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.