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, by damn! 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 come 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 levelled 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 'em up,' he cried. 'If you move 'em 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, scowling 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 bridle-rein. 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 eatun 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 inclose 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 let 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 bird cage, still wrapped in the flour-bags, bumped against the saddlepads. 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 within 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 got to take our chances.' He drew his revolver from its holster, cocked it, and crept forward.
'Steady, now,' said McTeague; 'it won' 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 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.
'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
