“It ain’t reason,” exclaimed the sheriff.  “What in thunder is he up to?  This beats me.  Cutting out into Death Valley at this time of year.”

“He’s heading for Gold Mountain over in the Armagosa, sure.”

The men decided that this conjecture was true.  It was the only inhabited locality in that direction.  A discussion began as to the further movements of the posse.

“I don’t figure on going into that alkali sink with no eight men and horses,” declared the sheriff.  “One man can’t carry enough water to take him and his mount across, let alone eight.  No, sir.  Four couldn’t do it.  No, three couldn’t.  We’ve got to make a circuit round the valley and come up on the other side and head him off at Gold Mountain.  That’s what we got to do, and ride like hell to do it, too.”

But Marcus protested with all the strength of his lungs against abandoning the trail now that they had found it.  He argued that they were but a day and a half behind their man 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.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *