by Frank Norris
CHAPTER 21
“Well,” said one of the deputies, as he backed the horse into the shafts of the buggy in which the pursuers had driven over from the Hill, “we’ve about as good as got him. It isn’t hard to follow a man who carries a bird cage with him wherever he goes.”
McTeague crossed the mountains on foot the Friday and Saturday of that week, going over through Emigrant Gap, following the line of the Overland railroad. He reached Reno Monday night. By degrees a vague plan of action outlined itself in the dentist’s mind.
“Mexico,” he muttered to himself. “Mexico, that’s the place. They’ll watch the coast and they’ll watch the Eastern trains, but they won’t think of Mexico.”
The sense of pursuit which had harassed him during the last week of his stay at the Big Dipper mine had worn off, and he believed himself to be very cunning.
“I’m pretty far ahead now, I guess,” he said. At Reno he boarded a south-bound freight on the line of the Carson and Colorado railroad, paying for a passage in the caboose. “Freights don’ run on schedule time,” he muttered, “and a conductor on a passenger train makes it his business to study faces. I’ll stay with this train as far as it goes.”
The freight worked slowly southward, through western Nevada, the country becoming hourly more and more desolate and abandoned. After leaving Walker Lake the sage-brush country began, and the freight rolled heavily over tracks that threw off visible layers of heat. At times it stopped whole half days on sidings or by water tanks, and the engineer and fireman came back to the caboose and played poker with the conductor and train crew. The dentist sat apart, behind the stove, smoking pipe after pipe of cheap tobacco. Sometimes he joined in the poker games. He had learned poker when a boy at the mine, and after a few deals his knowledge returned to him; but for the most part he was taciturn and unsociable, and rarely spoke to the others unless spoken to first. The crew recognized the type, and the impression gained ground among them that he had “done for” a livery-stable keeper at Truckee and was trying to get down into Arizona.
McTeague heard two brakemen discussing him one night as they stood outside by the halted train. “The livery-stable keeper called him a bastard; that’s what Picachos told me,” one of them remarked, “and started to draw his gun; an’ this fellar did for him with a hayfork. He’s a horse doctor, this chap is, and the livery-stable keeper had got the law on him so’s he couldn’t practise any more, an’ he was sore about it.”
Near a place called Queen’s the train reentered California, and McTeague observed with relief that the line of track which had hitherto held westward curved sharply to the south again. The train was unmolested; occasionally the crew fought with a gang of tramps who attempted to ride the brake beams, and once in the northern part of Inyo County, while they were halted at a water tank, an immense Indian buck, blanketed to the ground, approached McTeague as he stood on the roadbed stretching his legs, and without a word presented to him a filthy, crumpled letter. The letter was to the effect that the buck Big Jim was a good Indian and deserving of charity; the signature was illegible. The dentist stared at the letter, returned it to the buck, and regained the train just as it started. Neither had spoken; the buck did not move from his position, and fully five minutes afterward, when the slow-moving freight was miles away, the dentist looked back and saw him still standing motionless between the rails, a forlorn and solitary point of red, lost in the immensity of the surrounding white blur of the desert.
At length the mountains began again, rising up on either side of the track; vast, naked hills of white sand and red rock, spotted with blue shadows. Here and there a patch of green was spread like a gay table-cloth over the sand. All at once Mount Whitney leaped over the horizon. Independence was reached and passed; the freight, nearly emptied by now, and much shortened, rolled along the shores of Owen Lake. At a place called Keeler it stopped definitely. It was the terminus of the road.
The town of Keeler was a one-street town, not unlike Iowa Hill — the post-office, the bar and hotel, the Odd Fellows’ Hall, and the livery stable being the principal buildings.
“Where to now?” muttered McTeague to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed in his room in the hotel. He hung the canary in the window, filled its little bathtub, and watched it take its bath with enormous satisfaction. “Where to now?” he muttered again. “This is as far as the railroad goes, an’ it won’ do for me to stay in a town yet a while; no, it won’ do. I got to clear out. Where to? That’s the word, where to? I’ll go down to supper now” — He went on whispering his thoughts aloud, so that they would take more concrete shape in his mind— “I’ll go down to supper now, an’ then I’ll hang aroun’ the bar this evening till I get the lay of this land. Maybe this is fruit country, though it looks more like a cattle country. Maybe it’s a mining country. If it’s a mining country,” he continued, puckering his heavy eyebrows, “if it’s a mining country, an’ the mines are far enough off the roads, maybe I’d better get to the mines an’ lay quiet for a month before I try to get any farther south.”
He washed the cinders and dust of a week’s railroading from his face and hair, put on a fresh pair of boots, and went down to supper. The dining-room was of the invariable type of the smaller interior towns of California. There was but one table, covered with oilcloth; rows of benches answered for chairs; a railroad map, a chromo with a gilt frame protected by mosquito netting, hung on the walls, together with a yellowed photograph of the proprietor in Masonic regalia. Two waitresses whom the guests — all men — called by their first names, came and went with large trays.
Through the windows outside McTeague observed a great number of saddle horses tied to trees and fences. Each one of these horses had a riata on the pommel of the saddle. He sat down to the table, eating his thick hot soup, watching his neighbors covertly, listening to everything that was said. It did not take him long to gather that the country to the east and south of Keeler was a cattle country.
Not far off, across a range of hills, was the Panamint Valley, where the big cattle ranges were. Every now and then this name was tossed to and fro across the table in the flow of conversation— “Over in the Panamint.” “Just going down for a rodeo in the Panamint.” “Panamint brands.” “Has a range down in the Panamint.” Then by and by the remark, “Hoh, yes, Gold Gulch, they’re down to good pay there. That’s on the other side of the Panamint Range. Peters came in yesterday and told me.”
McTeague turned to the speaker.
“Is that a gravel mine?” he asked.
“No, no, quartz.”
“I’m a miner; that’s why I asked.”
“Well I’ve mined some too. I had a hole in the ground meself, but she was silver; and when the skunks at Washington lowered the price of silver, where was I? Fitchered, b’God!”
“I was looking for a job.”
“Well, it’s mostly cattle down here in the Panamint, but since the strike over at Gold Gulch some of the boys have gone prospecting. There’s gold in them damn Panamint Mountains. If you can find a good long ‘contact’ of country rocks you ain’t far from it. There’s a couple of fellars from Redlands has located four claims around Gold Gulch. They got a vein eighteen inches wide, an’ Peters says you can trace it for more’n a thousand feet. Were you thinking of prospecting over there?”
“Well, well, I don’ know, I don’ know.”
“Well, I’m going over to the other side of the range day after t’morrow after some ponies of mine, an’ I’m going to have a look around. You say you’ve been a miner?”
“Yes, yes.”
“If you’re going over that way, you might come along and see if we can’t find a contact, or copper sulphurets, or something. Even if we don’t find color we may find silver-bearing galena.” Then, after a pause, “Let’s see, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Huh? My name’s Carter,” answered McTeague, promptly. Why he should change his name again the dentist could not say. “Carter” came to his mi
nd at once, and he answered without reflecting that he had registered as “Burlington” when he had arrived at the hotel.
“Well, my name’s Cribbens,” answered the other. The two shook hands solemnly.
“You’re about finished?” continued Cribbens, pushing back. “Le’s go out in the bar an’ have a drink on it.”
“Sure, sure,” said the dentist.
The two sat up late that night in a corner of the barroom discussing the probability of finding gold in the Panamint hills. It soon became evident that they held differing theories. McTeague clung to the old prospector’s idea that there was no way of telling where gold was until you actually saw it. Cribbens had evidently read a good many books upon the subject, and had already prospected in something of a scientific manner.
“Shucks!” he exclaimed. “Gi’ me a long distinct contact between sedimentary and igneous rocks, an’ I’ll sink a shaft without ever SEEING ‘color.’”
The dentist put his huge chin in the air. “Gold is where you find it,” he returned, doggedly.
“Well, it’s my idea as how pardners ought to work along different lines,” said Cribbens. He tucked the corners of his mustache into his mouth and sucked the tobacco juice from them. For a moment he was thoughtful, then he blew out his mustache abruptly, and exclaimed:
“Say, Carter, le’s make a go of this. You got a little cash I suppose — fifty dollars or so?”
“Huh? Yes — I — I—”
“Well, I got about fifty. We’ll go pardners on the proposition, an’ we’ll dally ‘round the range yonder an’ see what we can see. What do you say?”
“Sure, sure,” answered the dentist.
“Well, it’s a go then, hey?”
“That’s the word.”
“Well, le’s have a drink on it.”
They drank with profound gravity.
They fitted out the next day at the general merchandise store of Keeler — picks, shovels, prospectors’ hammers, a couple of cradles, pans, bacon, flour, coffee, and the like, and they bought a burro on which to pack their kit.
“Say, by jingo, you ain’t got a horse,” suddenly exclaimed Cribbens as they came out of the store. “You can’t get around this country without a pony of some kind.”
Cribbens already owned and rode a buckskin cayuse that had to be knocked in the head and stunned before it could be saddled. “I got an extry saddle an’ a headstall at the hotel that you can use,” he said, “but you’ll have to get a horse.”
In the end the dentist bought a mule at the livery stable for forty dollars. It turned out to be a good bargain, however, for the mule was a good traveller and seemed actually to fatten on sage-brush and potato parings. When the actual transaction took place, McTeague had been obliged to get the money to pay for the mule out of the canvas sack. Cribbens was with him at the time, and as the dentist unrolled his blankets and disclosed the sack, whistled in amazement.
“An’ me asking you if you had fifty dollars!” he exclaimed. “You carry your mine right around with you, don’t you?”
“Huh, I guess so,” muttered the dentist. “I — I just sold a claim I had up in El Dorado County,” he added.
At five o’clock on a magnificent May morning the “pardners” jogged out of Keeler, driving the burro before them. Cribbens rode his cayuse, McTeague following in his rear on the mule.
“Say,” remarked Cribbens, “why in thunder don’t you leave that fool canary behind at the hotel? It’s going to be in your way all the time, an’ it will sure die. Better break its neck an’ chuck it.”
“No, no,” insisted the dentist. “I’ve had it too long. I’ll take it with me.”
“Well, that’s the craziest idea I ever heard of,” remarked Cribbens, “to take a canary along prospecting. Why not kid gloves, and be done with it?”
They travelled leisurely to the southeast during the day, following a well-beaten cattle road, and that evening camped on a spur of some hills at the head of the Panamint Valley where there was a spring. The next day they crossed the Panamint itself.
“That’s a smart looking valley,” observed the dentist.
“NOW you’re talking straight talk,” returned Cribbens, sucking his mustache. The valley was beautiful, wide, level, and very green. Everywhere were herds of cattle, scarcely less wild than deer. Once or twice cowboys passed them on the road, big-boned fellows, picturesque in their broad hats, hairy trousers, jingling spurs, and revolver belts, surprisingly like the pictures McTeague remembered to have seen. Everyone of them knew Cribbens, and almost invariably joshed him on his venture.
“Say, Crib, ye’d best take a wagon train with ye to bring your dust back.”
Cribbens resented their humor, and after they had passed, chewed fiercely on his mustache.
“I’d like to make a strike, b’God! if it was only to get the laugh on them joshers.”
By noon they were climbing the eastern slope of the Panamint Range. Long since they had abandoned the road; vegetation ceased; not a tree was in sight. They followed faint cattle trails that led from one water hole to another. By degrees these water holes grew dryer and dryer, and at three o’clock Cribbens halted and filled their canteens.
“There ain’t any TOO much water on the other side,” he observed grimly.
“It’s pretty hot,” muttered the dentist, wiping his streaming forehead with the back of his hand.
“Huh!” snorted the other more grimly than ever. The motionless air was like the mouth of a furnace. Cribbens’s pony lathered and panted. McTeague’s mule began to droop his long ears. Only the little burro plodded resolutely on, picking the trail where McTeague could see but trackless sand and stunted sage. Towards evening Cribbens, who was in the lead, drew rein on the summit of the hills.
Behind them was the beautiful green Panamint Valley, but before and below them for miles and miles, as far as the eye could reach, a flat, white desert, empty even of sage-brush, unrolled toward the horizon. In the immediate foreground a broken system of arroyos, and little cañóns tumbled down to meet it. To the north faint blue hills shouldered themselves above the horizon.
“Well,” observed Cribbens, “we’re on the top of the Panamint Range now. It’s along this eastern slope, right below us here, that we’re going to prospect. Gold Gulch” — he pointed with the butt of his quirt— “is about eighteen or nineteen miles along here to the north of us. Those hills way over yonder to the northeast are the Telescope hills.”
“What do you call the desert out yonder?” McTeague’s eyes wandered over the illimitable stretch of alkali that stretched out forever and forever to the east, to the north, and to the south.
“That,” said Cribbens, “that’s Death Valley.”
There was a long pause. The horses panted irregularly, the sweat dripping from their heaving bellies. Cribbens and the dentist sat motionless in their saddles, looking out over that abominable desolation, silent, troubled.
“God!” ejaculated Cribbens at length, under his breath, with a shake of his head. Then he seemed to rouse himself. “Well,” he remarked, “first thing we got to do now is to find water.”
This was a long and difficult task. They descended into one little cañón after another, followed the course of numberless arroyos, and even dug where there seemed indications of moisture, all to no purpose. But at length McTeague’s mule put his nose in the air and blew once or twice through his nostrils.
“Smells it, the son of a gun!” exclaimed Cribbens. The dentist let the animal have his head, and in a few minutes he had brought them to the bed of a tiny cañón where a thin stream of brackish water filtered over a ledge of rocks.
“We’ll camp here,” observed Cribbens, “but we can’t turn the horses loose. We’ll have to picket ’em with the lariats. I saw some loco-weed back here a piece, and if they get to eating that, they’ll sure go plum crazy. The burro won’t eat it, but I wouldn’t trust the others.”
A new life began for McTeague. After breakfast the �
�pardners” separated, going in opposite directions along the slope of the range, examining rocks, picking and chipping at ledges and bowlders, looking for signs, prospecting. McTeague went up into the little cañóns where the streams had cut through the bed rock, searching for veins of quartz, breaking out this quartz when he had found it, pulverizing and panning it. Cribbens hunted for “contacts,” closely examining country rocks and out-crops, continually on the lookout for spots where sedimentary and igneous rock came together.
One day, after a week of prospecting, they met unexpectedly on the slope of an arroyo. It was late in the afternoon. “Hello, pardner,” exclaimed Cribbens as he came down to where McTeague was bending over his pan. “What luck?”
The dentist emptied his pan and straightened up. “Nothing, nothing. You struck anything?”
“Not a trace. Guess we might as well be moving towards camp.” They returned together, Cribbens telling the dentist of a group of antelope he had seen.
“We might lay off to-morrow, an’ see if we can plug a couple of them fellers. Antelope steak would go pretty well after beans an’ bacon an’ coffee week in an’ week out.”
McTeague was answering, when Cribbens interrupted him with an exclamation of profound disgust. “I thought we were the first to prospect along in here, an’ now look at that. Don’t it make you sick?”
He pointed out evidences of an abandoned prospector’s camp just before them — charred ashes, empty tin cans, one or two gold-miner’s pans, and a broken pick. “Don’t that make you sick?” muttered Cribbens, sucking his mustache furiously. “To think of us mushheads going over ground that’s been covered already! Say, pardner, we’ll dig out of here to-morrow. I’ve been thinking, anyhow, we’d better move to the south; that water of ours is pretty low.”
“Yes, yes, I guess so,” assented the dentist. “There ain’t any gold here.”
“Yes, there is,” protested Cribbens doggedly; “there’s gold all through these hills, if we could only strike it. I tell you what, pardner, I got a place in mind where I’ll bet no one ain’t prospected — least not very many. There don’t very many care to try an’ get to it. It’s over on the other side of Death Valley. It’s called Gold Mountain, an’ there’s only one mine been located there, an’ it’s paying like a nitrate bed. There ain’t many people in that country, because it’s all hell to get into. First place, you got to cross Death Valley and strike the Armagosa Range fur off to the south. Well, no one ain’t stuck on crossing the Valley, not if they can help it. But we could work down the Panamint some hundred or so miles, maybe two hundred, an’ fetch around by the Armagosa River, way to the south’erd. We could prospect on the way. But I guess the Armagosa’d be dried up at this season. Anyhow,” he concluded, “we’ll move camp to the south to-morrow. We got to get new feed an’ water for the horses. We’ll see if we can knock over a couple of antelope to-morrow, and then we’ll scoot.”
