The thought of the transom occurred to me. I tiptoed over to that side
and looked down. The opening was about five feet below the parapet.
After a moment's thought I tied a bit of stone from the coping in the
end of my silk bandana and lowered it at arm's length. By swinging it
gently back and forth I determined that the transom was open. With the
stub of the pencil every cowboy carried to tally with I scribbled a few
words on an envelope which I wrapped about the bit of coping. Something
to the effect that I was there, and expected to gain entrance to her
room later, and to be prepared. Then I lowered my contraption, caused
it to tap gently a dozen times on the edge of the transom, and finally
swung it with a rather nice accuracy to fly, bandana and all, through
the opening. After a short interval of suspense I saw the reflection of
a light and so knew my message had been received.

There was nothing to do now but return to a point of observation. On my
way I stubbed my stockinged foot against a stone _metate_ or mortar in
which Indians and Mexicans make their flour. The heavy pestle was there.
I annexed it. Dropped accurately from the height of the roof it would
make a very pretty weapon. The trouble, of course, lay in that word
"accurately."

But I soon found the fates playing into my hands. At the end of a
quarter hour the sentry emerged from under the verandah, looked up at
the sky, yawned, stretched, and finally sat down with his back against
the wall of the building opposite. Inside of ten minutes he was sound
asleep and snoring gently.

I wanted nothing better than that. The descent was a little difficult to
accomplish noiselessly, as I had to drop some feet, but I managed it.