PART III.
CHAPTER XV THE EAGLE COMPLETES HIS CIRCLE All days were Sunday in the great mining camp of Wagon Wheel, so far as legal enactment ran, but on Saturday night, in following ancient habit, the men came out of their prospect holes on the high, grassy hills, or threw down the pick in their "overland tunnels," or deep shafts and rabbitlike burrows, and came to camp to buy provisions, to get their mail, and to look upon, if not to share, the vice and tumult of the town.
The streets were filled from curb to curb with thousands of men in mud-stained coats and stout-laced boots.

They stood in the gutters and in the middle of the street to talk (in subdued voices) of their claims.
There was little noise.

The slowly-moving streams of shoppers or amusement seekers gave out no sudden shouting.

A deep murmur filled the air, but no angry curse was heard, no whooping.

In a land where the revolver is readier than the fist men are wary of quarrel, careful of abuse, and studiously regardful of others.
There were those who sought vice, and it was easily found.