Here and there at long distances upon the canyon sides rose the headgear of a mine, surrounded with its few unpainted houses, and topped 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 rise of the mountain, turned at a sharp angle where a great live-oak grew, and held level for nearly a quarter of a mile.  Twice again the dentist left the road and took to the trail that cut through deserted hydraulic pits.  He knew exactly where to look for these trails; not once did his instinct deceive him.  He recognized