"Mighty wet weather we're having," he said. "Terrible. Don't ever remember it worse." The light of the lantern fell on the horse's mud-caked legs. "Looks as if you'd rid quite a ways." "From this side of Jackson." "That's some ride. Guess y'ain't met many folks." "Not many. Staying indoors this weather, all that can." "Belong round here?" "No--back up toward the Feather." They were in midstream, the scow advancing with a tremulous motion, spray springing across its low edges and showering the men. The dog, who had come to a standstill, his forepaws on the gunnel, his face toward Garland, suddenly broke into a furious barking. Garland shifted in his saddle. "What's got your dog?" he said gruffly. "He ain't afraid, is he?" "Afraid? Don't know the meanin' of the word. Don't mind him--it's his way; lived so long with me he acts sort of notional. Some days he'll bark like now at a passenger and then again he won't take no notice. Just somethin' about you, can't tell what, but he scents somethin' that makes him act unfriendly." "What do you suppose it is?" growled the other. The ferryman laughed. "Oh, you can't ever tell about them animals--they got a thinkin' outfit of their own. Goin' far?" "To Angels." "Well, hope you'll get there all right. Sort of black weather to be traveling specially if you got money on you. Knapp and Garland's bound to get busy soon." It was the passenger's turn to laugh. "I'm not the sort they're after. It's big business for them. Ever seen 'em?" "Search me. I guess mebbe I've taken 'em acrost, but how was I to know?" The scow bumped against its landing and man and horse embarked. There was an interchange of rough good-nights, interrupted by the dog's frenzied 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.