 CHAPTER XXI Well, said one of the deputies, as he backed the horse into the shafts of the buggy in which the pursuers had driven over from the hill, we've about as good as got him. It isn't hard to follow a man who carries a birdcage with him wherever he goes. McTig crossed the mountains on foot the Friday and Saturday of that week, going over through immigrant gap, following the line of the Overland Railroad. He reached Reno Monday night. By degrees a vague plan of action outlined itself in the dentist's mind. Mexico, he muttered to himself. Mexico, that's the place. They'll watch the coast, and they'll watch the eastern trains, but they won't think of Mexico. The sense of pursuit which had harassed him during the last week of his stay at the Big Dipper Mine had worn off, and he believed himself to be very cunning. I'm pretty far ahead now, I guess, he said. At Reno he boarded a southbound freight on the line of the Carson and Colorado Railroad paying for a passage in the caboose. Freight's don't run on schedule time, he muttered, and a conductor on a passenger train makes it his business to study faces. I'll stay with this train as far as it goes. The freight worked slowly southward through western Nevada, the country becoming hourly more and more desolate and abandoned. After leaving Walker Lake the sagebrush country began, and the freight rolled heavily over tracks that threw off visible layers of heat. At times it stopped whole half days on sightings or by water tanks, and the engineer and fireman came back to the caboose and played poker with the conductor and train crew. The dentist sat apart behind the stove, smoking pipe after pipe of cheap tobacco. Sometimes he joined in the poker games. He had learned poker when a boy at the mine, and after a few deals his knowledge returned to him, but for the most part he was taciturn and unsociable, and rarely spoke to the others unless spoken to first. The crew recognized the type, and the impression gained ground among them that he had done for a livery stablekeeper at Truckee and was trying to get down into Arizona. McTeague heard two breakmen discussing him one night as they stood outside by the halted train. The livery stablekeeper called him a bastard, that's what Picaccio's told me, one of them remarked, and started to draw his gun, and this feller did for him with a hay fork. He's a horse doctor, this chap is, and the livery stablekeeper had got the law on him so he couldn't practice anymore, and he was sore about it. Near a place called Queens the train re-entered California, and McTeague observed with relief that the line of track which had hitherto held westward curved sharply to the south again. The train was unmolested. Occasionally the crew fought with a gang of tramps who attempted to ride the break beams, and once in the northern part of Inyo County, while they were halted at a water tank, an immense Indian buck, blanketed to the ground, approached McTeague as he stood on the roadbed stretching his legs, and without a word presented to him a filthy crumpled letter. The letter was to the effect that the buck Big Jim was a good Indian and deserving of charity. The signature was illegible. The dentist stared at the letter, returned it to the buck, and regained the train just as it started. Neither had spoken, the buck did not move from his position, and fully five minutes afterward when the slow moving freight was miles away, the dentist looked back and saw him still standing motionless between the rails, a forlorn and solitary point of red, lost in the immensity of the surrounding white blur of the desert. At length the mountains began again, rising up on either side of the track, vast naked hills of white sand and red rock, spotted with blue shadows. Here and there a patch of green was spread like a gayet tablecloth over the sand. All at once Mount Whitney leaped over the horizon. Independence was reached and passed. The freight, nearly emptied by now, and much shortened, rolled along the shores of Owen Lake. At a place called Keeler it stopped definitely. It was the terminus of the road. The town of Keeler was a one-street town, not unlike Iowa Hill, the post office, the bar and hotel, the odd fellow's hall, and the livery stable being the principal buildings. Where to now muttered McTeed to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed in his room in the hotel? He hung the canary in the window, filled its little bathtub, and watched it take its bath with enormous satisfaction. Where to now, he muttered again. This is as far as the railroad goes, and it won't do for me to stay in a town yet a while. No, it won't do. I got to clear out. Where to? That's the word where to. I'll go down to supper now. He went on whispering his thoughts aloud so that they would take more concrete shape in his mind. I'll go down to supper now, and then I'll hang around the bar this evening till I get the lay of this land. Maybe this is fruit country, though it looks more like a cattle country. Maybe it's a mining country. If it's a mining country, he continued, puckering his heavy eyebrows. If it's a mining country, and the mines are far enough off the roads, maybe I'd better get to the mines and lay quiet for a month before I try to get any farther south. He washed the cinders and dust of a week's railroading from his face and hair, put on a fresh pair of boots, and went down to supper. The dining room was of the invariable type of the smaller interior towns of California. There was but one table covered with oil cloth, rows of benches answered for chairs, a railroad map, a cromo with a gilt frame protected by mosquito netting hung on the walls, together with a yellowed photograph of the proprietor in Masonic Regalia, two waitresses whom the guests, all men, called by their first names, came and went with large trays. Through the windows outside, Nickteague observed a great number of saddle horses tied to trees and fences. Each one of these horses had a riata on the pommel of the saddle. He sat down to the table, eating his thick hot soup, watching his neighbors covertly, listening to everything that was said. It did not take him long to gather that the country to the east and south of Keeler was a cattle country. Not far off, across a range of hills, was the Panamint Valley where the big cattle ranges were. Every now and then this name was tossed to and fro across the table in the flow of conversation. Over in the Panamint, just going down for a rodeo in the Panamint, Panamint's brands has a range down in the Panamint. Then by and by the remark, oh yes, gold-gulch, they're down to good pay there, that's on the other side of the Panamint range, Peters came in yesterday and told me. McTeague turned to the speaker. Is that a gravel mine? He asked. No, no, quartz. I'm a miner, that's why I asked. Well, I've mined some, too. I had a hole in the ground myself, but she was silver, and when the skunks at Washington lowered the price of silver, where was I? Fitchard, begot! I was looking for a job. Well, it's mostly cattle down here in the Panamint, but since the strike over at gold-gulch some of the boys have gone prospecting, there's gold in them damn Panamint mountains. If you can find a good long contact of country rocks, you ain't far from it. There's a couple of fellers from Redlands has located four claims around gold-gulch. They got a vein 18 inches wide, and Peters says you can trace it for more than a thousand feet. Were you thinking of prospecting over there? Well, well, I don't know, I don't know. Well, I'm going over to the other side of the range day after tomorrow, after some ponies of mine, and I'm going to have a look around. You say you've been a miner? Yes. Yes. If you're going over that way, you might come along and see if we can't find a contact or copper sulfurets or something. Even if we don't find color, we may find silver-bearing Galena. Then after a pause, let's see, I didn't catch your name. Pa? My name's Carter, answered McTig, promptly. Why he should change his name again, the dentist could not say. Carter came to his mind at once, and he answered without reflecting that he had registered as Burlington when he had arrived at the hotel. Well, my name's Cribbins, answered the other. The two shook hands solemnly. You're about finished, continued Cribbins, pushing back. Let's go out in the bar and have a drink on it. Sure, sure, said the dentist. The two sat up late that night in a corner of the bar room discussing the probability of finding gold in the Panama Hills. It soon became evident that they held differing theories. McTig clung to the old prospector's idea that there was no way of telling where gold was until you actually saw it. Cribbins had evidently read a good many books upon the subject, and had already prospected in something of a scientific manner. Shucks, he exclaimed. Give me a long distinct contact between sedimentary and igneous rocks, and I'll sink a shaft without ever seeing color. The dentist put his huge chin in the air. Gold is where you find it, he returned, doggedly. Well, it's my idea as how partners ought to work along different lines, said Cribbins. He tucked the corners of his mustache into his mouth and sucked the tobacco juice from them. For a moment he was thoughtful. Then he blew out his mustache abruptly and exclaimed, Say, Carter, let's make a go of this. You got a little cash, I suppose? Fifty dollars or so? Huh? Yes. Aye. Aye. Well, I got about fifty. We'll go partners on the proposition, and we'll deli round the range under and see what we can see. What do you say? Sure. Sure, answered the dentist. Well, it's a go then, hey? That's the word. Well, let's have a drink on it. They drank with profound gravity. They fitted out the next day at the general merchandise store of Keeler. Picks, shovels, prospector's hammers, a couple of cradles, pans, bacon, flour, coffee, and the like. And they bought a burrow on which to pack their kit. Say, by jingo, you ain't got a horse. Suddenly exclaimed Kribbins as they came out of the store. You can't get around this country without a pony of some kind. Kribbins already owned and rode a buckskin coyose that had to be knocked in the head and stunned before it could be settled. I got an extra saddle and a headstall at the hotel that you can use, he said. But you'll have to get a horse. In the end the dentist bought a mule at the livery stable for forty dollars. It turned out to be a good bargain, however, for the mule was a good traveler and seemed actually to fatten on sagebrush and potato pairings. When the actual transaction took place, McTig had been obliged to get the money to pay for the mule out of the canvas sack. Kribbins was with him at the time, and as the dentist unrolled his blankets and disclosed the sack, whistled in amazement. And me asking you if you had fifty dollars, he exclaimed, you carry your mind right around with you, don't you? Huh, I guess so, muttered the dentist. I... I just sold a claim I had up in El Dorado County, he added. At five o'clock on a magnificent May morning the partners jogged out of Keeler, driving the borough before them. Kribbins rode his coyose, McTig, following in his rear on the mule. Say, remarked Kribbins, why in thunder don't you leave that full canary behind at the hotel? It's going to be in your way all the time, and it will sure die. Better break its neck and chuck it. No, no, insisted the dentist. I've had it too long. I'll take it with me. Well, that's the craziest idea I ever heard of, remarked Kribbins, to take a canary along prospecting. Why not kick gloves and be done with it? They traveled leisurely to the southeast during the day, following a well-beaten cattle road, and that evening camped on a spur of some hills at the head of the Panamint Valley where there was a spring. The next day they crossed the Panamint itself. That's a smart-looking valley, observed the dentist. Now you're talking straight talk, returned Kribbins, sucking his mustache. The valley was beautiful, wide, level, and very green. Everywhere were herds of cattle scarcely less wild than deer. Once or twice cowboys passed them on the road, big-boned fellows, picturesque in their broad hats, hairy trousers, jingling spurs, and revolver belts, surprisingly like the pictures Mictig remembered to have seen. Every one of them knew Kribbins, and almost invariably joshed him on his venture. Say, Krib, you best take a wagon train with you to bring your dust back. Kribbins resented their humor, and after they had passed chewed fiercely on his mustache. I'd like to make a strike, begot, if it was only to get the laugh on them joshers. By noon they were climbing the eastern slope of the Panamint Range. Long since they had abandoned the road, vegetation seized, not a tree was in sight. They followed faint cattle trails that led from one waterhole to another. By degrees these waterholes grew drier and drier, and at three o'clock Kribbins halted and filled their canteens. There ain't any too much water on the other side, he observed grimly. It's pretty hot, muttered the dentist, wiping his streaming forehead with the back of his hand. Ha! snorted the other more grimly than ever. The motionless air was like the mouth of a furnace. Kribbins' pony lathered and panted. McTig's mule began to droop his long ears. Only the little bro plotted resolutely on, picking the trail where McTig could see but trackless sand and stunted sage. Towards evening Kribbins, who was in the lead, drew rain on the summit of the hills. Behind them was the beautiful green Panamint Valley, but before and below them for miles and miles, as far as the eye could reach, a flat white desert, empty even of sage brush unrolled toward the horizon. In the immediate foreground a broken system of arroyos and little canyons tumbled down to meet it. To the north faint blue hills shoulder themselves above the horizon. Well, observed Kribbins, we're on the top of the Panamint Range now. It's along this eastern slope right below us here that we're going to prospect. Gold Gulch, he pointed with the butt of his quart, is about 18 or 19 miles along here to the north of us. Those hills way over yonder to the northeast are the telescope hills. What do you call the desert out yonder? McTig's eyes wandered over the illimitable stretch of alkali that stretched out forever and forever to the east, to the north, and to the south. That, said Kribbins, that's Death Valley. There was a long pause. The horses panted irregularly, the sweat dripping from their heaving bellies. Kribbins and the dentists sat motionless in their saddles, looking out over that abominable desolation. Silent. Troubled. God, ejaculated Kribbins at length, under his breath, with the shake of his head. Then he seemed to rouse himself. Well, he remarked, first thing we got to do now is to find water. This was a long and difficult task. They descended into one little canyon after another, followed the course of numberless oroyos, and even dug where there seemed indications of moisture, all to no purpose. But at length McTig's mule put his nose in the air, and blew once or twice through his nostrils. Smells it, the son of a gun, exclaimed Kribbins. The dentists let the animal have his head, and in a few minutes he had brought them to the bed of a tiny canyon where a thin stream of brackish water filtered over a ledge of rocks. We'll camp here, observed Kribbins, but we can't turn the horses loose. We'll have to pick at them with the lariats. I saw some loco weed back here apiece, and if they get to eating that they'll sure go plumb crazy. The burrow won't eat it, but I wouldn't trust the others. A new life began for McTig. After breakfast the partners separated, going in opposite directions along the slope of the range, examining rocks, picking and chipping at ledges and boulders. Looking for signs. Prospecting. McTig went up into the little canyons where the streams had cut through the bedrock, searching for veins of quartz, breaking out this quartz when he had found it, pulverizing and panning it. Kribbins hunted for contacts, closely examining country rocks and outcrops, continually on the lookout for spots where sedimentary and igneous rock came together. One day, after a week of prospecting, they met unexpectedly on the slope of an arroyo. It was late in the afternoon. Hello, partner, exclaimed Kribbins as he came down to where McTig was bending over his pan. What luck! The dentist emptied his pan and straightened up. Nothing. Nothing. You struck anything? Not a trace. Guess we might as well be moving towards camp. They returned together, Kribbins telling the dentist of a group of antelope had seen. We might lay off tomorrow and see if we can plug a couple of them fellers. Antelope's steak would go pretty well after beans and bacon and coffee week in and week out. McTig was answering when Kribbins interrupted him with an exclamation of profound disgust. I thought we were the first to prospect along in here, and now look at that. Don't it make you sick? He pointed out evidences of an abandoned prospector's camp just before them. Charred ashes, empty tin cans, one or two gold miner's pans, and a broken pick. Don't that make you sick, muttered Kribbins, sucking his mustache furiously? To think of us mush heads going over ground that's been covered already. Say, partner, we'll dig out of here tomorrow. I've been thinking anyhow. We'd better move to the south. That water of ours is pretty low. Guess. Yes, I guess so. Ascented the dentist. There ain't any gold here. Yes, there is, protested Kribbins doggedly. There's gold all through these hills if we could only strike it. I tell you what, partner, I got a place in mind where I'll bet no one ain't prospected. At least, not very many. There don't very many care to try and get to it. It's over on the other side of Death Valley. It's called Gold Mountain, and there's only one mine been located there, and it's paying like a nitrate bed. There ain't many people in that country because it's all hell to get into. First place, you got to cross Death Valley and strike the Armagosa Range fur off to the south. Well, no one ain't struck on crossing the valley, not if they can help it. But we could work down the panaments some hundred or so miles, maybe two hundred, and fetch around by the Armagosa River, way to the southern. We could prospect on the way. But I guess the Armagosa'd be dried up at this season. Anyhow, it concluded, we'll move camp to the south tomorrow. We got to get new feed and water for the horses. We'll see if we can knock over a couple of antelope tomorrow, and then we'll scoot. I ain't got a gun, said the dentist. Not even a revolver, I— Wait a second, said Cribbins, pausing in his scramble down the side of one of the smaller gulches. Here's some sleight here. I ain't seen no sleight around here yet. Let's see where it goes to. McTeague followed him along the side of the gulch. Cribbins went on ahead, muttering to himself from time to time. Runs right along here, even enough, and here's water, too. Didn't know this stream was here. Pretty near dry, though. Here's the sleight again. See where it runs, partner? Look at it up there ahead, said McTeague. It runs right up over the back of this hill. That's right, assented Cribbins. Hi, he shouted suddenly. Here's a contact, and here it is again, and there, and yonder. Oh, look at it, will you? That's Grenodia right on sleight. Couldn't want it any more distinct than that. God, if we could only find the quartz between the two now. Well, there it is, exclaimed McTeague. Look on ahead there, ain't that quartz? You're shouting right out loud, vociferated Cribbins, looking where McTeague was pointing. His face went suddenly pale. He turned to the dentist, his eyes wide. By God, partner, he exclaimed breathlessly. By God. He broke off abruptly. That's what you've been looking for, ain't it? Asked the dentist. Looking for. Looking for. Cribbins checked himself. That's sleight all right, and that's Grenodia right, I know. He bent down and examined the rock. And here's the quartz between them. There can't be no mistake about that. Give me that hammer, he cried, excitedly. Come on, get to work. Jab into the quartz with your pick. Get out some chunks of it. Cribbins went down on his hands and knees, attacking the quartz vein furiously. The dentist followed his example, swinging his pick with enormous force, splintering the rocks at every stroke. Cribbins was talking to himself in his excitement. Got you this time, you son of a gun. By God, I guess we got you this time at last. Looks like it anyhow. Get a move on, partner. There ain't anybody round, is there? Hey? Without looking, he drew his revolver and threw it to the dentist. Take the gun and look around, partner. If you see any son of a gun anywhere, plug him. This year's our claim. I guess we got it this time, partner. Come on. He gathered up the chunks of quartz he had broken out, and put them in his hat and started towards their camp. The two went along with great strides, hurrying as fast as they could over the uneven ground. I don't know, exclaimed Cribbins breathlessly. I don't want to say too much. Maybe we're fooled. Lord, that damn camp's a long ways off. Oh, I ain't going to fool along this way. Come on, partner. He broke into a run. Mictig followed at a lumbering gallop. Over the scorched, parched ground, stumbling and tripping over sagebrush and sharp-pointed rocks, under the palpitating heat of the desert sun, they ran and scrambled, carrying the quartz lumps in their hats. See any color in it, partner? Gasped Cribbins. I can't, can you? Tootin' be visible know-how, I guess. Hurry up. Lord, we ain't ever going to get to that camp. Finally, they arrived. Cribbins dumped the quartz fragments into a pan. You pestle her, partner, and I'll fix the scales. Mictig ground the lumps to fine dust in the iron mortar while Cribbins set up the tiny scales and got up the spoons from their outfit. That's fine enough, Cribbins exclaimed, impatiently. Now we'll spoon her. Give me the water. Cribbins scooped up a spoonful of the fine white powder and began to spoon it carefully. The two were on their hands and knees upon the ground, their heads close together, still panting with excitement and the exertion of their run. Can't do it, exclaimed Cribbins, sitting back on his heels. Hand shakes so. You take it, partner. Careful now. Mictig took the horned spoon and began rocking it gently in his huge fingers, slosing the water over the edge a little at a time, each movement washing away a little more of the powdered quartz. The two watched it with the intensest eagerness. Don't see it yet. Don't see it yet, whispered Cribbins, chewing his mustache. Little faster, partner. That's a ticket. Careful, steady now. Little more. Little more. Don't see color yet, do you? The quartz sediment dwindled by degrees as Mictig spooned it steadily. Then at last a thin streak of a foreign substance began to show just along the edge. It was yellow. Neither spoke. Cribbins dug his nails into the sand and ground his mustache between his teeth. The yellow streak broadened as the quartz sediment washed away. Cribbins whispered. We got it, partner. That's gold. Mictig washed the last of the white quartz dust away and let the water trickle after it. A pinch of gold fine as flour was left in the bottom of the spoon. There you are, he said. The two looked at each other. Then Cribbins rose into the air with a great leap and a yell that could have been heard for half a mile. Yeow! We got it. We struck it, partner. We got it. Out of sight. We're millionaires. He snatched up his revolver and fired it with inconceivable rapidity. Put it there, old man, he shouted, gripping Mictig's palm. That's gold, all right, muttered Mictig, studying the contents of the spoon. You bet your great-grandma's coaching China Chessy cat it's gold, shouted Cribbins. Here now we got a lot to do. We got to staker out and put up the location notice. We'll take our full acreage, you bet. Yeow! We haven't weighed this yet. Where's the scales? He weighed the pinch of gold with shaking hands. Two grains, he cried. That'll run five dollars to the ton. Rich. It's rich. It's the richest kind of pay, partner. We're millionaires. Why don't you say something? Why don't you get excited? Why don't you run around and do something? Ha! said Mictig, rolling his eyes. Ha! I know. I know. We've struck it pretty rich. Come on, exclaimed Cribbins, jumping up again. We'll staker out and put up the location notice. Lord, suppose anyone should have come on her while we've been away. He reloaded his revolver deliberately. We'll drop him all right, if there's anyone fooling around there. I'll tell you those right now. Bring the rifle, partner, and if you see anyone, plug in, and ask him what he wants afterward. They hurried back to where they had made the discovery. To think, exclaimed Cribbins, as he drove the first stake. To think those other mushheads had their camp within gunshot over and never located her. Guess they didn't know the meaning of a contact. Oh, I knew I was solid on contacts. They staked out their claim, and Cribbins put up the notice of location. It was dark before they were through. Cribbins broke off some more chunks of quartz in the vein. I'll spoon this, too, just for the fun of it when I get home, he explained, as they tramped back to the camp. Well, said the dentist. We got the laugh on those cowboys. Have we? shouted Cribbins. Have we? Just wait and see the rush for this place when we tell him about it down in Keeler. Say, what'll we call her? I don't know. I don't know. We might call her the last chance. It was our last chance, wasn't it? We'd have gone antelope shooting to-morrow, and the next day we'd have— Say, what you stopping for, he added, interrupting himself. What's up? The dentist had paused abruptly on the crest of a canyon. Cribbins, looking back, saw him standing motionless in his tracks. What's up? asked Cribbins a second time. McCteak slowly turned his head and looked over one shoulder, then over the other. Suddenly he wheeled sharply about, cocking the Winchester and tossing it to his shoulder. Cribbins ran back to his side, whipping out his revolver. What is it? he cried. See anybody? He peered on ahead through the gathering twilight. No. No. Hear anything? No, didn't hear anything. What is it then? What's up? I don't know. I don't know, muttered the dentist, lowering the rifle. There was something. What? Something. Didn't you notice? Notice what? I don't know. Something. Something or other. Who? What? Notice what? What did you see? The dentist let down the hammer of the rifle. I guess it wasn't anything, he said, rather foolishly. What do you think you saw? Anybody on the claim? I didn't see anything. I didn't hear anything, either. I had an idea, that's all, came all of a sudden, like that. Something. I don't know what. I guess you just imagined something. There ain't anybody within twenty miles of us, I guess. Yes, I guess so. Just imagined it. That's the word. Half an hour later they had the fire going. McTeague was frying strips of bacon over the coals, and Kribbins was still chattering and exclaiming over their great strike. All at once, McTeague put down the frying pan. What's that, he growled. Hey, what's what? exclaimed Kribbins, getting up. Didn't you notice something? Where? Off there. The dentist made a vague gesture toward the eastern horizon. Didn't you hear something? I mean see something? I mean... What's the matter with you, partner? Nothing. I guess I just imagined it. But it was not imagination. Until midnight the partners lay broad awake, rolled in their blankets under the open sky, talking and discussing and making plans. At last Kribbins rolled over on his side and slept. The dentist could not sleep. What? It was warning him again that strange sixth sense that obscure, brute instinct it was aroused again and clamoring to be obeyed. Here in these desolate barren hills, twenty miles from the nearest human being, it stirred and woke and rowled him to be moving on. It had goaded him to flight from the Big Dipper Mine and he had obeyed. But now it was different. Now he had suddenly become rich. He had lighted on a treasure, a treasure far more valuable than the Big Dipper Mine itself. How was he to leave that? He could not move on now. He turned about in his blankets. No, he would not move on. Perhaps it was his fancy, after all. He saw nothing, heard nothing. The emptiness of primeval desolation stretched from him leagues and leagues upon either hand. The gigantic silence of the night lay close over everything, like a muffling titanic palm. Of what was he suspicious? In that treeless waste an object could be seen in half a day's journey distant, in that vast silence the click of a pebble was as audible as a pistol shot, and yet there was nothing, nothing. The dentist settled himself in his blankets and tried to sleep. In five minutes he was sitting up, staring into the blue-gray shimmer of the moonlight, straining his ears, watching and listening intently. Nothing was in sight. The browned and broken flanks of the panament hills lay quiet and familiar under the moon. The burrow moved its head with the clinking of its bell, and McTeague's mule, dozing on three legs, changed its weight to another foot, with a long breath. Everything fell silent again. What is it? muttered the dentist. If I could only see something, hear something. He threw off the blankets and, rising, climbed to the summit of the nearest hill, and looked back in the direction in which he and Cribbins had traveled a fortnight before. For half an hour he waited, watching and listening in vain. But as he returned to camp, and prepared to roll his blankets about him, the strange impulse rose in him again abruptly, never so strong, never so insistent. It seemed as though he were bitted and ridden, as if some unseen hand were turning him toward the east, some unseen heel spurring him to precipitate an instant flight. Flight from what? No, he muttered under his breath. Go now and leave the clay, and leave a fortune. What a fool I'd be, when I can't see anything or hear anything. To leave a fortune. No, I won't. No, by God. He drew Cribbins' Winchester toward him, and slipped a cartridge into the magazine. No, he growled. Whatever happens, I'm going to stay. If anybody comes, he depressed the lever of the rifle, and sent the cartridge clashing into the breach. I ain't going to sleep, he muttered under his mustache. I can't sleep. I'll watch. He rose a second time, clamored to the nearest hilltop and sat down, drawing the blanket around him, and laying the Winchester across his knees. The hours passed. The dentist sat on the hilltop, a motionless, crouching figure, inky black against the pale blur of the sky. By and by the edge of the eastern horizon began to grow blacker and more distinct in outline. The dawn was coming. Once more, Myctig felt the mysterious intuition of approaching danger, and unseen hand seemed to raining his head eastward. A spur was in his flanks that seemed to urge him to hurry. Hurry. Hurry. The influence grew stronger with every moment. The dentist set his great jaws together and held his ground. No, he growled between his set teeth. No, I'll stay. He made a long circuit around the camp, even going as far as the first stake of the new claim. His Winchester cocked, his ears pricked, his eyes alert. There was nothing, yet as plainly as though it were shouted at the very nape of his neck he felt an enemy. He was not fear, Myctig was not afraid. If I could only see something, somebody, he muttered, as he held the cocked rifle ready. I'd show him. He returned to camp. Cribbins was snoring. The burrow had come down to the stream for its morning drink. The mule was awake and browsing. Myctig stood irresolutely by the cold ashes of the campfire, looking from side to side with all the suspicion and weariness of a trekked stag. Stronger and stronger grew the strange impulse. It seemed to him that on the next instant he must perforce wheel sharply eastward and rush away headlong in a clumsy, lumbering gallop. He fought against it with all the ferocious obstinacy of his simple, brute nature. Go and leave the mine? Go and leave a million dollars? No, no, I won't go. No, I'll stay. Ah, he exclaimed under his breath, with a shake of his huge head, like an exasperated and harassed brute. Ah, show yourself, will you? He brought the rifle to his shoulder and covered point after point along the range of hills to the west. Come on, show yourself. Come on, a little, all of you. I ain't afraid of you, but don't skulk this way. You ain't going to drive me away from my mind. I'm going to stay. An hour passed, then two. The stars winked out, and the dawn whitened. The air became warmer. The whole east, clean of clouds, flamed opalescent from horizon to zenith, crimson at the base, or the earth blackened against it, at the top fading from pink to pale yellow to green to light blue, to the turquoise iridescence of the desert sky. The long, thin shadows of the early hours drew backward like receding serpents. Then suddenly the sun looked over the shoulder of the world, and it was day. At that moment Mictig was already eight miles away from the camp, going steadily eastward. He was descending the lowest spurs of the pandemic hills, following an old and faint cattle trail. Before him he drove his mule, laden with blankets, provisions for six days, cribons as rifle, and a canteen full of water. Securely bound to the pommel of the saddle was the canvas sack with its precious five thousand dollars, all in twenty dollar gold pieces. But strange enough in that horrid waste of sand and sage was the object that Mictig himself persistently carried, the canary in its cage, about which he had carefully wrapped a couple of old flower bags. At about five o'clock that morning Mictig had crossed several trails which seemed to be converging, and guessing that they led to a water-hole, had followed one of them, and had brought up at a sort of small sun-dried sink which nevertheless contained a little water at the bottom. He had watered the mule here, refilled the canteen, and drank deep himself. He had also dampened the old flower sacks around the birdcage to protect the little canary as far as possible from the heat that he knew would increase now with every hour. He had made ready to go forward again, but had paused irresolute again, hesitating for the last time. I'm a fool, he growled, scowling back at the range behind him. I'm a fool. What's the matter with me? I'm just walking right away from a million dollars. I know it's there. No, by God, he exclaimed savagely. I ain't going to do it. I'm going back. I can't leave a mind like that. He had wheeled the mule about, and had started to return on his tracks, grinding his teeth fiercely, and climbing his head forward as though budding against a wind that would beat him back. Go on. Go on, he cried, sometimes addressing the mule, sometimes himself. Go on. Go back. Go back. I will go back. It was as though he were climbing a hill that grew steeper with every stride. The strange, impelling instinct fought his advance yard by yard. By degrees the dentist's steps grew slower. He stopped, went forward again cautiously, almost feeling his way, like someone approaching a pit in the darkness. He stopped again, hesitating, gnashing his teeth, clenching his fists with blind fury. Suddenly he turned the mule about, and once more set his face to the eastward. I can't, he cried aloud to the desert. I can't. I can't. It's stronger than I am. I can't go back. Hurry now. Hurry. Hurry. Hurry. He hastened on furtively, his head and shoulders bent. At times one could almost say he crouched as he pushed forward with long strides, now and then he even looked over his shoulder. Sweat rolled from him, he lost his hat, and the matted bane of thick yellow hair swept over his forehead and shaded his small, twinkling eyes. At times, with a vague, nearly automatic gesture, he reached his hand forward, the fingers prehensile, and directed towards the horizon, as if he would clutch it and draw it near, and at intervals he muttered, Hurry. Hurry. Hurry on. Hurry on. For now, at last, Myctique was afraid. His plans were uncertain. He remembered what Cribbins had said about the Armagosa Mountains and the country on the other side of Death Valley. It was all hell to get into that country, Cribbins had said, and not many men went there, because of the terrible valley of alkali that barred the way, a horrible, vast sink of white sand and salt below even the sea level, the dry bed, no doubt, of some prehistoric lake. But Myctique resolved to make a circuit of the valley, keeping to the south, until he should strike the Armagosa River. He would make a circuit of the valley and come up on the other side. He would get into that country around Gold Mountain in the Armagosa Hills, barred off from the world by the leagues of the red-hot alkali of Death Valley. They would hardly reach him there. He would stay at Gold Mountain two or three months, and then work his way down into Mexico. Myctique tramped steadily forward, still descending the lower irregularities of the Panamint Range. By nine o'clock the slope flattened out abruptly, the hills were behind him, before him to the east, all was level. He had reached the region where even the sand and sage brush began to dwindle, giving place to white, powdered alkali. The trails were numerous, but old and faint, and they had been made by cattle, not by men. They led in all directions but one, north, south and west, but not one, however faint, struck out towards the valley. If I keep along the edge of the hills where these trails are, muttered the dentist, I ought to find water up in the arroyos from time to time. At once he uttered an exclamation. The mule had begun to squeal and lash out with alternate hoofs, his eyes rolling, his ears flattened. He ran a few steps, halted, and squealed again. Then suddenly wheeling at right angles, set off on a jog trot to the north, squealing and kicking from time to time. Myctique ran after him shouting and swearing, but for a long time the mule would not allow himself to be caught. He seemed more bewildered than frightened. He's eaten some of that loco weed that Cribbin spoke about, panted Myctique. Whoa, there, steady you! At length the mule stopped of his own accord and seemed to come to his senses again. Myctique came up and took the bridal rain, speaking to him and rubbing his nose. There, there, what's the matter with you? The mule was docile again. Myctique washed his mouth and set forward once more. The day was magnificent. From horizon to horizon was one vast span of blue, whitening as it dipped earthward. Miles upon miles to the east and southeast the desert unrolled itself, white, naked, inhospitable, palpitating and shimmering under the sun, unbroken by so much as a rock or cactus stump. In the distance it assumed all manner of faint colors, pink, purple, and pale orange. To the west rose the peniment range, sparsely sprinkled with gray sagebrush. Here the earths and sands were yellow, ochre and rich deep red. The hollows and canyons picked out with intense blue shadows. It seemed strange that such barrenness could exhibit this radiance of color, but nothing could have been more beautiful than the deep red of the higher bluffs and ridges, seemed with purple shadows, standing sharply out against the pale blue whiteness of the horizon. By nine o'clock the sun stood high in the sky. The heat was intense, the atmosphere was thick and heavy with it. McTeague gasped for breath and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead, his cheeks, and his neck. Every inch and pore of his skin was tingling and pricking underneath the merciless lash of the sun's rays. If it gets much hotter, he muttered with a long breath. If it gets much hotter, I—I don't know. He wagged his head and wiped the sweat from his eyelids, where it was running like tears. The sun rose higher, hour by hour, as the dentist tramped steadily on, the heat increased. The baked dry sand crackled into innumerable tiny flakes under his feet. The twigs of the sagebrush snapped like little pipe stems as he pushed through them. It grew hotter. At eleven the earth was like the surface of a furnace. The air, as McTeague breathed it in, was hot to his lips and the roof of his mouth. The sun was a disk of molten brass swimming in the burnt-out blue of the sky. McTeague stripped off his woollen shirt and even unbuttoned his flannel undershirt, tying a handkerchief loosely about his neck. Lord, he exclaimed, I never knew it could get as hot as this. The heat grew steadily fiercer. All distant objects were visibly shimmering and palpitating under it. At noon a mirage appeared on the hills to the northwest. McTeague halted the mule and drank from the tepid water in the canteen, dampening the sack around the canary's cage. As soon as he seized his tramp and the noise of his crunching, grinding footsteps died away. The silence, vast, illimitable, infolded him like an immeasurable tide. From all that gigantic landscape, that colossal reach of baking sand, there arose not a single sound, not a twig rattled, not an insect hummed, not a bird or beast invaded that huge solitude with call or cry. Everything as far as the eye could reach, to north, to south, to east and west, lay inert, absolutely quiet and moveless under the remorseless scourge of the noon sun. The very shadows shrank away, hiding under sage bushes, retreating to the farthest nooks and crevices in the canyons of the hills. All the world was one gigantic blinding glare, silent, motionless. If it gets much hotter, murmured the dentist again, moving his head from side to side. If it gets much hotter, I don't know what I'll do. Steadily the heat increased. At three o'clock it was even more terrible than it had been at noon. Ain't it ever going to let up? Grung the dentist, rolling his eyes at the sky of hot blue brass. Then, as he spoke, the stillness was abruptly stabbed through and through by a shrill sound that seemed to come from all sides at once. It seized, then, as M'Tig took another forward step, began again with the suddenness of a blow, swiller, nearer at hand, a hideous prolonged note that brought both man and mule to an instant halt. I know what that is, exclaimed the dentist. His eyes searched the ground swiftly until he saw what he expected he should see, the round, thick coil, the slowly waving clover-shaped head and erect, whirring tail with its vibrant rattles. For fully thirty seconds the man and snake remained looking into each other's eyes, then the snake uncoiled and swiftly wound from sight amidst the sagebrush. M'Tig drew breath again, and his eyes once more beheld the illimitable leagues of quivering sand and alkaline. Good Lord, what a country, he exclaimed! But his voice was trembling as he urged forward the mule once more. Fiercer and fiercer grew the heat as the afternoon advanced. At four M'Tig stopped again. He was dripping at every pore, but there was no relief in perspiration. The very touch of his clothes upon his body was unendurable, the mule's ears were drooping and his tongue lulled from his mouth. The cattle-trails seemed to be drawing together toward a common point, perhaps a water-hole was nearby. I'll have to lay up, sure, muttered the dentist. I ain't made to travel in such heat as this. He drove the mule up into one of the larger canyons and halted in the shadow of a pile of red rock. After a long search he found water, a few quartz, warm and brackish, at the bottom of a hollow of sun-wracked mud. It was little more than enough to water the mule and refill his canteen. Here he camped, easing the mule of the saddle, and turning him loose to find what nourishment he might. A few hours later the sun set in a cloudless glory of red and gold, and the heat became by degrees less intolerable. McTeague cooked his supper, chiefly coffee and bacon, and watched the twilight come on, reveling in the delicious coolness of the evening. As he spread his blankets on the ground he resolved that hereafter he would travel only at night, laying up in the daytime in the shade of the canyons. He was exhausted with his terrible day's march. Never in his life had sleep seemed so sweet to him. But suddenly he was broad awake. His jaded senses all alert. What was that, he muttered. I thought I heard something, saw something. He rose to his feet, reaching for the Winchester. Desolation lay still around him. There was not a sound but his own breathing. On the face of the desert not a grain of sand was in motion. McTeague looked furtively and quickly from side to side, his teeth set, his eyes rolling. Once more the rowel was in his flanks. Once more an unseen hand reigned him toward the east. After all the miles of that dreadful day's flight he was no better off than when he started. If anything he was worse, for never had that mysterious instinct in him been more insistent than now. Never had the impulse toward precipitate flight been stronger. Never had the spur bit deeper. Every nerve of his body cried aloud for rest, yet every instinct seemed aroused and alive, goading him to hurry on, to hurry on. What is it then? What is it? he cried between his teeth. Can't I ever get rid of you? Ain't I ever going to shake you off? Don't keep it up this way. Show yourselves. Let's have it out right away. Come on. I ain't afraid if you'll only come on but don't skulk this way. Suddenly he cried aloud in a frenzy of exasperation. Damn you. Come on, will you? Come on and have it out. His rifle was at his shoulder. He was covering bush after bush, rock after rock, aiming at every denser shadow. All at once, and quite involuntarily, his forefinger croaked and the rifle spoke inflamed. The canyons roared back the echo, tossing it out far over the desert in a rippling, widening wave of sound. McTeague lowered the rifle hastily with an exclamation of dismay. You fool, he said to himself. You fool, you've done it now. They could hear that miles away. You've done it now. He stood listening intently, the rifle smoking in his hands. The last echo died away. The smoke vanished, the vast silence closed upon the passing echoes of the rifle, as the ocean closes upon a ship's wake. Nothing moved, yet McTeague bestirred himself sharply, rolling up his blankets, resettling the mule, getting his outfit together again. From time to time he muttered. Hurry now, hurry on. You fool, you've done it now. They could hear that miles away. Hurry now. They ain't far off now. As he depressed the lever of the rifle to reload it, he found that the magazine was empty. He clapped his hands to his sides, feeling rapidly first in one pocket, then in another. He had forgotten to take extra cartridges with him. McTeague swore under his breath as he flung the rifle away. Henceforth he must travel unarmed. A little more water had gathered in the mud-hole near which he had camped. He watered the mule for the last time, and wet the sacks around the canary's cage. Then once more he set forward. But there was a change in the direction of McTeague's flight. Hitherto he had held to the south, keeping upon the very edge of the hills. Now he turned sharply at right angles. The slope fell away beneath his hurrying feet. The sagebrush dwindled, and at length seized. The sand gave place to a fine powder, white as snow, and an hour after he had fired the rifle, his mule's hoofs were crisping and cracking the sun-baked flakes of alkali on the surface of Death Valley. Tracked and harried, as he felt himself to be, from one camping place to another, McTeague had suddenly resolved to make one last effort to rid himself of the enemy that seemed to hang upon his heels. He would strike straight out into that horrible wilderness, where even the beasts were afraid. He would cross Death Valley at once, and put its arid waste between him and his pursuer. You don't dare follow me now, he muttered, as he hurried on. Let's see you come out here after me. He hurried on swiftly, urging the mule to a rapid, racking walk. Towards four o'clock the sky in front of him began to flush pink and golden. McTeague halted and breakfasted, pushing on again immediately afterward. The dawn flamed and glowed like a brazier, and the sun rose a vast red-hot coal floating in fire. An hour passed, then another, and another. It was about nine o'clock. Once more the dentist paused, and stood panting and blowing, his arms dangling, his eyes screwed up and blinking as he looked about him. Far behind him the Panama Hills were already but blue hummocks on the horizon. Before him and upon either side, to the north and to the east and to the south, stretched primordial desolation. League upon league the infinite reaches of dazzling white alkali laid themselves out like an immeasurable scroll, unrolled from horizon to horizon. Not a bush, not a twig, relieved that horrible monotony. Even the sand at the desert would have been a welcome sight. A single clump of sagebrush would have fascinated the eye, but this was worse than the desert. It was abominable, this hideous sink of alkali, this bed of some primeval lake lying so far below the level of the ocean. The great mountains of Placer County had been merely indifferent to man, but this awful sink of alkali was openly and unreservedly iniquitous and malignant. McTeague had told himself that the heat upon the lower slopes of the panament had been dreadful. Here in Death Valley it became a thing of terror. There was no longer any shadow but his own. He was scorched and parched from head to heel. It seemed to him that the smart of his tortured body could not have been keener if he had been flayed. If it gets much hotter, he muttered, ringing the sweat from his thick fell of hair and mustache. If it gets much hotter, I don't know what I'll do. He was thirsty and drank a little from his canteen. I ain't got any too much water, he murmured, shaking the canteen. I got to get out of this place in a hurry, sure. By eleven o'clock the heat had increased to such an extent that McTeague could feel the burning of the ground come pringling and stinging through the soles of his boots. Every step he took threw up clouds of impalpable alkali dust, salty and choking, so that he strangled and coughed and sneezed with it. Lord, what a country! exclaimed the dentist. An hour later the mule stopped and laid down, his jaws wide open, his ears dangling. McTeague washed his mouth with a handful of water, and for a second time since sunrise wetted the flower sacks around the bird cage. The air was quivering and palpitating like that in the stokehold of a steamship. The sun, small and contracted, swam molten overhead. I can't stand it, said McTeague at length. I'll have to stop and make some kind of shade. The mule was crouched upon the ground, painting rapidly with half-closed eyes. The dentist removed the saddle, and unrolling his blanket propped it up as best he could between him and the sun. As he stooped down to crawl beneath it, his palm touched the ground. He snatched it away with a cry of pain. The surface alkali was oven-hot. He was obliged to scoop out a trench in it before he dared to lie down. By degrees the dentist began to doze. He had had little or no sleep the night before, and the hurry of his flight under the blazing sun had exhausted him. But his rest was broken, between waking and sleeping, all manner of troubleous images galloped through his brain. He thought he was back in the panament hills again with cribbins. They had just discovered the mine and were returning toward camp. McTeague saw himself as another man, striding along over the sand and sagebrush. At once he saw himself stop and wheel sharply about, peering back suspiciously. There was something behind him, something was following him. He looked, as it were, over the shoulder of this other McTeague, and saw down there, in the half-light of the canyon, something dark crawling upon the ground, an indistinct gray figure, man or brute, he did not know. Then he saw another, and another, then another, a score of black crawling objects were following him, crawling from bush to bush, converging upon him. They, were after him, were closing in upon him, were within touch of his hand, were at his feet, were at his throat. McTeague jumped up with a shout, oversetting the blanket. There was nothing in sight, for miles around the alkali was empty, solitary, quivering and shimmering under the tilting fire of the afternoon sun. But once more the spur bit into his body, goading him on. There was to be no rest, no going back, no pause, no stop, hurry, hurry, hurry on. The brute that in him slept so close to the surface was alive and alert, and tugging to be gone. There was no resisting that instinct. The brute felt an enemy, scented the trackers, clamored and struggled and fought, and would not be gained, said. I can't go on, groaned McTeague, his eyes sweeping the horizon behind him. I'm beat out. I'm dog-tired. I ain't slept any for two nights. But for all that he roused himself again, settled the mule, scarcely less exhausted than himself, and pushed on once more over the scorching alkali and under the blazing sun. From that time on the fear never left him. The spur never ceased to bite. The instinct that goaded him to fight never was dumb. Hurry or halt, it was all the same. On he went, straight on, chasing the receding horizon, flagellated with heat, tortured with thirst, crouching over, looking furtively behind, and at times reaching his hand forward, the fingers perhencell, grasping, as it were, toward the horizon that always fled before him. The sun set upon the third day of McTeague's flight. Night came on. The stars burned slowly into the cool dark purple of the sky. The gigantic sink of white alkali glowed like snow. McTeague, now far into the desert, held steadily on, swinging forward with great strides. His enormous strength held him doggedly to his work, sullenly with his huge jaws gripping stolidly together. He pushed on. At midnight he stopped. Now he growled, with a certain desperate defiance, as though he expected to be heard. Now I'm going to lay up and get some sleep. You can come or not. He cleared away the hot surface alkali, spread out his blanket, and slept until the next day's heat aroused him. His water was so low that he dared not make coffee now, and so breakfasted without it. Until ten o'clock he tramped forward, then camped again in the shade of one of the rare rock ledges, and lay up during the heat of the day. By five o'clock he was once more on the march. He traveled on for the greater part of that night, stopping only once towards three in the morning to water the mule from the canteen. Again the red hot day burned up over the horizon. Even at six o'clock it was hot. It's going to be worse than ever today, he groaned. I wish I could find another rock to camp by. Ain't I ever going to get out of this place? There was no change in the character of the desert. Always the same measureless leagues of white hot alkali stretched away toward the horizon on every hand. Here and there the flat, dazzling surface of the desert broke and raised into long, low mounds, from the summit of which Mitti could look for miles and miles over its horrible desolation. No shade was in sight. Not a rock, not a stone, broke the monotony of the ground. Again and again he ascended the low unevenness is, looking and searching for a camping place, shading his eyes from the glitter of sand and sky. He tramped forward a little farther, then paused at length in a hollow between two breaks, resolving to make camp there. Suddenly there was a shout. Hands up. By damn I got the drop on you. McTeague looked up. It was Marcus. 22 Within a month after his departure from San Francisco, Marcus had gone in on a cattle ranch in the Panamint Valley with an Englishman, an acquaintance of Mr. Sipas. His headquarters were at a place called Modoc at the lower extremity of the valley, about 50 miles by trail to the south of Keeler. His life was the life of a cowboy. He realized his former vision of himself, booted, sombreroed and revolvered, passing his days in the saddle and the better part of his nights around the poker tables in Modoc's one saloon. To his intense satisfaction he even involved himself in a gunfight that arose over a disputed brand, with the result that two fingers of his left hand were shot away. News from the outside world filtered slowly into the Panamint Valley and the telegraph had never been built beyond Keeler. At intervals one of the local papers of independence, the nearest large town, found its way into the cattle camps on the ranges and occasionally one of the Sunday editions of a Sacramento Journal, weeks old, was passed from hand to hand. Marcus seized to hear from the Sipas. As for San Francisco, it was as far from him as was London or Vienna. One day, a fortnight after McTig's flight from San Francisco, Marcus wrote into Modoc to find a group of men gathered about a notice affixed to the outside of the Wells Fargo office. It was an offer of reward for the arrest and apprehension of a murderer. The crime had been committed in San Francisco, but the man wanted had been traced as far as the western portion of Inyo County and was believed at that time to be hiding in either the Pinto or Panamint Hills in the vicinity of Keeler. Marcus reached Keeler on the afternoon of that same day. Half a mile from the town his pony fell and died from exhaustion. Marcus did not stop even to remove the saddle. He arrived in the bar room of the hotel in Keeler just after the posse had been made up. The sheriff, who had come down from independence that morning, at first refused his offer of assistance. He had enough men already. Too many, in fact. The country traveled through would be hard, and it would be difficult to find water for so many men and horses. But none of you fellers have ever seen them, though siphirated Marcus, quivering with excitement and wrath. I know them well. I could pick them out in a million. I can identify them, and you fellers can't. And I knew. I knew. Good God! I knew that girl, his wife, in Frisco. She's a cousin of mine, she is. She was. I thought once of... This thing's a personal matter of mine, and that money he got away with, that five thousand, belongs to me by rights. Oh, never mind. I'm going along. Do you hear? He shouted, his fists raised. I'm going along, I tell you. There ain't a man of you big enough to stop me. Let's see you try and stop me going. Let's see you once, any two of you. He filled the bar room with his clamor. Lord love you, come along, then, said the sheriff. The posse rode out of Keeler that same night. The keeper of the general merchant I store, from whom Marcus had borrowed a second pony, had informed them that Cribbins and his partner, whose description tallied exactly with that given in the notice of reward, had outfitted at his place with a view to prospecting in the Panaman Hills. The posse trailed them at once to their first camp at the head of the valley. It was an easy matter. It was only necessary to inquire of the cowboys and range riders of the valley if they had seen and noted the passage of two men, one of whom carried a birdcage. Beyond this first camp, the trail was lost, and a week was wasted in a bootless search around the mine at Gold Gulch, whether it seemed probable the partners had gone. Then a traveling peddler who included Gold Gulch in his route brought in the news of a wonderful strike of gold-bearing quartz some ten miles to the south on the western slope of the range. Two men from Keeler had made a strike, the peddler had said, and added the curious detail that one of the men had a canary bird in a cage with him. The posse made Kribbins' camp three days after the unaccountable disappearance of his partner. Their man was gone, but the narrow hoof prints of a mule, mixed with those of huge hop-nailed boots, could be plainly followed in the sand. Here they picked up the trail and held to it steadily till the point was reached where, instead of tending southward, it swerved abruptly to the east. The men could hardly believe their eyes. It ain't reason, exclaimed the sheriff. What in thunder is he up to? This beats me, cutting out into Death Valley at this time of year. He's heading for Gold Mountain over in the Armagosa, sure. The men decided that this conjecture was true. It was the only inhabited locality in that direction. A discussion began as to the further movements of the posse. I don't figure on going into that alkali sink with no eight men and horses, declared the sheriff. One man can't carry enough water to take him and his mount across, let alone eight. No, sir. Four couldn't do it. No, three couldn't. We've got to make a circuit round the valley and come up on the other side and head him off at Gold Mountain. That's what we got to do, and ride like hell to do it, too. But Marcus protested with all the strength of his lungs against abandoning the trail now that they had found it. He argued that they were but a day and a half behind their man now. There was no possibility of there missing the trail as distinct in the white alkali as in snow. They could make a dash into the valley, secure their man, and return long before their water failed them. He, for one, would it not give up the pursuit, now that they were so close. In the haste of the departure from Keeler, the sheriff had neglected to swear men. He was under no orders. He would do as he pleased. Go on, then, you darn fool, answered the sheriff, will cut on round the valley for all that. It's a gamble he'll be at Gold Mountain before you're halfway across. But if you catch him, here. He tossed Marcus a pair of handcuffs, put him on him and bring him back to Keeler. Two days after he had left the posse and when he was already far out in the desert, Marcus's horse gave out. In the fury of his impatience he had spurred mercilessly forward on the trail and on the morning of the third day found that his horse was unable to move. The joints of his legs seemed locked rigidly. He would go his own length, stumbling and interfering, then collapse helplessly upon the ground with a pitiful groan. He was used up. Marcus believed himself to be close upon McTeague now. The ashes at his last camp had still been smoldering. Marcus took what supplies of food and water he could carry and hurried on. But McTeague was farther ahead than he had guessed and by evening of his third day upon the desert Marcus, raging with thirst, had drunk his last mouthful of water and had flung away at the empty canteen. If he ain't got water with him, he said to himself as he pushed on, if he ain't got water with him, by dam, I'll be in a bad way. I will for a fact. At Marcus's shout McTeague looked up and around him. For the instant he saw no one. The white glare of alkali was still unbroken, then his swiftly rolling eyes lighted upon a head and shoulder that protruded above the low crest of the break directly in front of him. A man was there, lying at full length upon the ground, covering him with a revolver. For a few seconds McTeague looked at the man stupidly, bewildered, confused, as yet without definite thought. Then he noticed that the man was singularly like Marcus Scholler. It was Marcus Scholler. How in the world did Marcus Scholler come to be in that desert? What did he mean by pointing a pistol at him that way? He'd best look out where the pistol would go off. Then his thoughts readjusted themselves with the swiftness born of a vivid sense of danger. Here was the enemy at last, the tracker he had felt upon his footsteps. Now at length he had come on and shown himself after all those days of skulking. McTeague was glad of it. He'd show him now. They too would have it out right then and there. His rifle—he had thrown it away long since. He was helpless. Marcus had ordered him to put up his hands. If he did not, Marcus would kill him. He had the drop on him. McTeague stared, scowling fiercely at the leveled pistol. He did not move. Hands up! shouted Marcus a second time. I'll give you three to do it in. One. Two. Instinctively McTeague put his hands above his head. Marcus rose and came towards him over the break. Keep him up! he cried. If you move him once, I'll kill you, sure. He came up to McTeague and searched him, going through his pockets. But McTeague had no revolver, not even a hunting knife. What did you do with that money, with that five thousand dollars? It's on the mule, answered McTeague, sullenly. Marcus grunted and cast a glance at the mule, who was standing some distance away, snorting nervously, and from time to time flattening his long ears. Is that it there on the horn of the saddle, there in that canvas sack? Marcus demanded. Yes, that's it. A gleam of satisfaction came into Marcus's eyes, and under his breath he muttered. Got it, at last. He was singularly puzzled to know what next to do. He had got McTeague. There he stood at length with his big hands over his head, scalling at him sullenly. Marcus had caught his enemy, had run down the man for whom every officer in the state had been looking. What should he do with him now? He couldn't keep him standing there forever with his hands over his head. Got any water? He demanded. There's a canteen of water on the mule. Marcus moved toward the mule, and made as if to reach the bridal rain. The mule squealed, threw up his head, and galloped to a little distance, rolling his eyes and flattening his ears. Marcus swore wrathfully. He acted that way once before, explained McTeague, his hands still in the air. He ate some loco weed back in the hills before I started. For a moment Marcus hesitated. While he was catching the mule, McTeague might get away. But where to, in heaven's name? A rat could not hide on the surface of that glistening alkali, and besides, all McTeague's store of provisions and his priceless supply of water were on the mule. Marcus ran after the mule, revolver in hand, shouting and cursing. But the mule would not be caught. He acted as if possessed, squealing, lashing out, and galloping in wide circles, his head high in the air. Come on, shouted Marcus, furious, turning back to McTeague. Come on, help me catch him. We got to catch him. All the water we got is on the saddle. McTeague came up. He's eaten some loco weed, he repeated. He went kinda crazy once before. If he should take it into his head to bolt and keep on running. Marcus did not finish. A sudden great fear seemed to widen around and enclose the two men. Once their water gone, the end would not be long. We can catch him all right, said the dentist. I caught him once before. Oh, I guess we can catch him, answered Marcus, reassuringly. Already the sense of enmity between the two had weakened in the face of a common peril. Marcus led down the hammer of his revolver and slid it back into the holster. The mule was trotting on ahead, snorting and throwing up great clouds of alkali dust. At every step the canvas sack jingled, and McTeague's birdcage, still wrapped in the flower bags, bumped against the saddle pads. By and by the mule stopped, blowing out his nostrils excitedly. He's clean crazy, fumed Marcus, panting and swearing. We ought to come up on him quiet, observed McTeague. I'll try and sneak up, said Marcus. Two of us would scare him again. You stay here. Marcus went forward a step at a time. He was almost with an arm's length of the bridle when the mule shied from him abruptly and galloped away. Marcus danced with rage, shaking his fists and swearing horribly. Some hundred yards away the mule paused and began blowing and snuffing in the alkali as though in search of feed. Then for no reason he shied again and started off on a jog trot toward the east. We've got to follow him, exclaimed Marcus as McTeague came up. There's no water within seventy miles of here. Then began an interminable pursuit. Mile after mile, under the terrible heat of the desert sun, the two men followed the mule, racked with a thirst that grew fiercer every hour. A dozen times they could almost touch the canteen of water, and as often the distraught animal shied away and fled before them. At length, Marcus cried, It's no use. We can't catch him, and we're killing ourselves with thirst. We've got to take our chances. He drew his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and crept forward. Steady now, said McTeague. It won't do to shoot through the canteen. Within twenty yards Marcus paused, made a rest of his left forearm and fired. You got him, cried McTeague. No, he's up again. Shoot him again, he's going to bolt. Marcus ran on, firing as he ran. The mule, one four leg trailing, scrambled along, squealing and snorting. Marcus fired his last shot. The mule pitched forward upon his head. Then rolling sideways fell upon the canteen, bursting it open and spilling its entire contents into the sand. Marcus and McTeague ran up, and Marcus snatched the battered canteen from under the raking, bloody hide. There was no water left. Marcus flung the canteen from him and stood up, facing McTeague. There was a pause. Where dead men, said Marcus. McTeague looked from him out over the desert. Chaotic desolations stretched from them on either hand, flaming and glaring with the afternoon heat. There was the brazen sky and the leagues upon leagues of alkali, leper white. There was nothing more. They were in the heart of Death Valley. Not a drop of water, muttered McTeague. Not a drop of water. We can drink the mule's blood, said Marcus. It's been done before, but... but... He looked down at the quivering, gory body. But I ain't thirsty enough for that yet. Where's the nearest water? Well, it's about a hundred miles or more back of us in the Panamint Hills, returned Marcus, doggedly. We'd be crazy long before we reached it. I tell you, we're done for, by damn. We're done for. We ain't ever going to get out of here. Done for? murmured the other, looking about stupidly. Done for? That's the word. Done for? Yes. I guess we're done for. What are we going to do now, exclaimed Marcus, sharply after a while? Well, let's... let's be moving along, somewhere. Where, I'd like to know. What's the good of moving on? What's the good of stopping here? There was a silence. Lord, it's hot, said the dentist, finally, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Marcus ground his teeth. Done for, he muttered. Done for. I never was so thirsty, continued Mictig. I'm that dry, I can hear my tongue rubbing against the roof of my mouth. Well, we can't stop here, said Marcus, finally. We got to go somewhere. We'll try and get back. But it ain't no manner of use. Anything we want to take along with us from the mule? We can. Suddenly, he paused. In an instant the eyes of the two doomed men had met, as the same thought simultaneously rose in their minds. The canvas sack with its five thousand dollars was still tied to the horn of the saddle. Marcus had emptied his revolver at the mule, and though he still wore his cartridge belt, he was for the moment as unarmed as Mictig. I guess, began Mictig coming forward a step. I guess, even if we are done for, I'll take some of my truck along. Hold on, exclaimed Marcus, with rising aggressiveness. Let's talk about that. I ain't so sure about who that—who that money belongs to. Well, I am, you see, growled the dentist. The old enmity between the two men, their ancient hate, was flaming up again. Don't try and load that gun, either, cried Mictig, fixing Marcus with his little eyes. Then don't lay your finger on that sack, shouted the other. You're my prisoner, do you understand? You'll do as I say. Marcus had drawn the handcuffs from his pocket, and stood ready with his revolver held as a club. You soldiered me out of that money once, and played me for a sucker, and it's my turn now. Don't you lay your finger on that sack. Marcus barred Mictig's way, white with passion. Mictig did not answer. His eyes drew to two fine twinkling points, and his enormous hands knotted themselves into fists, hard as wooden mallets. He moved a step nearer to Marcus, then another. Suddenly the men grappled, and in another instant were rolling and struggling upon the hot white ground. Mictig thrust Marcus backward until he tripped and fell over the body of the dead mule. The little birdcage broke from the saddle with the violence of their fall, and rolled out upon the ground, the flower bags slipping from it. Mictig tore the revolver from Marcus's grip, and struck out with it blindly. Clouds of alkali dust, fine and pungent, enveloped the two fighting men, all but strangling them. Mictig did not know how he killed his enemy, but all at once Marcus grew still beneath his blows. Then there was a sudden last return of energy. Mictig's right wrist was caught, something licked upon it, then the struggling body fell limp and motionless with a long breath. As Mictig rose to his feet, he felt a pull at his right wrist, something held it fast. Looking down, he saw that Marcus, in that last struggle, had found strength to handcuff their wrists together. Marcus was dead now. Mictig was locked to the body. All about him, vast and terminable, stretched the measureless leagues of Death Valley. Mictig remained stupidly looking around him, now at the distant horizon, now at the ground, now at the half-dead canary, chittering feebly in its little guilt prison.