He arose, held out a dirty hand for me to shake, and in parting, said, “My dear sir, you can not imagine how much I have enjoyed our chance meeting, resulting from your poor pronunciation of two Indian words.  When you return to your civilized surroundings, ask yourself, ’Are any of this mad throng as happy as the Indian I met at the Killican’.”

He joined his wife, and the aged pair passed into a brush hut beneath some stately pines.  I, too, turned toward the wagon which was to carry me back to camp, meditating long and deeply on the remarks of this strolling compound of savagery and education.  Environment is largely responsible for man’s condition.  Here was a man who had acquired considerable knowledge of the world and books, he was still a savage in his manner of life and in his habits.

His manner of talking was forceful and natural, and his command of language remarkable.  The ease and abandon with which he wielded the arguments of those who rail against the existence of a Divine Being would lead one, listening to him, to imagine himself in the lecture-room of some modern university.

A Great Day’s Sport on Warner’s Ranch.

Think of three days in the open!  Three glorious days in the sunshine!  “Far from the madding crowd!” Far from the rush and stir and whirl and hum of business!  Far from the McNamara horror, and its sickening aftermath of jury bribing!

A short time ago, whirling over good roads and bad roads, through orange groves with their loads of fruit, rapidly assuming golden hues; through miles and miles of vineyards, now ’reft of all leaves, vineyards in which the pruners were already busily at work; past acres and acres of ground being prepared for grain; through wooded canyons and pine-screened vales; ascending from almost sea level to upwards of 3000 feet—­a party of us went to Warner’s Ranch after the famous canvasback ducks.

We left my home at 7:30 o’clock a. m., some of us in my machine, and two of the party in a runabout.  Filled with the ambition of youth, the driver of the latter car reached Mr. William Newport’s place in the Perris Valley, a run of seventy-six miles, in two hours and twenty minutes.  We jogged along, reaching Newport’s in three hours, and found the exultant, speed-crazed fiend waiting for us.  He was loud in the praise of his speedy run.  Of all of this take note a little later in the story.

We lunched with Mr. Newport, and then took him with us.  What a day it was!  A radiant, dry, winter day!  The whole earth was flooded with sunshine.  Not a cloud was in the sky.  The air was full of snap and electric energy.  The atmosphere absolutely clear.  We wound in and out of the canyons, over dry and running streams, always ascending, climbing the eastern shoulder of Mt.  Palomar, not to the top, but to a pass by which the ranch is reached.

Before 4 o’clock we were on Warner’s Ranch.  This property could well be described as the “Pamir” of Southern California.  True, its elevation is but slight compared with the 16,000 feet of that great Asiatic country, bearing the name of “Pamir,” where roams in all his freedom the true “Ovis Poli” or “Big Horn.”