The slope fell away beneath his hurrying feet; the sage-brush dwindled, and at length ceased; the sand gave place to a fine powder, white as snow; and an hour after he had fired the rifle his mule's hoofs were crisping and cracking the sun-baked flakes of alkali on the surface of Death Valley.
Tracked and harried, as he felt himself to be, from one camping place to another, McTeague had suddenly resolved to make one last effort to rid himself of the enemy that seemed to hang upon his heels.

He would strike straight out into that horrible wilderness where even the beasts were afraid.

He would cross Death Valley at once and put its arid wastes between him and his pursuer.
"You don't dare follow me now," he muttered, as he hurried on.

"Let's see you come out HERE after me." He hurried on swiftly, urging the mule to a rapid racking walk.

Towards four o'clock the sky in front of him began to flush pink and golden.
McTeague halted and breakfasted, pushing on again immediately afterward.
The dawn flamed and glowed like a brazier, and the sun rose a vast red-hot coal floating in fire.