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 have it out right then and there.  His rifle!  He had thrown it away long since.  He was helpless.  Marcus had ordered him to put up his hands.  If he did not, Marcus would kill him.  He had the drop on him.  McTeague stared, scowling fiercely at the levelled pistol.  He did not move.

“Hands up!” shouted Marcus a second time.  “I’ll give you three to do it in.  One, two——­”

Instinctively McTeague put his hands above his head.

Marcus rose and came towards him over the break.

“Keep ’em up,” he cried.  “If you move ’em once I’ll kill you, sure.”

He came up to McTeague and searched him, going through his pockets; but McTeague had no revolver; not even a hunting knife.

“What did you do with that money, with that five thousand dollars?”

“It’s on the mule,” answered McTeague, sullenly.

Marcus grunted, and cast a glance at the mule, who was standing some distance away, snorting nervously, and from time to time flattening his long ears.

“Is that it there on the horn of the saddle, there in that canvas sack?” Marcus demanded.

“Yes, that’s it.”

A gleam of satisfaction came into Marcus’s eyes, and under his breath he muttered: 

“Got it at last.”

He was singularly puzzled to know what next to do.  He had got McTeague.  There he stood at length, with his big hands over his head, scowling at him sullenly.  Marcus had caught his enemy, had run down the man for whom every officer in the State had been looking.  What should he do with him now?  He couldn’t keep him standing there forever with his hands over his head.

“Got any water?” he demanded.

“There’s a canteen of water on the mule.”

Marcus moved toward the mule and made as if to reach the bridle-rein.  The mule squealed, threw up his head, and galloped to a little distance, rolling his eyes and flattening his ears.