Part 1 From Out The Canyon Chapter 9 At The Occidental

Hampton slowly picked his way back through the darkness down the silent
road, his only guide those dim yellow lights flickering in the
distance. He walked soberly, his head bent slightly forward, absorbed
in thought. Suddenly he paused, and swore savagely, his disgust at the
situation bursting all bounds; yet when he arrived opposite the beam of
light streaming invitingly forth from the windows of the first saloon,
he was whistling softly, his head held erect, his cool eyes filled with
reckless daring.

It was Saturday night, and the mining town was already alive. The one
long, irregular street was jammed with constantly moving figures, the
numerous saloons ablaze, the pianos sounding noisily, the shuffling of
feet in the crowded dance-halls incessant. Fakers were everywhere
industriously hawking their useless wares and entertaining the
loitering crowds, while the roar of voices was continuous. Cowboys
from the wide plains, miners from the hidden gulches, ragged, hopeful
prospectors from the more distant mountains, teamsters, and half-naked
Indians, commingled in the restless throng, passing and repassing from
door to door, careless in dress, rough in manner, boisterous in
language. Here and there amid this heterogeneous population of toilers
and adventurers, would appear those attired in the more conventional
garb of the East,--capitalists hunting new investments, or chance
travellers seeking to discover a new thrill amid this strange life of
the frontier. Everywhere, brazen and noisy, flitted women, bold of
eye, painted of cheek, gaudy of raiment, making mock of their sacred
womanhood. Riot reigned unchecked, while the quiet, sleepy town of the
afternoon blossomed under the flickering lights into a saturnalia of
unlicensed pleasure, wherein the wages of sin were death.