I lay in my bunk and cast things up in my mind.  The patch of moonlight from the window moved slowly across the floor.  One of the men was snoring, but with regularity, so he did not annoy me.  The outside silence was softly musical with all the little voices that at Hooper’s had so disconcertingly lacked.  There were crickets—­I had forgotten about them—­and frogs, and a hoot owl, and various such matters, beneath whose influence customarily my consciousness merged into sleep so sweetly that I never knew when I had lost them.  But I was never wider awake than now, and never had I done more concentrated thinking.

For the moment, and for the moment, only, I was safe.  Old Man Hooper thought he had put me out of the way.  How long would he continue to think so?  How long before his men would bring true word of the mistake that had been made?  Perhaps the following day would inform him that Jim Starr and not myself had been reached by his killer’s bullet.  Then, I had no doubt, a second attempt would be made on my life.  Therefore, whatever I was going to do must be done quickly.

I had the choice of war or retreat.  Would it do me any good to retreat?  There was the Jew drummer who was killed in San Francisco; and others whose fates I have not detailed.  But why should he particularly desire my extinction?  What had I done or what knowledge did I possess that had not been equally done and known by any chance visitor to the ranch?  I remembered the notes in my shirt pocket; and, at the risk of awakening some of my comrades, I lit a candle and studied them.  They were undoubtedly written by the same hand.  To whom had the other been smuggled? and by what means had it come into Old Man Hooper’s possession?  The answer hit me so suddenly, and seemed intrinsically so absurd, that I blew out the candle and lay again on my back to study it.

And the more I studied it, the less absurd it seemed, not by the light of reason, but by the feeling of pure intuition.  I knew it as sanely as I knew that the moon made that patch of light through the window.  The man to whom that other note had been surreptitiously conveyed by the sad-eyed, beautiful girl of the iron-barred chamber was dead; and he was dead because Old Man Hooper had so willed.  And the former owners of the other notes of the “Collection” concerning which the old man had spoken were dead, too—­dead for the same reason and by the same hidden hands.

Why?  Because they knew about the girl?  Unlikely.  Without doubt Hooper had, as in my case, himself made possible that knowledge.  But I remembered many things; and I knew that my flash of intuition, absurd as it might seem at first sight, was true.  I recalled the swift, darting onslaughts with the fly whackers, the fierce, vindictive slaughter of the frogs, his early-morning pursuit of the flock of migrating birds.  Especially came clear to my recollection the words spoken at breakfast: 

“Everything inside the walls is mine!  Mine!  Mine!  Understand?  I will not tolerate anything that is not mine; that does not obey my will; that does not come when I say come; go when I say go; and fall silent when I say be still!”