o was in
the lead, drew rein on the summit of the hills.

Behind them was the beautiful green Panamint Valley, but before and
below them for miles and miles, as far as the eye could reach, a flat,
white desert, empty even of sage-brush, unrolled toward the horizon. In
the immediate foreground a broken system of arroyos, and little canyons
tumbled down to meet it. To the north faint blue hills shouldered
themselves above the horizon.

"Well," observed Cribbens, "we're on the top of the Panamint Range now.
It's along this eastern slope, right below us here, that we're going to
prospect. Gold Gulch"--he pointed with the butt of his quirt--"is about
eighteen or nineteen miles along here to the north of us. Those hills
way over yonder to the northeast are the Telescope hills."

"What do you call the desert out yonder?" McTeague's eyes wandered over
the illimitable stretch of alkali that stretched out forever and forever
to the east, to the north, and to the south.

"That," said Cribbens, "that's Death Valley."

There was a long pause. The horses panted irregularly, the sweat
dripping from their heaving bellies. Cribbens and the dentist
sat motionless in their saddles, looking out over that abominable
desolation, silent, troubled.

"God!" ejaculated Cribbens at length, under his breath, with a shake of
his head. Then he seemed to rouse himself. "Well," he remarked, "first
thing we got to do now is to find water."

This was a long and difficult task. They descended into one little
canyon after another, followed the course of numberless arroyos, and
even dug where there seemed indications of moisture, all to no purpose.
But at length McTeague's mule put his nose in the air and blew once or
twice through his nostrils.

"Smells it, the son of a gun!" exclaimed Cribbens. The dentist let the
animal have his head, and in a few minutes he had brought them to the
bed of a tiny canyon where a thin stream of brackish water filtered over
a ledge of rocks.

"We'll camp here," observed Cribbens, "but we can't turn the horses
loose. We'll have to picket 'em with the lariats. I saw some loco-weed
back here a piece, and if they get to eating that, they'll sure go plum
crazy. The burro won't eat it, but I wouldn't trust the others."

A new life began for McTeague. After breakfast the "pardners" separated,
going in opposite directions along the slope of the range, examining
rocks, picking and chipping at ledges and bowlders, looking