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 licked 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.
