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"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.
The posse made Cribbens's camp three days after the unaccountable disappearance of his partner. Their man was gone, but the narrow hoof prints of a mule, mixed with those of huge hob-nailed boots, could be plainly followed in the sand. Here they picked up the trail and held to it steadily till the point was reached where, instead of tending southward it swerved abruptly to the east.
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."
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