A score of black, crawling objects were following him, crawling from bush to bush, converging upon him.
"THEY" were after him, were closing in upon him, were within touch of his hand, were at his feet--WERE AT HIS THROAT.
McTeague jumped up with a shout, oversetting the blanket.

There was nothing in sight.

For miles around, the alkali was empty, solitary, quivering and shimmering under the pelting fire of the afternoon's sun.
But once more the spur bit into his body, goading him on.

There was to be no rest, no going back, no pause, no stop.

Hurry, hurry, hurry on.
The brute that in him slept so close to the surface was alive and alert, and tugging to be gone.