As the boys had started from the ranch house at two, Whitey figured that they would have time enough, though none to waste.
The hours could not be counted, but perhaps three had passed, and through the scented, velvety darkness there came a touch of gray in the east, which changed to pink, then to opal, as the coming sun tinged the low-lying clouds.

The animal and bird life began to stir, preparing to greet the beauty of the dawn, or rather, to start on their affairs of the day, for it is likely that the denizens of the prairie had as little thought for the glory of the sunrise as had Injun and Whitey, whose minds were firmly fixed on train robbers.
When the light was full, the boys drew up, and looked off toward the southwest.

Whitey had been depending on Injun's never-failing sense of direction to carry them aright.

This ability to point toward any point of the compass, in the dark, was one of Injun's gifts--though he didn't know what a compass was.

And sure enough, away off there against the gray of the clouds was a line of high, tiny crosses, telegraph poles, near which stretched the tracks of the road.
When he saw them, Whitey could not resist a whoop of joy.