Not so many of them that they are a constant menace, but occasionally to be reckoned with.

Great sprawling dry lakes ominous in their very placidity; dust dry, with little whirlwinds scurrying over them and mirages that lie to you most convincingly, painting water where there is only clay dust.

Water that is hidden deep in forbidding canyons, water that you must hunt for blindly unless you have been told where it comes stealthily out from some crevice in the rocks.
Indians know the water holes, and have told the white men with whom they made friends after a fashion--for Casey tells me he never knew a red man who was essentially noble--and these have told others; and men have named the springs and have indicated their location on maps.

Otherwise the land is dry, parched and deadly and beautiful, and men have died terrible, picturesque deaths within its borders.
I was thinking of that, and it seemed not too incongruous that the devil should now and then walk abroad with a lantern of his own devising to make men shrink from his path.

But Casey says, and I think he means it, that the light is a lure.