At the end of the four days we turned in at a deep bay and came
to anchor. The country was the usual proposition--very
light-brown, brittle-looking mountains, about two thousand feet
high; lots of sage and cactus, a pebbly beach, and not a sign of
anything fresh and green.
But Denton and I were mighty glad to see any sort of land.
Besides, our keg of water was pretty low, and it was getting
about time to discover the spring the chart spoke of. So we
piled our camp stuff in the small boat and rowed ashore.
Anderson led the way confidently enough up a dry arroyo, whose
sides were clay and conglomerate. But, though we followed it to
the end, we could find no indications that it was anything more
than a wash for rain floods.
"That's main queer," muttered Anderson, and returned to the
beach.
There he spread out the chart--the first look at it we'd had--and
set to studying it.
It was a careful piece of work done in India ink, pretty old, to
judge by the look of it, and with all sorts of pictures of
mountains and dolphins and ships and anchors around the edge.
There was our bay, all right. Two crosses were marked on the
land part--one labelled "oro" and the other "agua.
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