half a dozen graves marked each by a wooden cross or a rock monument are in sight. Who are they? Ask the simoom that sweeps like a cruel furnace blast over this forsaken region. To be lost in this desert means horrible suffering, phantom-seeing, and then death. The bodies of these unfortunates were merely found and buried--lost!--dead! We cross the mesa which forms part of the Funeral Range. Telescope and Sentinel Peaks beyond Death Valley in the Panamint Mountains loom above the horizon; we descend the canyon of Furnace Creek and are in Death Valley. We are in a strange and weird depression of the earth's crust about fifty miles long and ten wide, the deepest part of which is more than two hundred and fifty feet below sea level. Once upon a time, it is thought, the Gulf of California reached so far inland that it included this gash. Then the never-ceasing winds bridged it with loose rock waste. Thus, Death Valley was born. In time it became a salt lake, a marsh, and then a dry sink. It is here that the deadly side-winder travels by night instead of day to avoid the excessive heat, and rivers flow with their bottoms up as if to hide from the burning rays of the sun; where Death by name and by nature gives forth no warning note, and even a mountain range on the east side of the valley signifies the service held to commemorate the last resting-place of the unfortunates who have perished here. The valley is hemmed in on the east by the precipitous side of the gorgeous-colored Funeral Range, and on the west by the Panamint Mountains, which rise to the height of ten thousand feet. The climate is cool and salubrious in winter, but is a fiery furnace in summer, when the mercury in the thermometer sometimes climbs to one hundred and forty degrees in the shade.