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 canyons 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.