Excerpt from The Yellow Trail: A Story of Salmon River Gold
Peter Alden, Jr., drifted into Moapa, Montana, with the first November snow. The town was cold and already dark when he faced its long, half-deserted streets that barely separated snowed-in houses and ended in a trading center dismal and dreary in the pale yellow of street lights.
The frigid aspect of the night meant little to Pete as he leaned against the wind and walked defiantly into it. His skin was stung with cruel biting lashes, and he wanted it so. Perhaps it would deaden the infernal gnawing of his conscience. It would punish him outwardly, anyhow, and that would help. He pressed on. Long into the night he fought his way from one deserted street to another, retracing his steps a dozen times. Try as he would, however, he could not shake his tormentor from him. In desperation he challenged it to bear witness to his self-inflicted punishment. It scoffed at him. "No use trying," he muttered, and stopped short. The warm light of a saloon flooded the frozen sidewalk. With faltering step and heavy heart he turned, faced the door, and let the wind hurl him into the refuge of sickening smoke and stale liquor.
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