But here and there, like so many faces peering forth from living graves, he saw the Little Sisters of Tete Jaune Cache.

Outnumbered ten to one, their voices rang out in shrill banter and delirious laughter above the rumble of men.
At the far end, a fiddle, a piano, and a clarinet were squealing forth music.

The place smelled strongly of whisky.

It always smelled of that, for most of the men who sought amusement here got their whisky in spite of the law.

There were rock-hogs from up the line, and rock-hogs from down the line, men of all nationalities and of almost all ages; teamsters, trail-cutters, packers, and rough-shod navvies; men whose daily task was to play with dynamite and giant powder; steel-men, tie-men, and men who drilled into the hearts of mountains.