Part 56 (1/2)

”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, rea.s.suringly.

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, b.u.mped 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 s.h.i.+ed 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 s.h.i.+ed 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 s.h.i.+ed 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, c.o.c.ked 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed the battered canteen from under the reeking, b.l.o.o.d.y 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.”