“Now, Bub—­keep fit.”

“Same to you, Bucky.”

IV

The view of Greenfield sauntering lightly away among the noisy tables, bravado in his manner, deviltry in his heart, was the last glimpse Inspector Frawley was destined to have of him in many months.  True, Greenfield had not lied:  the address was genuine, but the man was gone.  For days Frawley had the city scoured without gaining a clue.  No steamer had left the harbor, not even a tramp.  If Greenfield was not in hiding, he must have buried himself in the interior.

It was a week before Frawley found the track.  Greenfield had walked thirty miles into the country and taken the train for Rio Mendoza on the route across the Andes to Valparaiso.

Frawley followed the same day, somewhat mystified at this sudden change of base.  In the train the thermometer stood at 116 deg..  The heat made of everything a solitude.  Frawley, lifeless, stifling, and numbed, glued himself to the air-holes with eyes fastened on the horizon, while the train sped across the naked, singeing back of the plains like the welt that springs to meet the fall of the lash.  For two nights he watched the distended sun, exhausted by its own madness, drop back into the heated void, and the tortured stars rise over the stricken desert.  At the end of thirty-six hours of agony he arrived at Rio Mendoza.  Thence he reached Punta de Vacas, procured mules and a guide, and prepared for the ascent over the mountains.

At two o’clock the next morning he began to climb out of hell.  The tortured plains settled below him.  A divine freshness breathed upon him with a new hope of life.  He left the burning conflict of summer and passed into the aroma of spring.

Then the air grew intense, a new suffocation pressed about his temples—­the suffocation of too much life.  In an hour he had run the gamut of the seasons.  The cold of everlasting winter descended and stung his senses.  Up and up and up they went—­then suddenly down, with the half-breed guide and the tireless mule always at the same distance before him; and again began the insistent mechanical toiling upward.  He grew listless and indifferent, acquiescent in these steep efforts that the next moment must throw away.  The horror of immense distance rose about him.  From time to time a stone dislodged by their passage rushed from under him, struck the brink, and spun into the void, to fall endlessly.  The face of the earth grew confused and dropped in a mist from before his eyes.

Then as they toiled still upward, a gale as though sent in anger rushed down upon them, sweeping up whirlwinds of snow, raging and shrieking, dragging them to the brink, and threatening to blot them out.

Frawley clutched the saddle, then flung his arms about the neck of his mule.  His head was reeling, the indignant blood rushed to his nostrils and his ears, his lungs no longer could master the divine air.  Then suddenly the mules stopped, exhausted.  Through the maelstrom the guide shrieked to him not to use the spur.  Frawley felt himself in danger of dying, and had no resentment.