“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. We ain’t ever going to get outa 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 be moving along—somewhere.”
“Where, I’d like to know? What’s the good of moving on?”
“Wat’s the good of stopping here?”