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.
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