As he neared the bulk of Powell's mountain and ran
along its mighty flank, he passed the ore-mines. At each one the
commissary was closed, the cheap, dingy little houses stood empty
on the hillsides, and every now and then he would see a tipple and
an empty car, left as it was after dumping its last load of red
ore. On the right, as he approached the station, the big furnace
stood like a dead giant, still and smokeless, and the piles of pig
iron were red with rust. The same little dummy wheezed him into
the dead little town. Even the face of the Gap was a little
changed by the gray scar that man had slashed across its mouth,
getting limestone for the groaning monster of a furnace that was
now at peace. The streets were deserted. A new face fronted him at
the desk of the hotel and the eyes of the clerk showed no
knowledge of him when he wrote his name. His supper was coarse,
greasy and miserable, his room was cold (steam heat, it seemed,
had been given up), the sheets were ill-smelling, the mouth of the
pitcher was broken, and the one towel had seen much previous use.
But the water was the same, as was the cool, pungent night-air--
both blessed of God--and they were the sole comforts that were his
that night.
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