Here, only a few hours by motor from paved streets and comfortable homes, was a section of the real frontier, as crude and as lawless as any he had ever seen.

Yonder, for instance, was the Red Lion, a regular Klondike dance hall.
He looked in for a moment, but the sight of hard-faced houris revolving cheek to cheek with men in overalls and boots was nothing new.

It did remind him of the march of progress, however, to notice that the bartenders served coca-cola instead of "hootch." Hygienic, but vain, he reflected.

Not at all like the brave old days.
Farther up the street was a flaming theater decorated with gaudy lithographs of women in tights.

That awoke a familiar echo.