But Martin Morse had no imagination; he was not even a gold-seeker; he had simply obeyed the roving instincts of the frontiersman in coming hither.

The land was virgin and unoccupied; it was his; he was alone.

These questions settled, he smoked his pipe with less concern over his three thousand miles' transference of habitation than the man of cities who had moved into a next street.

When the sun sank, he rolled himself in his blankets in the wagon bed and went quietly to sleep.
But he was presently awakened by something which at first he could not determine to be a noise or an intangible sensation.

It was a deep throbbing through the silence of the night--a pulsation that seemed even to be communicated to the rude bed whereon he lay.