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.
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