He sweated there in the glass cage for a long ten minutes before he had managed to get in touch with Sheriff O’Malley and the chief of police, and to tell each in turn what he wanted and where they must meet him, and how many minutes they might have to do it in.  He came out feeling as though he had been in there an hour, and went straight to the rendezvous he had named, which was a shed near the building of Las Nuevas, only on another street.

They came, puffing a little and a good deal mystified.  Starr, not daring to state his real business with them, had asked for men to surround and take a holdup gang.  All told, there were six of them when all had arrived, and they must have been astounded at what Starr told them in a prudent undertone and speaking swiftly.  They did not say anything much, but slipped away after him and came to the high wall that hid so much menace.

“There was a hombre on guard across the street,” Starr told the sheriff.  “He went off to the fire, but he’s liable to come back.  Put a man over there in the shade of that junk shop to watch out for him and nab him before he can give the alarm.  This is ticklish work, remember.  Any Mexican in town would knife you if he knew what you’re up to.

“Johnson, you can climb the pole and pull down on ’em through the skylight, but wait till you see by their actions that they’ve got the tip something’s wrong, and don’t shoot if you can help it.  Remember this is Secret Service work, and the quieter it’s done, the better pleased they’ll be in Washington.  There can’t be any hullabaloo at all.  You two fellows watch the front and back gates, and the no-shooting rule goes with you, too.  If there’s anything else you can do, don’t shoot.  But it’s better to fire a cannon than let a man get away.  Sabe?  Now, Chief, you and the sheriff can come with me, and we’ll bust up the meetin’ for ’em.”

He went up on the shoulder of the man who was to watch outside the rear wall, and straddled the wall for a brief reconnoiter.  Evidently the Junta felt safe in their hidden little room, for no guard had been left in the yard.  The back door was locked, and Starr opened it as silently as he could with his pass key.  Close behind him came Sheriff O’Malley and the chief of police, whose name was Whittier.  They had left their shoes beside the doorstep and walked in their socks, making no noise at all.

Starr did not dare use his searchlight, but felt his way down past the press and the forms, to where the stairs went up to the second floor.  On the third step from the bottom, Starr, feeling his way with his hands, touched a dozing watchman and choked him into submission before the fellow had emitted more than a sleepy grunt of surprise.  They left him gagged and tied to the iron leg of some heavy piece of machinery, and went on up the stairs, treading as stealthily as a prowling cat.