he?
Well, I'm after the ol' horn-toad full jump," the puncher murmured,
a gay grin on his good-looking face.

He, too, examined his gun before he followed Dave through the dormer
window and passed into the frowsy bedchamber. None of the details of it
escaped his cool, keen gaze, least of all the sawed-off shotgun in the
corner.

"That scatter gun might come handy. Reckon I'll move it so's I'll know
just where it's at when I need it," he said to himself, and carried the
gun to the bed, where he covered it with a quilt.

At the top of the stairs Bob also hesitated before passing down. Why not
be sure of his line of communications with the roof before going too far?
He did not want to be in such a hurry that his retreat would be cut off.

With as little noise as possible Bob explored the upper story. The first
room in which he found himself was empty of all furniture except a pair
of broken-backed chairs. One casual glance was enough here.

He was about to try a second door when some one spoke. He recognized the
voice. It belonged to the man who wrote his pay checks, and it came from
an adjoining room.

"Always knew you was crooked as a dog's hind laigs Doble. Never liked you
a lick in the road. I'll say this. Some day I'll certainly hang yore hide
up to dry for yore treachery."

"No use to get on the peck, Em. It don't do you no good to make me sore.
Maybe you'll need a friend before you're shet of Brad."

"It relieves my mind some to tell you what a yellow coyote you are,"
explained the cattleman. "You got about as much sand as a brush rabbit
and I'd trust you as far as I would a rattler, you damned sidewinder."

Bob tried the door. The knob turned in his hand and the door slowly
opened inward.

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 be