About noon
There seemed to be no way of identifying it , even if he should track the thief . One ounce of gold-dust looks like another , and there is no way of distinguishing individual property in that form . John Miles pushed on slowly . About noon he found himself threading a narrow cañon , shaded by gigantic redwood tress , with steep , almost perpendicular sides , with here and there a narrow streamlet descending in a cascade , and lighting up the darkened scene with its silvery reflections . `` This is a pretty spot , but it would be lonely to live here , '' thought Miles . `` Yet , '' shading his eyes , `` there seems to be a cabin of some sort . Is it possible that anybody lives in this cañon ? ''