As he spread his blankets on the ground he resolved that
hereafter he would travel only at night, laying up in the daytime in the
shade of the canyons. He was exhausted with his terrible day's march.
Never in his life had sleep seemed so sweet to him.
But suddenly he was broad awake, his jaded senses all alert.
"What was that?" he muttered. "I thought I heard something--saw
something."
He rose to his feet, reaching for the Winchester. Desolation lay still
around him. There was not a sound but his own breathing; on the face of
the desert not a grain of sand was in motion. McTeague looked furtively
and quickly from side to side, his teeth set, his eyes rolling. Once
more the rowel was in his flanks, once more an unseen hand reined him
toward the east. After all the miles of that dreadful day's flight he
was no better off than when he started. If anything, he was worse, for
never had that mysterious instinct in him been more insistent than now;
never had the impulse toward precipitate flight been stronger; never had
the spur bit deeper. Every nerve of his body cried aloud for rest; yet
every instinct seemed aroused and alive, goading him to hurry on, to
hurry on.
"What IS it, then? What is it?" he cried, between his teeth.
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