All through the night I hastened onward, sometimes on a railway track and often in the mud of the prairie. My running away might have been foolish; the man might simply have wanted to make an inquiry. And, indeed, if he had settled upon me why had he waited so long? It was easy enough to reason, but reason when slower than action is a miserable cripple. I had money enough to pay my way out West, but caution dictated a fear of open travel, so I was resolved to walk in lonely places until I felt that to trust a railway train would be less of a risk. The rain increased with the coming of daylight, and I was driven to seek the shelter of a barn. A man came out to milk the cows. "I have invited myself in out of the rain," said I, as he gave me a suspicious look. "All right. A man ought to have sense enough to come in out of the rain. Which way are you traveling?" "Looking for work," I answered. "Well, you ought to be able to find it. But most men hunting for work these days put me in mind of a horse goin' along the road lookin' for somethin' to get scared at. A feller came along yesterday and said he was hungry; but when I showed him some work I wanted done he skulked off. Are you hungry enough to help build a fence?" "No, but I'm hungry enough to pay for something to eat." "Oh, well, then, I guess you're all right. Just go on to the house and make yourself to home." I went to the house; and while sitting by the fire, the wind high and the rain lashing at the window, I formed the resolve to go back to Bolanyo. I would surrender myself to the authorities, to claim the right of trial by jury and to accept the result. And reason was not now a coward, a cripple, but more like a man, cool, bold and strong. I reviewed with pity the morbid fear that held me back from Maffet; I felt now that in safety I could have made myself known to him. The Senator had come to look after my interest, and surely he would not have frowned upon me. Yes, I would go back to Bolanyo. I was sick of the rabbitlike freedom of an outlaw. "How far is it to the railway station?" I inquired of the farmer. "Well," he drawled, "I don't know for certain." I knew that it was not in his Yankee nature to give me a direct answer, so I waited. "There's a milk station a little nearer than the other one. Want to get on the train?" "Oh, no, I want to go over to the station to see how it looks in the rain." "Which, the milk station or the other one? Ain't much to see over there, but the land's worth all of a hundred dollars an acre. But when we came out here from Connecticut it could have been bought for a song and they wouldn't have insisted on your carryin' the tune so mighty well. If you want to go jest to look, the milk station is as good as any and a good deal better than some; but if you want to get on the express train you'd better go to the other one." "How far is it?" "Which, the other one?" "Yes, the other one. How far is it?" "Well, if you walk, it's--"