il at a trot.

They followed, but cautiously, as if anxious to avoid a conflict and
Wunpost swung off between the points of two hills and led them on down
the dry canyon. If they took the Wet Trail, which the Indian knew, he
might double back and give them the slip; but now there was no water
till they had descended to sea level and crossed the treacherous
corduroy to Furnace Creek. The trap was sprung, they were committed to
the adventure, to follow him wherever he might lead; and Wunpost never
stopped spurring until he had descended the steep canyon and led them
out in the dry wash below. It was like climbing down a wall into a
sink-hole of boiling heat, but Lynch did not weaken and Wunpost bowed
his head and took the main trail to the ranch.

The sun swung low behind the rim of the Panamints, throwing a shadow
across the broad canyon below; ten miles to the east, under the heat and
haze, lay Furnace Creek Ranch and rest; but as his pursuers came on,
just keeping within sight of him, Wunpost turned off sharply to the
north. He quit the trail and struck out across the boulder-patches
towards the point of Tucki Mountain, and if they followed him there it
would be into a country that even the Indians were afraid of. It was
there that Death Valley had earned its name, when a party of Mormon
emigrants had died beside their ox-teams after drinking the water at
Salt Creek. There was Stove-pipe Hole, with the grave close by of the
man who had not stopped to bail the hole; and, nearest of all, was
Poison Spring, the worst water in all Death Valley. Wunpost turned out
and started north, daring his enemies to follow, and Lynch accept the
challenge--alone.

The Indian rode on, leaving the white man to his fate and heading for
Furnace Creek Ranch; and Wunpost, sweating streams and cursing to
himself, flogged on toward Poison Spring. It was a hideous thing to do,
but Lynch had chosen to follow him and his blood would be upon his own
head. Wunpost had given him the trail, to go on to the ranch while he
turned back the way they had come; but no, Lynch was bull-headed, or
perhaps the heat had warped his judgment--in any case he had elected to
follow. The last courtesies were past, Wunpost had given him his chance,
and Lynch had taken his trail like a bloodhound; he could not claim now
that he was going in the same direction--he was following along after
him like a murderer. Perhaps the slow fever of the terrible heat had
turned his