A week passed--a week of peculiar and desiccating heat for even those
dry Sierra table-lands. The long days were filled with impalpable
dust and acrid haze suspended in the motionless air; the nights were
breathless and dewless; the cold wind which usually swept down from the
snow line was laid to sleep over a dark monotonous level, whose horizon
was pricked with the eating fires of burning forest crests. The lagging
coach of Indian Spring drove up at Excelsior, and precipitated its
passengers with an accompanying cloud of dust before the Excelsior
Hotel. As they emerged from the coach, Mr. Brace, standing in the
doorway, closely scanned their begrimed and almost unrecognizable faces.
They were the usual type of travelers: a single professional man in
dusty black, a few traders in tweeds and flannels, a sprinkling of
miners in red and gray shirts, a Chinaman, a negro, and a Mexican packer
or muleteer. This latter for a moment mingled with the crowd in the
bar-room, and even penetrated the corridor and dining-room of the hotel,
as if impelled by a certain semi-civilized curiosity, and then strolled
with a lazy, dragging step--half impeded by the enormous leather
leggings, chains, and spurs, peculiar to his class--down the main
street. The darkness was gathering, but the muleteer indulged in the
same childish scrutiny of the dimly lighted shops, magazines, and
saloons, and even of the occasional groups of citizens at the street
corners. Apparently young, as far as the outlines of his figure could
be seen, he seemed to show even more than the usual concern of masculine
Excelsior in the charms of womankind. The few female figures about
at that hour, or visible at window or veranda, received his marked
attention; he respectfully followed the two auburn-haired daughters of
Deacon Johnson on their way to choir meeting to the door of the church.
Not content with that act of discreet gallantry, after they had entered
he managed to slip unperceived behind them.