Twice again the dentist left the road and took to the trail that cut through deserted hydraulic pits.

He knew exactly where to look for these trails; not once did his instinct deceive him.

He recognized familiar points at once.

Here was Cold canyon, where invariably, winter and summer, a chilly wind was blowing; here was where the road to Spencer's branched off; here was Bussy's old place, where at one time there were so many dogs; here was Delmue's cabin, where unlicensed whiskey used to be sold; here was the plank bridge with its one rotten board; and here the flat overgrown with manzanita, where he once had shot three quail.
At noon, after he had been tramping for some two hours, he halted at a point where the road dipped suddenly.

A little to the right of him, and flanking the road, an enormous yellow gravel-pit like an emptied lake gaped to heaven.