Dr. Ulswater and I stepped, then, from the train, and looked about us, and saw a drowsy, shiftless looking town, loafing, sprawling at the feet of the hills. We cared nothing for Zionville. We were looking for Hannah Atkins. We wanted to know what brigand of the Sierras was low-down enough to hold up a lady of her age, discretion, decent poverty, and illustrious descent. We asked the station master if he had any news about him concerning such and such goods, so and so labelled.
He was a small man with pale eyes. No sooner had Dr. Ulswater spoken than his pale eyes glowed with purpose. There was a sudden and mysterious light in them. It was the reflection of the torch of Zionville. It was our first glimpse of Zionville's pure flame.
He sprang up. He ran past us without speaking, out through the open door, and sped up the dusty street. We stood alone in the silent, empty station. The doctor walked to the door, adjusted his glasses, and gazed after. I followed.
“Doctor,” I said, “Hannah's got into trouble. Maybe she stopped off for breakfast and didn't pay her bills.”
He was beyond the reach of jibes, listening, gazing at the phenomena before him. We both looked. We saw Zionville waking up, shaking her mane, pealing her eagle eye, girding her loins and unlimbering herself. First one figure, then another appeared in the hot sunny street; then groups, throngs, gathered and martialled. The dust rose so thickly as to hide them, but the distant murmur grew, and now we heard the thump of drums, the clash of cymbals, the piping of fifes. The brown dust cloud came rolling down the street toward the station; through it we soon discerned the approaching procession, men and women and a fringe of clamouring children.
“Mad!” said Dr. Ulswater. “Why, it's a palpably insane community! What do you conjecture they're after?” I said:
“Maybe it's Hannah's pedigree. Maybe it's us.”
The dusty procession was upon us. We were seized and thrust into the middle of it. The tumult, the shouting, and the noise of semi-musical instruments was so great that if anybody attempted to explain or answer questions, I didn't make it out. I noticed that the confusion was really superficial. Nobody seemed to be in command, every one seemed to have a hand in what was going on--whatever it was--and some common understood purpose seemed to guide it all. It was an organised miscellany. Up the the street we went through the dust, drums, cymbals, fifes, and flags before and after. We turned at last, crowding up the alley where a large hall used to stand behind Gregson's grocery. Whoever in Zionville was not in that hall was looking in through the windows.