aste 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
ha