The rattle of the latch brought George Doble's sly, shifty eye round.
He was expecting to see one of his friends from below. A stare of blank
astonishment gave way to a leaping flicker of fear. The crook jumped to
his feet, tugging at his gun. Before he could fire, the range-rider had
closed with him.

The plunging attack drove Doble back against the table, a flimsy,
round-topped affair which gave way beneath this assault upon it. The two
men went down in the wreck. Doble squirmed away like a cat, but before he
could turn to use his revolver Bob was on him again. The puncher caught
his right arm, in time and in no more than time. The deflected bullet
pinged through a looking-glass on a dresser near the foot of the bed.

"Go to it, son! Grab the gun and bust his haid wide open!" an excited
voice encouraged Hart.

But Doble clung to his weapon as a lost cow does to a 'dobe water-hole in
the desert. Bob got a grip on his arm and twisted till he screamed with
pain. He did a head spin and escaped. One hundred and sixty pounds of
steel-muscled cowpuncher landed on his midriff and the six-shooter went
clattering away to a far corner of the room.

Bob dived for the revolver, Doble for the door. A moment, and Hart had
the gun. But whereas there had been three in the room there were now but
two.

A voice from the bed spoke in curt command. "Cut me loose." Bob had heard
that voice on more than one round-up. It was that of Emerson Crawford.

The range-rider's sharp knife cut the ropes that tied the hands and feet