“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 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 went. The mule, one foreleg 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 reeking, bloody hide. There was no water left. Marcus flung the canteen from him and stood up, facing McTeague. There was a pause.
“We’re dead men,” said Marcus.
McTeague looked from him out over the desert. Chaotic desolation 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.