by Frank Norris
“I ain’t got a gun,” said the dentist; “not even a revolver. I—”
“Wait a second,” said Cribbens, pausing in his scramble down the side of one of the smaller gulches. “Here’s some slate here; I ain’t seen no slate around here yet. Let’s see where it goes to.”
McTeague followed him along the side of the gulch. Cribbens went on ahead, muttering to himself from time to time:
“Runs right along here, even enough, and here’s water too. Didn’t know this stream was here; pretty near dry, though. Here’s the slate again. See where it runs, pardner?”
“Look at it up there ahead,” said McTeague. “It runs right up over the back of this hill.”
“That’s right,” assented Cribbens. “Hi!” he shouted suddenly, “HERE’S A ‘CONTACT,’ and here it is again, and there, and yonder. Oh, look at it, will you? That’s granodiorite on slate. Couldn’t want it any more distinct than that. GOD! if we could only find the quartz between the two now.”
“Well, there it is,” exclaimed McTeague. “Look on ahead there; ain’t that quartz?”
“You’re shouting right out loud,” vociferated Cribbens, looking where McTeague was pointing. His face went suddenly pale. He turned to the dentist, his eyes wide.
“By God, pardner,” he exclaimed, breathlessly. “By God—” he broke off abruptly.
“That’s what you been looking for, ain’t it?” asked the dentist.
“LOOKING for! LOOKING for!” Cribbens checked himself. “That’s SLATE all right, and that’s granodiorite, I know” — he bent down and examined the rock— “and here’s the quartz between ‘em; there can’t be no mistake about that. Gi’ me that hammer,” he cried, excitedly. “Come on, git to work. Jab into the quartz with your pick; git out some chunks of it.” Cribbens went down on his hands and knees, attacking the quartz vein furiously. The dentist followed his example, swinging his pick with enormous force, splintering the rocks at every stroke. Cribbens was talking to himself in his excitement.
“Got you THIS time, you son of a gun! By God! I guess we got you THIS time, at last. Looks like it, anyhow. GET a move on, pardner. There ain’t anybody ‘round, is there? Hey?” Without looking, he drew his revolver and threw it to the dentist. “Take the gun an’ look around, pardner. If you see any son of a gun ANYWHERE, PLUG him. This yere’s OUR claim. I guess we got it THIS tide, pardner. Come on.” He gathered up the chunks of quartz he had broken out, and put them in his hat and started towards their camp. The two went along with great strides, hurrying as fast as they could over the uneven ground.
“I don’ know,” exclaimed Cribbens, breathlessly, “I don’ want to say too much. Maybe we’re fooled. Lord, that damn camp’s a long ways off. Oh, I ain’t goin’ to fool along this way. Come on, pardner.” He broke into a run. McTeague followed at a lumbering gallop. Over the scorched, parched ground, stumbling and tripping over sage-brush and sharp-pointed rocks, under the palpitating heat of the desert sun, they ran and scrambled, carrying the quartz lumps in their hats.
“See any ‘COLOR’ in it, pardner?” gasped Cribbens. “I can’t, can you? ’Twouldn’t be visible nohow, I guess. Hurry up. Lord, we ain’t ever going to get to that camp.”
Finally they arrived. Cribbens dumped the quartz fragments into a pan.
“You pestle her, pardner, an’ I’ll fix the scales.” McTeague ground the lumps to fine dust in the iron mortar while Cribbens set up the tiny scales and got out the “spoons” from their outfit.
“That’s fine enough,” Cribbens exclaimed, impatiently. “Now we’ll spoon her. Gi’ me the water.”
Cribbens scooped up a spoonful of the fine white powder and began to spoon it carefully. The two were on their hands and knees upon the ground, their heads close together, still panting with excitement and the exertion of their run.
“Can’t do it,” exclaimed Cribbens, sitting back on his heels, “hand shakes so. YOU take it, pardner. Careful, now.”
McTeague took the horn spoon and began rocking it gently in his huge fingers, sluicing the water over the edge a little at a time, each movement washing away a little more of the powdered quartz. The two watched it with the intensest eagerness.
“Don’t see it yet; don’t see it yet,” whispered Cribbens, chewing his mustache. “LEETLE faster, pardner. That’s the ticket. Careful, steady, now; leetle more, leetle more. Don’t see color yet, do you?”
The quartz sediment dwindled by degrees as McTeague spooned it steadily. Then at last a thin streak of a foreign substance began to show just along the edge. It was yellow.
Neither spoke. Cribbens dug his nails into the sand, and ground his mustache between his teeth. The yellow streak broadened as the quartz sediment washed away. Cribbens whispered:
“We got it, pardner. That’s gold.”
McTeague washed the last of the white quartz dust away, and let the water trickle after it. A pinch of gold, fine as flour, was left in the bottom of the spoon.
“There you are,” he said. The two looked at each other. Then Cribbens rose into the air with a great leap and a yell that could have been heard for half a mile.
“Yee-e-ow! We GOT it, we struck it. Pardner, we got it. Out of sight. We’re millionaires.” He snatched up his revolver and fired it with inconceivable rapidity. “PUT it there, old man,” he shouted, gripping McTeague’s palm.
“That’s gold, all right,” muttered McTeague, studying the contents of the spoon.
“You bet your great-grandma’s Cochin-China Chessy cat it’s gold,” shouted Cribbens. “Here, now, we got a lot to do. We got to stake her out an’ put up the location notice. We’ll take our full acreage, you bet. You — we haven’t weighed this yet. Where’s the scales?” He weighed the pinch of gold with shaking hands. “Two grains,” he cried. “That’ll run five dollars to the ton. Rich, it’s rich; it’s the richest kind of pay, pardner. We’re millionaires. Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you get excited? Why don’t you run around an’ do something?”
“Huh!” said McTeague, rolling his eyes. “Huh! I know, I know, we’ve struck it pretty rich.”
“Come on,” exclaimed Cribbens, jumping up again. “We’ll stake her out an’ put up the location notice. Lord, suppose anyone should have come on her while we’ve been away.” He reloaded his revolver deliberately. “We’ll drop HIM all right, if there’s anyone fooling round there; I’ll tell you those right now. Bring the rifle, pardner, an’ if you see anyone, PLUG him, an’ ask him what he wants afterward.”
They hurried back to where they had made their discovery.
“To think,” exclaimed Cribbens, as he drove the first stake, “to think those other mushheads had their camp within gunshot of her and never located her. Guess they didn’t know the meaning of a ‘contact.’ Oh, I knew I was solid on ‘contacts.’”
They staked out their claim, and Cribbens put up the notice of location. It was dark before they were through. Cribbens broke off some more chunks of quarts in the vein.
“I’ll spoon this too, just for the fun of it, when I get home,” he explained, as they tramped back to the camp.
“Well,” said the dentist, “we got the laugh on those cowboys.”
“Have we?” shouted Cribbens. “HAVE we? Just wait and see the rush for this place when we tell ’em about it down in Keeler. Say, what’ll we call her?”
“I don’ know, I don’ know.”
“We might call her the ‘Last Chance.’ ’Twas our last chance, wasn’t it? We’d ‘a’ gone antelope shooting tomorrow, and the next day we’d ‘a’ — say, what you stopping for?” he added, interrupting himself. “What’s up?”
The dentist had paused abruptly on the crest of a cañón. Cribbens, looking back, saw him standing motionless in his tracks.
“What’s up?” asked Cribbens a second time.
McTeague slowly turned his head and looked over one shoulder, then over the other. Suddenly he wheeled sharply about, cocking the Winchester and tossing it to his shoulder
. Cribbens ran back to his side, whipping out his revolver.
“What is it?” he cried. “See anybody?” He peered on ahead through the gathering twilight.
“No, no.”
“Hear anything?”
“No, didn’t hear anything.”
“What is it then? What’s up?”
“I don’ know, I don’ know,” muttered the dentist, lowering the rifle. “There was something.”
“What?”
“Something — didn’t you notice?”
“Notice what?”
“I don’ know. Something — something or other.”
“Who? What? Notice what? What did you see?”
The dentist let down the hammer of the rifle.
“I guess it wasn’t anything,” he said rather foolishly.
“What d’you think you saw — anybody on the claim?”
“I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything either. I had an idea, that’s all; came all of a sudden, like that. Something, I don’ know what.”
“I guess you just imagined something. There ain’t anybody within twenty miles of us, I guess.”
“Yes, I guess so, just imagined it, that’s the word.”
Half an hour later they had the fire going. McTeague was frying strips of bacon over the coals, and Cribbens was still chattering and exclaiming over their great strike. All at once McTeague put down the frying-pan.
“What’s that?” he growled.
“Hey? What’s what?” exclaimed Cribbens, getting up.
“Didn’t you notice something?”
“Where?”
“Off there.” The dentist made a vague gesture toward the eastern horizon. “Didn’t you hear something — I mean see something — I mean—”
“What’s the matter with you, pardner?”
“Nothing. I guess I just imagined it.”
But it was not imagination. Until midnight the partners lay broad awake, rolled in their blankets under the open sky, talking and discussing and making plans. At last Cribbens rolled over on his side and slept. The dentist could not sleep.
What! It was warning him again, that strange sixth sense, that obscure brute instinct. It was aroused again and clamoring to be obeyed. Here, in these desolate barren hills, twenty miles from the nearest human being, it stirred and woke and rowelled him to be moving on. It had goaded him to flight from the Big Dipper mine, and he had obeyed. But now it was different; now he had suddenly become rich; he had lighted on a treasure — a treasure far more valuable than the Big Dipper mine itself. How was he to leave that? He could not move on now. He turned about in his blankets. No, he would not move on. Perhaps it was his fancy, after all. He saw nothing, heard nothing. The emptiness of primeval desolation stretched from him leagues and leagues upon either hand. The gigantic silence of the night lay close over everything, like a muffling Titanic palm. Of what was he suspicious? In that treeless waste an object could be seen at half a day’s journey distant. In that vast silence the click of a pebble was as audible as a pistol-shot. And yet there was nothing, nothing.
The dentist settled himself in his blankets and tried to sleep. In five minutes he was sitting up, staring into the blue-gray shimmer of the moonlight, straining his ears, watching and listening intently. Nothing was in sight. The browned and broken flanks of the Panamint hills lay quiet and familiar under the moon. The burro moved its head with a clinking of its bell; and McTeagues mule, dozing on three legs, changed its weight to another foot, with a long breath. Everything fell silent again.
“What is it?” muttered the dentist. “If I could only see something, hear something.”
He threw off the blankets, and, rising, climbed to the summit of the nearest hill and looked back in the direction in which he and Cribbens had travelled a fortnight before. For half an hour he waited, watching and listening in vain. But as he returned to camp, and prepared to roll his blankets about him, the strange impulse rose in him again abruptly, never so strong, never so insistent. It seemed as though he were bitted and ridden; as if some unseen hand were turning him toward the east; some unseen heel spurring him to precipitate and instant flight.
Flight from what? “No,” he muttered under his breath. “Go now and leave the claim, and leave a fortune! What a fool I’d be, when I can’t see anything or hear anything. To leave a fortune! No, I won’t. No, by God!” He drew Cribbens’s Winchester toward him and slipped a cartridge into the magazine.
“No,” he growled. “Whatever happens, I’m going to stay. If anybody comes—” He depressed the lever of the rifle, and sent the cartridge clashing into the breech.
“I ain’t going to sleep,” he muttered under his mustache. “I can’t sleep; I’ll watch.” He rose a second time, clambered to the nearest hilltop and sat down, drawing the blanket around him, and laying the Winchester across his knees. The hours passed. The dentist sat on the hilltop a motionless, crouching figure, inky black against the pale blur of the sky. By and by the edge of the eastern horizon began to grow blacker and more distinct in out-line. The dawn was coming. Once more McTeague felt the mysterious intuition of approaching danger; an unseen hand seemed reining his head eastward; a spur was in his flanks that seemed to urge him to hurry, hurry, hurry. The influence grew stronger with every moment. The dentist set his great jaws together and held his ground.
“No,” he growled between his set teeth. “No, I’ll stay.” He made a long circuit around the camp, even going as far as the first stake of the new claim, his Winchester cocked, his ears pricked, his eyes alert. There was nothing; yet as plainly as though it were shouted at the very nape of his neck he felt an enemy. It was not fear. McTeague was not afraid.
“If I could only SEE something — somebody,” he muttered, as he held the cocked rifle ready, “I — I’d show him.”
He returned to camp. Cribbens was snoring. The burro had come down to the stream for its morning drink. The mule was awake and browsing. McTeague stood irresolutely by the cold ashes of the camp-fire, looking from side to side with all the suspicion and wariness of a tracked stag. Stronger and stronger grew the strange impulse. It seemed to him that on the next instant he MUST perforce wheel sharply eastward and rush away headlong in a clumsy, lumbering gallop. He fought against it with all the ferocious obstinacy of his simple brute nature.
“Go, and leave the mine? Go and leave a million dollars? No, NO, I won’t go. No, I’ll stay. Ah,” he exclaimed, under his breath, with a shake of his huge head, like an exasperated and harassed brute, “ah, show yourself, will you?” He brought the rifle to his shoulder and covered point after point along the range of hills to the west. “Come on, show yourself. Come on a little, all of you. I ain’t afraid of you; but don’t skulk this way. You ain’t going to drive me away from my mine. I’m going to stay.”
An hour passed. Then two. The stars winked out, and the dawn whitened. The air became warmer. The whole east, clean of clouds, flamed opalescent from horizon to zenith, crimson at the base, where the earth blackened against it; at the top fading from pink to pale yellow, to green, to light blue, to the turquoise iridescence of the desert sky. The long, thin shadows of the early hours drew backward like receding serpents, then suddenly the sun looked over the shoulder of the world, and it was day.
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 t
hey 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. He had made ready to go forward again, but had paused irresolute again, hesitating for the last time.
“I’m a fool,” he growled, scowling back at the range behind him. “I’m a fool. What’s the matter with me? I’m just walking right away from a million dollars. I know it’s there. No, by God!” he exclaimed, savagely, “I ain’t going to do it. I’m going back. I can’t leave a mine like that.” He had wheeled the mule about, and had started to return on his tracks, grinding his teeth fiercely, inclining his head forward as though butting against a wind that would beat him back. “Go on, go on,” he cried, sometimes addressing the mule, sometimes himself. “Go on, go back, go back. I WILL go back.” It was as though he were climbing a hill that grew steeper with every stride. The strange impelling instinct fought his advance yard by yard. By degrees the dentist’s steps grew slower; he stopped, went forward again cautiously, almost feeling his way, like someone approaching a pit in the darkness. He stopped again, hesitating, gnashing his teeth, clinching his fists with blind fury. Suddenly he turned the mule about, and once more set his face to the eastward.
