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
littl