A bullet smashed through the paneling and raked him along the forearm. He dropped to his knees, coughing from the smoke, and crawled back to June. His left forearm and hand were covered with blood. “They’ve locked us in, June,” he said. “If we try to get through a window they’ll riddle us.” June merely stared at him, her mind refusing to work. “You mean, we can’t get out--we’ve got to burn?” Jack was staring at a spot in the center of the floor. There was a metal ring sunk in the floor, and beyond it were two hinges--the roothouse trap-door. He sprawled over and dug the ring loose. With a heave he opened the trap, and the odor of musty old vegetables filled the room. An old ladder led down to the bottom. June went down first. There was more shooting, but they could not hear the bullets now. Jack left the trap open to give them a little light. The roothouse was about six feet deep and of about the width of the kitchen. It was cool down there, and no smoke penetrated. They took deep breaths to rid their lungs of the smoke. On one side was an accumulation of old boxes and barrels. Jack lighted a match and almost shouted with joy. Behind those old boxes and barrels was a stairway which led to an outside roothouse door. He flung the boxes aside, clearing the disused stairway, a prayer in his heart that the door might not be nailed down. They could hear the snapping of the flames now, the hoarse shouts of men, the crackle of guns. Jack put his shoulder against the old slanting door and lifted enough to find that it was not fastened down. “We’ll beat ’em yet, June,” he panted. “The fire seems to be mostly at the front of the house yet. We can stay here for a few minutes.” June was swaying sidewise, and before Jack could spring to her assistance she had fainted. He lifted her up and held her in his arms. In falling she had struck her head against the corner of a box, cutting it badly. He tore the muffler from around his neck and bound it around her head. Then he picked her up in his arms and staggered up the old steps, where he hunched in as low as possible, bracing his right shoulder against the door. * * * * * Park Reber did not lead his men straight for the Two Bar X, but took the left-hand road and headed for the Circle S, where he decided to pick up Jim Carlin and his men. He intended sending one man from there to the Lightning to get the assistance of Nort Jackson and his crew. Reber was going to have enough men to comb every inch of the country. It was nearing daylight when they rode into the Circle S. The ranch was deserted. “Mebbe they’re chasin’ rustlers already,” said one of the men. “More likely out doin’ a little rustlin’,” said Buck Priest grimly. His face was the color of ashes, his left leg dangling uselessly from outside the stirrup. The old man was living on his nerve now. Park Reber scowled at him, but said nothing in reply to Priest’s sarcasm.