AT THE OCCIDENTAL Hampton slowly picked his way back through the darkness down the silent road, his only guide those dim yellow lights flickering in the distance.

He walked soberly, his head bent slightly forward, absorbed in thought.

Suddenly he paused, and swore savagely, his disgust at the situation bursting all bounds; yet when he arrived opposite the beam of light streaming invitingly forth from the windows of the first saloon, he was whistling softly, his head held erect, his cool eyes filled with reckless daring.
It was Saturday night, and the mining town was already alive.

The one long, irregular street was jammed with constantly moving figures, the numerous saloons ablaze, the pianos sounding noisily, the shuffling of feet in the crowded dance-halls incessant.

Fakers were everywhere industriously hawking their useless wares and entertaining the loitering crowds, while the roar of voices was continuous.