His friend gave way. "Cut yore stick, then. Holler for me when I'm
wanted."

Dave moved down the roof to the nearest dormer. The house, he judged, had
originally belonged to a well-to-do Mexican family and had later been
rebuilt upon American ideas. The thick adobe walls had come down from the
earlier owners, but the roof had been put on as a substitute for the flat
one of its first incarnation.

The range-rider was wearing plain shiny leather chaps with a gun in an
open holster tied at the bottom to facilitate quick action. He drew out
the revolver, tested it noiselessly, and restored it carefully to its
place. If he needed the six-shooter at all, he would need it badly and
suddenly.

Gingerly he tested the window of the dormer, working at it from the side
so that his body would not be visible to anybody who happened to be
watching from within. Apparently it was latched. He crept across the roof
to the other dormer.

It was a casement window, and at the touch of the hand it gave way.
The heart of the cowpuncher beat fast with excitement. In the shadowy
darkness of that room death might be lurking, its hand already
outstretched toward him. He peered in, accustoming his eyes to the
blackness. A prickling of the skin ran over him. The tiny cold feet of
mice pattered up and down his spine. For he knew that, though he could
not yet make out the objects inside the room, his face must be like a
framed portrait to anybody there.

He made out presently that it was a bedroom with sloping ceiling. A bunk