pped by its
never-failing feather of black smoke. On near approach one heard
the prolonged thunder of the stamp-mill, the crusher, the insatiable
monster, gnashing the rocks to powder with its long iron teeth, vomiting
them out again in a thin stream of wet gray mud. Its enormous maw, fed
night and day with the car-boys' loads, gorged itself with gravel, and
spat out the gold, grinding the rocks between its jaws, glutted, as it
were, with the very entrails of the earth, and growling over its endless
meal, like some savage animal, some legendary dragon, some fabulous
beast, symbol of inordinate and monstrous gluttony.

McTeague had left the Overland train at Colfax, and the same afternoon
had ridden some eight miles across the mountains in the stage that
connects Colfax with Iowa Hill. Iowa Hill was a small one-street town,
the headquarters of the mines of the district. Originally it had been
built upon the summit of a mountain, but the sides of this mountain have
long since been "hydrau-licked" away, so that the town now clings to a
mere back bone, and the rear windows of the houses on both sides of the
street look down over sheer precipices, into vast pits hundreds of feet
deep.

The dentist stayed over night at the Hill, and the next morning started
off on foot farther into the mountains. He still wore his blue overalls
and jumper; his woollen cap was pulled down over his eye; on his feet
were hob-nailed boots he had bought at the store in Colfax; his blanket
roll was over his back; in his left hand swung the bird cage wrapped in
sacks.

Just outside the town he paused, as if suddenly remembering something.

"There ought to be a trail just off the road here," he muttered. "There
used to be a trail--a short cut."

The next instant, without moving from his position, he saw where it
opened just before him. His instinct had halted him at the exact spot.
The trail zigzagged down the abrupt descent of the canyon, debouching
into a gravelly river bed.

"Indian River," muttered the dentist. "I remember--I remember. I ought
to hear the Morning Star's stamps from here." He cocked his head. A low,
sustained roar, like a distant cataract, came to his ears from across
the river. "That's right," he said, contentedly. He crossed the river
and regained the road beyond. The slope rose under his feet; a little
farther on he passed the Morning Star mine, smoking and thundering.
McTeague pushed steadily on. The road rose with the