This was all that was to be had from Mother Borton. Either she knew no more, or she was sharp enough to hide a knowledge that might be dangerous, even fatal, to reveal. She was willing to serve me, and I was forced to let it pass that she knew no more. “Well, I'd better be going then,” said I at last. “It's nearly four o'clock, and everything seems to be quiet hereabouts. I'll find my way to my room.” “You'll do no such thing,” said Mother Borton. “They've not given up the chase yet. Your men have gone home, I reckon, but I'll bet the saloon that you'd have a surprise before you got to the corner.” “Not a pleasant prospect,” said I grimly. “No. You must stay here. The room next to this one is just the thing for you. See?” She drew me into the adjoining room, shading the candle as we passed through the hall that no gleam might fall where it would attract attention. “You'll be safe here,” she said. “Now do as I say. Go to sleep and git some rest. You ain't had much, I guess, since you got to San Francisco.” The room was cheerless, but in the circumstances the advice appeared good. I was probably safer here than in the street, and I needed the rest. “Good night,” said my strange protectress, “You needn't git up till you git ready. This is a beautiful room--beautiful. I call it our bridal chamber, though we don't get no brides down here. There won't be no sun to bother your eyes in the mornin', for that window don't open up outside. So there, can't nobody git in unless he comes from inside the house. There, git to bed. Look out you don't set fire to nothing. And put out the candle. Now good night, dearie.” Mother Borton closed the door behind her, and left me to the shadows. Her departure did not leave me wholly at my ease. I had escaped from my foes, but I was no closer to being in touch with those who would be my friends; and before daylight I might be lying here with my throat slit. At the reflection I hastily bolted the door, and tried the fastenings of the window. All seemed secure, but the sound of a footstep in the passageway gave me a start for an instant. “Only Mother Borton going down stairs,” I thought, with a smile at my fears. There was nothing to be gained by sitting up, and the candle was past its final inch. I felt that I could not sleep, but I would lie down on the bed and rest my tired limbs, that I might refresh myself for the demands of the day. I kicked off my boots, put my revolver under my hand, and lay down. Heedless of Mother Borton's warning I left the candle to burn to the socket, and watched the flickering shadows chase each other over walls and ceiling. The shadows grew larger and blacker, and took fantastic shapes of men and beasts. And then with a confused impression of deadly fear and of an effort to escape from peril, a blacker shadow swallowed up all that had gone before, and carried me with it. CHAPTER VIII IN WHICH I MEET A FEW SURPRISES