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 of his employer. He worked in the dark and it took time. "Who are you? Howcome you here?" demanded the cattleman. "I'm Bob Hart. It's quite a story. Miss Joyce sent me and Dave Sanders," answered the young man, still busy with the ropes. From below came the sound of a shot, the shuffling of many feet. "Must be him downstairs." "I reckon. They's a muley gun in the hall." Crawford stretched his cramped muscles, flexing and reflexing his arms and legs. "Get it, son. We'll drift down and sit in." When Bob returned he found the big cattleman examining Doble's revolver. He broke the shotgun to make sure it was loaded. Then, "We'll travel," he said coolly. The battle sounds below had died away. From the landing they looked down into the hall and saw a bar of light that came through a partly open door. Voices were lifted in excitement. "One of Em Crawford's riders," some one was saying. "A whole passel of 'em must be round the place." Came the thud of a boot on something soft. "Put the damn spy outa business, I say," broke in another angrily. Hart's gorge rose. "Tha's Miller," he whispered to his chief. "He's kickin' Dave now he's down 'cause Dave whaled him good." Softly the two men padded down the stair treads and moved along the passage. "Who's that?" demanded Shorty, thrusting his head into the hall. "Stay right there or I'll shoot."