As the night went on, and Oldham found himself unable to sleep in the terrible heat, the situation visualized itself.  Step by step he followed out the sequence of events as they might be, filling in the minutest details of discovery, exposure and ruin.  Gradually, in the tipped balance of after midnight, events as they might be became events as they surely would be.  Oldham began to see that he had made a fearful mistake.  No compunction entered his mind that he had condemned a man to death; but a cold fear gripped him lest his share should be discovered, and he should be called upon to face the consequences.  Oldham enjoyed and could play only the game that was safe so far as physical and personal retribution went.

So deeply did the guilty panic invade his soul that after a time he arose and dressed.  The sleepy porter was just turning out from the smoking compartment.

“What’s this next station?” Oldham demanded.

“Mo-harvey,” blinked the porter.

“I get off there,” stated Oldham briefly.

The porter stared at him.

“I done thought you went ’way through,” he confessed.  “I’se scairt I done forgot you.”

“All right,” said Oldham curtly, and handing him a tip.  “Never mind that confounded brush; get my suit case.”

Ten seconds later he stood on the platform of the little station in the desert while the tail lights of the train diminished slowly into the distance.

The desert lay all about him like a calmed sea on which were dim half-lights of sage brush or alkali flats.  On a distant horizon slept black mountain ranges, stretched low under a brilliant sky that arched triumphant.  In it the stars flamed steadily like candles, after the strange desert fashion.  Although by day the heat would have scorched the boards on which he stood, now Oldham shivered in the searching of the cool insistent night wind that breathed across the great spaces.

He turned to the lighted windows of the little station where a tousled operator sat at a telegraph key.  A couch in the corner had been recently deserted.  The fact that the operator was still awake and on duty argued well for another train soon.  Oldham proffered his question.

“Los Angeles express due now.  Half-hour late,” replied the operator wearily, without looking up.

Oldham caught the train, which landed him in White Oaks about noon.  There he hired a team, and drove the sixty miles to Sycamore Flats by eleven o’clock that night.  The fear was growing in his heart, and he had to lay on himself a strong retaining hand to keep from lashing his horses beyond their endurance and strength.  Sycamore Flats was, of course, long since abed.  In spite of his wild impatience Oldham retained enough sense to know that it would not do to awaken any one for the sole purpose of inquiring as to the whereabouts of Saleratus Bill.  That would too obviously connect him with the gun-man.  Therefore he stabled his horses, roused one of the girls at Auntie Belle’s, and retired to the little box room assigned him.