audibly. At
the foot of this pile of debris, Moore waited for them, the night so
dark down there in the depths, Westcott's outstretched hand touched the
fellow before he was assured of his presence.

The Mexicans were still; whatever deviltry they were up to, it was
being carried on now in silence; the only sound was a muffled scraping.
Brennan yet struggled for breath, but was eager for action. He shoved
his head forward, listening.

"What do yer make o' that noise?" he asked, his words scarcely audible.

"I heerd it afore yer come up," returned Moore. "'Tain't nuthin'
regular. I figure the Mex are goin' in through that winder they
busted. That sound's their boots scaling the wall."

"Ever been inside?"

"Wunst, ter take some papers ter Lacy."

"Well, what's it like? For God's sake speak up--there's goin' ter be
hell to pay in a minute."

"Thar's two rooms; ther outside door an' winder are in the front one,
which is the biggest. The other is whar Mendez sleeps, an' thar's a
door between 'em."

"No windows in the rear room?"

"None I ever see."

"And just the one door; what sort o' partition?"

"Just plain log, I reckon."

"That's all right, Jim," and Westcott felt the marshal's fingers grasp
his arm. "I got it sized up proper. Whoever them folks be, they've
barricaded inter that back room. Likely they've got a dead range on
the front door, an' them Mexes have had all they want tryin' to get to
'em in that way. So now they're crawlin' in through the window.
There'll be some hellabaloo in there presently to my notion, an' I want
ter be thar ter see the curtain go up. Wharabouts are we, Matt?"

"Back o' the bunk-house. Whar do yer want ter go? I kin travel 'round
yere with my eyes shut."

"The front o' Mendez's cabin," said the marshal shortly. "Better take
the other side; if that door is down we'll take those fellows in the
rear afore they know what's happening." He chuckled grimly. "We've
sure played in luck so far, boys; go easy now, and draw yer guns."

They were half-way along the side wall when the firing began--but it
was not the Mexicans this time who began it. The shotgun barked; there
was the sound of a falling body; two revolver shots and then the sharp
ping of a Winchester. Brennan leaped past the boy ahead, and rounded
the corner. A Mexican stood directly in front of the shattered door
peering in, a rifle yet smoking in his hands. With one swift blow of a
revolver but