McTeague Frank Norris (the best books of all time TXT) 📖

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 locoweed 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 locoweed,” 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 enclose the two men. Once their water gone, the end would not