Two waitresses
whom the guests--all men--called by their first names, came and went
with large trays.
Through the windows outside McTeague observed a great number of saddle
horses tied to trees and fences. Each one of these horses had a riata on
the pommel of the saddle. He sat down to the table, eating his thick hot
soup, watching his neighbors covertly, listening to everything that was
said. It did not take him long to gather that the country to the east
and south of Keeler was a cattle country.
Not far off, across a range of hills, was the Panamint Valley, where the
big cattle ranges were. Every now and then this name was tossed to
and fro across the table in the flow of conversation--"Over in the
Panamint." "Just going down for a rodeo in the Panamint." "Panamint
brands." "Has a range down in the Panamint." Then by and by the remark,
"Hoh, yes, Gold Gulch, they're down to good pay there. That's on the
other side of the Panamint Range. Peters came in yesterday and told me."
McTeague turned to the speaker.
"Is that a gravel mine?" he asked.
"No, no, quartz."
"I'm a miner; that's why I asked."
"Well I've mined some too. I had a hole in the ground meself, but she
was silver; and when the skunks at Washington lowered the price of
silver, where was I? Fitchered, b'God!"
"I was looking for a job.
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