“I don’t know that I won’t,” he said. He took a long pull, then handed the flask to his partner. “Regards!” drawled the latter. The words brought to Loring a bitter train of memories. “Keep the damned stuff if you want it. I am through with it,” he said. Then, with a quick good night, he rode off. The men, in mild wonder, looked after him for a moment. Then they relighted their pipes, and settled themselves by the fire. “Mighty nice chap, that,” remarked one, “but he must feel powerful bad about something to give away good whisky like that.” It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when Stephen rode into Dominion. The main street was brightly lighted, and as it was Saturday night, the sidewalks were crowded with people walking restlessly up and down. The shop windows glowed attractively. Through several open doors he could see men gathered about pool tables. The bright lights by the cinematograph theater showed clearly the faces of the passing crowd. Dominion had passed from the camp into the town stage, as was evinced by the liberal scattering of brick houses among those of wooden construction. Many horsemen were passing in the street. Fresh from the hills, Loring felt almost dazed by this renewed contact with established humanity. His first care was to seek a stable for “_Muy Bueno_.” Seeing in one of the side streets a livery sign, he entered the place and tied his pony among the long line of horses in the shed. Then, after saying to the proprietor: “Hay and not oats,” he walked out into the street. “I hope the confounded expensive little beast won’t order champagne for himself,” he thought. “He is almost clever enough to do so.” As he walked slowly along, he mentally calculated his resources. Three dollars in cash. Nothing in credit. A few cents Mexican in prospect. He would have to sell the pony and saddle to complete the payment of his poker debt. A group of men, thoroughly drunk, passed by, singing noisily. Idly, Stephen followed after them, until they came to the little creek that runs through the center of the town. Across the creek, high above the dark, silent water, lay a narrow swinging bridge. One of the group of men called out: “Let’s go across the bridge of sighs to Mowrie’s.” The others noisily assented and soon Loring could hear the bridge ahead of him creaking beneath their weight. He stood for a moment, hesitating, staring at the lights across the bridge, then he deliberately followed. The opposite shore of the creek was lined with “cribs” and shanties stretched in a long, sodden row along the bank. From many of them came the brazen notes of gramophones in a jarring discord of popular tunes. Women’s voices were mixed with the music, in shrill unpleasant laughter. A board walk ran before the close built houses, and up and down this tramped throngs of men, talking noisily, singing, swearing. The faces of some group or other were now and then visible, as some one scratched a match to light a cigarette.