“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 blazes 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 now but a day and a half behind their man. There was no possibility of their 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 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 him in. He was under no orders. He would do as he pleased.
“Go on, then, you darn fool,” answered the sheriff. “We’ll cut on round the valley, for all that. It’s a gamble he’ll be at Gold Mountain before you’re half-way across. But if you catch him, here”—he tossed Marcus a pair of handcuffs—“put ’em 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 the empty canteen.
“If he ain’t got water with um,” he said to himself, as he pushed on, “if he ain’t got water with um, 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 Schouler. It was Marcus Schouler. How in the world did Marcus Schouler happen to be in that desert? What did he mean by pointing a pistol at him that way? He’d best look out or the pistol would go off. Then his thoughts readjusted themselves with a 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 two 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.