One member of my party was a “reverend”--a missionary. He was a fine, open-hearted fellow whom we all liked, but every once in a while--indeed, I ought to say frequently--he would make suggestions to the Indian to go here, or go there, which finally called forth (from me) a forceful rebuke. Let me explain the situation fully. When we came to the place where the Colorado River left its banks and entered a mesquite forest, its waters were naturally much divided. As we did not know where each current led, and how soon it would spread so as to render further progress in our boats impossible, it was a situation that called for great knowledge as to determining the course of the best and deepest current, and quick decision; for, as we were carried along among mesquites, a few moments of indecision meant being thrust into a mesquite tree, perhaps, where cruel thorns spared no one, because of his indecision. Reader, do you know what a mesquite is? Its proper name should be “me scratch.” If you come within ten feet of one it verily seems to reach out for you and scratch you somewhere. Imagine your thorniest rosebush multiplied by fifty and all concentrated and condensed into one tree with thorns much longer, far more pointed, and with poison lurking on the end of them, and you have a not very much exaggerated idea of the mesquite. Now to have our missionary friend bawling out all the time, “Better go this way,” or “Better go that,” was both annoying and useless, so I finally told him I had brought the Indian because I knew that he knew a thousand-fold more of such a current and how to get through this wilderness of mesquite than I did. “And,” said I, “as far as I am concerned, I should feel it was an impertinence for me to make even a suggestion to the Indian. He _knows_ where I _guess_, and yet as you know, I have had far more experience in this kind of thing than you have. Don’t you think it wiser for you to add a little more silence to your possessions?” He was, as I have said, a royal-hearted fellow, and he took my rebuke in a manly, Christian way, for a few moments’ reflection showed him that what I said was wisdom. Now, while these wild and foolish suggestions were being made to the Indian, what did he do? It was most interesting to me to watch him. Instead of replying and arguing with a lot of vehement words, he smiled quietly, looked at me to see if I approved of the suggestion, and when he saw my absolutely impassive face, went on following his own course. Had he been a white man--or like most white men--he would have shouted back that he was going some other way, or called his adviser a fool, or informed him that he knew his business, or some other equally agreeable thing. [Illustration: IN THE BOATS, IN THE RAIN, ON OUR WAY TO THE SALTON SEA.]