The saloons were packed with thirsty souls, and from every third door issued the click of dice and whiz of whirling balls in games of chance.
Every hotel barroom swarmed with persuasive salesmen bearing lumps of ore with which to entice unwary capital.

All the talk was of "pay-streaks," "leads," "float," "whins," and "up-raises," while in the midst of it, battling to save souls, the zealous Salvation Army band paraded to and fro with frenzied beating of drums.

Around and through all this, listening with confused ears, gazing with wide, solemn eyes, were hundreds of young men from the middle East, farmers' sons, cowboys, mountaineers, and miners.

To them it was an awesome city, this lurid camp, a wonder and an allurement to dissipation.
To Mose, fresh from the long trail, it was irritating and wearying.

He stood at the door of a saloon, superbly unconscious of his physical beauty, a somber dream in his eyes, a statuesque quality in his pose.