At that moment McTeague was already eight miles away from the camp,
going steadily eastward. He was descending the lowest spurs of the
Panamint hills, following an old and faint cattle trail. Before him he
drove his mule, laden with blankets, provisions for six days, Cribben's
rifle, and a canteen full of water. Securely bound to the pommel of the
saddle was the canvas sack with its precious five thousand dollars, all
in twenty-dollar gold pieces. But strange enough in that horrid waste
of sand and sage was the object that McTeague himself persistently
carried--the canary in its cage, about which he had carefully wrapped a
couple of old flour-bags.
At about five o'clock that morning McTeague had crossed several trails
which seemed to be converging, and, guessing that they led to a water
hole, had followed one of them and had brought up at a sort of small
sundried sink which nevertheless contained a little water at the bottom.
He had watered the mule here, refilled the canteen, and drank deep
himself. He had also dampened the old flour-sacks around the bird cage
to protect the little canary as far as possible from the heat that he
knew would increase now with every hour.
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