the fierce mountain-lion was not unknown to this region. To the right of
the doorway, some ten feet from it, were two large flat stones, set
facing each other, a few inches apart; between them lay a handful of
ashes, betokening the kitchen of the family living here. Close by the
stones lay a number of smooth, rounded stones of use and value to the
people of the hut. Back of the wickiup, a few paces up the hill, a tiny
spring issued from the ground, affording a never-failing, though scanty,
supply of water.

The location of this solitary hut, remote from all other signs of
humanity, so far as the eye could judge, was a singular one; for the
Indian loves his kind, and it is rare that one wanders deliberately away
to make his home in loneliness, far from the rest of the tribe to which
he belongs. In the case of this hut, however, its solitariness was more
apparent than real; for although out of sight of any habitation
whatever, the tribe to which its inmates belonged was distant not more
than two miles, but on the other face of the hill, and hidden far in the
recesses of a small ca–on. Here, on the site of a beautiful source of
precious water, was a cluster of Indian houses of brush, built like the
one on the hillside. Each had its fireplace on one side, as well as the
accompanying heap of bones of animals killed in the chase. Near the
centre of the group of huts stood the temescal - an institution with
nearly every Southern California tribe of Indians - where those who were
ill subjected themselves to the heroic treatment of parboiling over a
fire, until in a profuse perspiration, to be followed, on crawling out,
by a plunge into the icy water of the stream. It was truly a case of
kill or cure.

Let us return to the hillside hut, and make the acquaintance of its
inmates. Passing through the humble opening, the interior is disclosed