"And over there--the one with the larger light is The Polka Saloon!" For
even as he spoke the powerful kerosene lamp of The Polka Saloon, flanked
by a composition metal reflector, flashed out its light into the gloom
enveloping the desolate, ominous-looking mountains.

Johnson regarded this building long and thoughtfully. Then his eyes made
out a steep trail which zigzagged from The Polka Saloon up the barren
slopes of the mountain until it reached a cabin perched on the very top,
the steps and porch of which were held up by poles made of trees. There,
also, a light could be seen, but dimly. It was a strange place for
anyone to erect a dwelling-place, and he found himself wondering what
manner of person dwelt there. Of one thing he was certain: whoever it
was the mountains were loved for themselves, for no mere digger of gold
would think of erecting a habitation in view of those strange, vast, and
silent heights!

And as he meditated thus, he perceived that the far off Sierras were
forming a background for a sinuous coil of smoke from the cabin. For
some time he watched it curling up into the great arch of sky. It was as
if he were hypnotised by it and, in a vague, shadowy way, he had a sense
of being connected, somehow, with the little cabin and its recluse. Was
this feeling that he had a premonition of danger? Was this a moment of
foreboding and distrust of the situation yet to be revealed? For like
most venturesome men he always had a moment before every one of his
undertakings in which his instinct either urged him forward or held him
back.

Suddenly he became conscious that his eyes no longer saw the smoke. He
stared hard to glimpse it, but it was gone. And with a supreme effort he
wrenched himself free from a sort of paralysis which was stealing away