His plans were uncertain.  He remembered what Cribbens had said about the Armagosa Mountains in the country on the other side of Death Valley.  It was all hell to get into that country, Cribbens had said, and not many men went there, because of the terrible valley of alkali that barred the way, a horrible vast sink of white sand and salt below even the sea level, the dry bed, no doubt, of some prehistoric lake.  But McTeague resolved to make a circuit of the valley, keeping to the south, until he should strike the Armagosa River.  He would make a circuit of the valley and come up on the other side.  He would get into that country around Gold Mountain in the Armagosa hills, barred off from the world by the leagues of the red-hot alkali of Death Valley.  “They” would hardly reach him there.  He would stay at Gold Mountain two or three months, and then work his way down into Mexico.

McTeague tramped steadily forward, still descending the lower irregularities of the Panamint Range.  By nine o’clock the slope flattened out abruptly; the hills were behind him; before him, to the east, all was level.  He had reached the region where even the sand and sage-brush begin to dwindle, giving place to white, powdered alkali.  The trails were numerous, but old and faint; and they had been made by cattle, not by men.  They led in all directions but one—­north, south, and west; but not one, however faint, struck out towards the valley.

“If I keep along the edge of the hills where these trails are,” muttered the dentist, “I ought to find water up in the arroyos from time to time.”

At once he uttered an exclamation.  The mule had begun to squeal and lash out with alternate hoofs, his eyes rolling, his ears flattened.  He ran a few steps, halted, and squealed again.  Then, suddenly wheeling at right angles, set off on a jog trot to the north, squealing and kicking from time to time.  McTeague ran after him shouting and swearing, but for a long time the mule would not allow himself to be caught.  He seemed more bewildered than frightened.

“He’s eatun some of that loco-weed that Cribbens spoke about,” panted McTeague.  “Whoa, there; steady, you.”  At length the mule stopped of his own accord, and seemed to come to his senses again.  McTeague came up and took the bridle rein, speaking to him and rubbing his nose.

“There, there, what’s the matter with you?” The mule was docile again.  McTeague washed his mouth and set forward once more.

The day was magnificent.  From horizon to horizon was one vast span of blue, whitening as it dipped earthward.  Miles upon miles to the east and southeast the desert unrolled itself, white, naked, inhospitable, palpitating and shimmering under the sun, unbroken by so much as a rock or cactus stump.  In the distance it assumed all manner of faint colors, pink, purple, and pale orange.  To the west rose the Panamint Range, sparsely sprinkled with gray sagebrush; here the earths and sands were yellow, ochre, and rich, deep red, the hollows and canyons picked out with intense blue shadows.  It seemed strange that such barrenness could exhibit this radiance of color, but nothing could have been more beautiful than the deep red of the higher bluffs and ridges, seamed with purple shadows, standing sharply out against the pale-blue whiteness of the horizon.