After that his head cleared rapidly. Two windows were open in this higher room, and a sharp current of the night wind blew across him, clearing his mind as rapidly as wind blows away a fog. The alcohol had only stupefied him for the moment. It was not enough to make him sleep, and, instead, it reacted presently as a stimulus, making his heart flutter, while a peculiar sense of depression and guilt troubled him. Now he made out that one man had not left him; the dark outline of him vas by the bed, waiting.
"Who's there?" asked Andrew.
"Allister. Take it easy."
"I'm all right. I'll go down again to the boys."
"That's what I'm here to talk to you about, kid. Are you sure you want to go down?"
He added slowly, "Are you sure your head's clear?"
"Yep. Sure thing."
"Then listen to me, Lanning, while I talk. It's important. Stay here till the morning, then ride on."
"Where?"
"Oh, away from Martindale, that's all."
"Out of the desert? Out of the mountains?"
"Of course. They'll hunt for you here." Allister paused, then went on. "And when you get away what'll you do? Go straight?"
"God willing," said Andrew fervently. "It—it was only luck, bad luck, that put me where I am."
The outlaw scratched a match and lighted a candle; then he dropped a little of the melted tallow on a box, and by that light he peered earnestly into Andrew's face. He appeared to need this light to read the expression on it. It also enabled Andrew to see the bare rafters and the cobwebs across the ceiling, and it showed him the face of Allister. Sometimes the play of shadows made that
