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. Sieppe's. His headquarters were at a place called
Modoc, at the lower extremity of the valley, about fifty 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 gun fight 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 ceased to hear from the Sieppes. As for San Francisco,
it was as far from him as was London or Vienna.
One day, a fortnight after McTeague's flight from San Francisco, Marcus
rode 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 in
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 barroom 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
travelled 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 um,” vociferated Marcus,
quivering with excitement and wrath. “I know um well. I could pick
um out in a million. I can identify um, 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--an' 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
barroom 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
merchandise store, from whom Marcus had borrowed a second pony, had
informed them that Cribbens 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 Panamint 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 bird cage.
Beyond this first camp the trail was lost, and a week was wasted in
a bootless search around the mine at Gold Gulch, whither it seemed
probable the partners had gone. Then a travelling 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 Cribbens's 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 hob-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 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, 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 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 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--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 McTeague. “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 McTeague.
“I guess,” began McTeague 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 an' load that gun either,” cried McTeague, 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, an' it's my turn now. Don't you lay your finger on that sack.”
Marcus barred McTeague's way, white with passion. McTeague 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. McTeague thrust Marcus backward
until he tripped and fell over the body of the dead mule. The little
bird cage broke from the saddle with the violence of their fall, and
rolled out upon the ground, the flour-bags slipping from it. McTeague
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.
McTeague 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. McTeague's right wrist was caught, something clicked upon it,
then the struggling body fell limp and motionless with a long breath.
As McTeague 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; McTeague was locked to the body. All about him, vast
interminable, stretched the measureless leagues of Death Valley.
McTeague 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 gilt prison.