He recognized familiar points at once. Here was Cold
canyon, where invariably, winter and summer, a chilly wind was blowing;
here was where the road to Spencer's branched off; here was Bussy's
old place, where at one time there were so many dogs; here was Delmue's
cabin, where unlicensed whiskey used to be sold; here was the plank
bridge with its one rotten board; and here the flat overgrown with
manzanita, where he once had shot three quail.
At noon, after he had been tramping for some two hours, he halted at a
point where the road dipped suddenly. A little to the right of him, and
flanking the road, an enormous yellow gravel-pit like an emptied lake
gaped to heaven. Farther on, in the distance, a canyon zigzagged toward
the horizon, rugged with pine-clad mountain crests. Nearer at hand, and
directly in the line of the road, was an irregular cluster of unpainted
cabins. A dull, prolonged roar vibrated in the air. McTeague nodded his
head as if satisfied.
"That's the place," he muttered.
He reshouldered his blanket roll and descended the road. At last he
halted again. He stood before a low one-story building, differing from
the others in that it was painted. A verandah, shut in with mosquito
netting, surrounded it.
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