Frawley understood the challenge--the end was to be in the desert.
Failing to move his guide by threat or promise, he left him clamoring
frantically on the edge of the desert and rode on toward where the
figure of Greenfield had disappeared on the horizon in a puff of dust.
For three days they went their way grimly into the parched sands,
husbanding every particle of strength, within plain sight of each other,
always at the same unvarying walk. At night they slept by fits and
starts, with an ear trained for the slightest hostile sound. Then they
cast aside their saddles, their rifles, and superfluous clothing, in a
vain effort to save their mounts.
The horses, heaving and staggering, crawled over the yielding sands
like silhouettes drawn by a thread. In the sky not a cloud appeared;
below, the yellow monotony extended as flat as a dish. Above them a lazy
buzzard, wheeling in languid circles, followed with patient conviction.
On the fourth morning Frawley's horse stopped, shuddered, and went down
in a heap. Greenfield halted and surveyed his discomfiture grimly,
without a sign of elation.
"That's bad, very bad," Frawley said judicially. "I ought to have sent
word to the department. Still, it's not over yet--his horse won't last
long. Well, I mustn't carry much."
He abandoned his revolver, a knife, $200 in gold, and continued on foot,
preserving only the water-bag with its precious mouthful. Greenfield,
who had waited immovably, allowed him to approach within a quarter of a
mile before putting his horse in motion.
"He's going to make sure I stay here," said Frawley to himself, seeing
that Greenfield made no attempt to increase the lead. "Well, we'll see."
Twelve hours later Greenfield's horse gave out. Frawley uttered a cry of
joy, but the handicap of half a day was a serious one; he was exhausted,
famished, and in the bag there remained only sufficient water to moisten
his lips.
The fifth day broke with an angry sun and no sign on the horizon to
relieve the eternal monotony. Only the buzzard at the same distance
aloft bided his time. Hunter and hunted, united perforce by their common
suffering, plodded on with the weary, hopeless straining of human beings
harnessed to a plow, covering scarcely a mile an hour. From time to
time, by common consent, they sat down, gaunt, exhausted figures, eyeing
each other with the instinct of beasts, their elbows on their bony
knees. Whether from a fear of losing energy, whether under the spell of
the frightful stillness, neither had uttered a word.
Frawley was afire with thirst. The desert entered his body with its dry
mortal heat, and ran its consuming dryness through his veins; his eyes
started from his face as the sun above him hung out of the parched sky.
He began to talk to himself, to sing. Under his feet the sand sifted
like the soft protest of autumn leaves. He imagined himself back in the
forest, marking the rustle of leafy branches and the intermittent
dropping of acorns and twigs. All at once his legs refused to move. He
stood still, his gaze concentrated on the figure of Greenfield a long
moment, then his body crumpled under him and he sank without volition to
the ground.
Greenfield stopped, sat down, and waited. After half an hour he drew
himself to his feet, moved on, then stopped, returned, approached, and
listened to the crooning of the delirious man. Suddenly satisfied, he
flung both arms into the air in frenzied triumph, turned, staggered,
and reeled away, while back over the desert came the grotesque, hideous
refrain, in maddened victory:
"Yankee Doodle Dandy oh!
Yankee Doodle Dandy!"
Frawley watched him go, then with a sigh of relief turned his glance to
the black revolving form in the air--at least that remained to break the
horror of the solitude. Then he lost consciousness.
The beat of wings across his face aroused him with a start and a cry of
agony. The great bird of carrion, startled in its inspection, flew
clumsily off and settled fearlessly on the ground, blinking at him.
An immense revolt, a furious anger brought with it new strength. He rose
and rushed at the bird with clenched fist, cursing it as it lumbered
awkwardly away. Then he began desperately to struggle on, following the
tracks in the sand.
At the end of an hour specks appeared on the horizon. He looked at them
in his delirium and began to laugh uneasily.
"I must be out of my head," he said to himself seriously. "It's a
mirage. Well, I suppose it is the end. Who'll they put on the case now?
Keech, I suppose; yes, Keech; he's a good man. Of course it's a mirage."
As he continued to stumble forward, the dots assumed the shape of trees
and hills. He laughed contemptuously and began to remonstrate with
himself, repeating:
"It's a mirage, or I'm out of my head." He began to be worried, saying
over and over: "That's a bad sign, very bad. I mustn't lose control of
myself. I must stick to him--stick to him until he dies of old age.
Bucky Greenfield! Well, he won't get out of this either. If the
department could only know!"
The nearer he drew to life, the more indignant he became. He arrived
thus at the edge of trees and green things.
"Why don't they go?" he said angrily. "They ought to, now. Come, I think
I'm keeping my head remarkably well."
All at once a magnificent idea came to him--he would walk through the
mirage and end it. He advanced furiously against an imaginary tree,
struck his forehead, and toppled over insensible.