Evidently Longstreth understood the man before him so well that he wasted no more words. Duane knew what Lawson never dreamed of, and that was that Longstreth had a gun somewhere within reach and meant to use it. Then heavy footsteps sounded outside tramping upon the porch. Duane might have been mistaken, but he believed those footsteps saved Lawson's life. “There they are,” said Lawson, and he opened the door. Five masked men entered. They all wore coats hiding any weapons. A big man with burly shoulders shook hands with Longstreth, and the others stood back. The atmosphere of that room had changed. Lawson might have been a nonentity for all he counted. Longstreth was another man--a stranger to Duane. If he had entertained a hope of freeing himself from this band, of getting away to a safer country, he abandoned it at the very sight of these men. There was power here, and he was bound. The big man spoke in low, hoarse whispers, and at this all the others gathered around him close to the table. There were evidently some signs of membership not plain to Duane. Then all the heads were bent over the table. Low voices spoke, queried, answered, argued. By straining his ears Duane caught a word here and there. They were planning, and they were brief. Duane gathered they were to have a rendezvous at or near Ord. Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present convention, got up to depart. He went as swiftly as he had come, and was followed by his comrades. Longstreth prepared for a quiet smoke. Lawson seemed uncommunicative and unsociable. He smoked fiercely and drank continually. All at once he straightened up as if listening. “What's that?” he called, suddenly. Duane's strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound. “Must be a rat,” replied Longstreth. The rustle became a rattle. “Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Lawson. Longstreth got up from the table and peered round the room. Just at that instant Duane felt an almost inappreciable movement of the adobe wall which supported him. He could scarcely credit his senses. But the rattle inside Longstreth's room was mingling with little dull thuds of falling dirt. The adobe wall, merely dried mud, was crumbling. Duane distinctly felt a tremor pass through it. Then the blood gushed back to his heart. “What in the hell!” exclaimed Longstreth. “I smell dust,” said Lawson, sharply. That was the signal for Duane to drop down from his perch, yet despite his care he made a noise. “Did you hear a step?” queried Longstreth. No one answered. But a heavy piece of the adobe wall fell with a thud. Duane heard it crack, felt it shake. “There's somebody between the walls!” thundered Longstreth. Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash. Duane began to squeeze his body through the narrow passage toward the patio. “Hear him!” yelled Lawson. “This side!” “No, he's going that way,” yelled Longstreth.