barking. As the boat pulled out into the stream, the ferryman called back
above the noise of the water:

"Looks like he had somethin' on you. I ain't ever seen him act so ugly
before." Then to the dog, "Quit that, Tim, or I'll bust your jaw."

Garland mounted the slope. The sound of the river behind him was drowned
by the roar of the Lizzie J's mill. Its rampart-like wall towered above
him, cut by the orange squares of windows, the thunder of its stamps, a
giant's feet crushing out the gold, pounding tremendous on the nocturnal
solitude. As the horse snorted upward, digging its hoofs among the
loosened stones, he looked up at it. Millions had been made there;
millions were still making. Men in distant cities were being enriched by
the golden grains beaten free by those giant feet. Once he had thought
that he, too, might ravish the earth's treasure, become as they were by
honest labor.

An unexpected surge of depression suddenly rose upon him. He set it down
to the barking of the dog, for, after the manner of those who lead the
lonely lives of the outlawed, he was superstitious. He believed in signs
and portents, lucky streaks, the superior instinct of animals, and as he
rode he brooded uneasily. Did it simply mean menace, or had the brute
known him for what he was and tried to warn his master?

He muttered an oath and told himself, as he had done often of late, that
he was growing old. Time and disappointment were wearing on the nerve
that had once been unbreakable. In the past he had seen his path going
unimpeded to its goal; now he recognized the possibility of failure, saw
obstructions, crept cautious where he had formerly strode undismayed,
hesitated where he had once leaped. He jerked himself upright and