“It wouldn’t listen good to me.  Howcome Crawford to be a prisoner there, I’d want to know.”

“Sure you would, and Steelman would have witnesses a-plenty to swear the old man had just drapped in to see if they couldn’t talk things over and make a settlement of their troubles.”

“All right.  What’s yore programme, then?” asked Bob.

“Darned if I know.  Say we scout the ground over first.”

They made a wide circuit and approached the house from the rear, worming their way through the Indian grass toward the back door.  Dave crept forward and tried the door.  It was locked.  The window was latched and the blind lowered.  He drew back and rejoined his companion.

“No chance there,” he whispered.

“How about the roof?” asked Hart.

It was an eight-roomed house.  From the roof two dormers jutted.  No light issued from either of them.

Dave’s eyes lit.

“What’s the matter with takin’ a whirl at it?” his partner continued.  “You’re tophand with a rope.”

“Suits me fine.”

The young puncher arranged the coils carefully and whirled the loop around his head to get the feel of the throw.  It would not do to miss the first cast and let the rope fall dragging down the roof.  Some one might hear and come out to investigate.

The rope snaked forward and up, settled gracefully over the chimney, and tightened round it close to the shingles.

“Good enough.  Now me for the climb,” murmured Hart.

“Don’t pull yore picket-pin, Bob.  Me first.”

“All right.  We ain’t no time to debate.  Shag up, old scout.”

Dave slipped off his high-heeled boots and went up hand over hand, using his feet against the rough adobe walls to help in the ascent.  When he came to the eaves he threw a leg up and clambered to the roof.  In another moment he was huddled against the chimney waiting for his companion.

As soon as Hart had joined him he pulled up the rope and wound it round the chimney.

“You stay here while I see what’s doin’,” Dave proposed.

“I never did see such a fellow for hoggin’ all the fun,” objected Bob.  “Ain’t you goin’ to leave me trail along?”

“Got to play a lone hand till we find out where we’re at, Bob.  Doubles the chances of being bumped into if we both go.”

“Then you roost on the roof and lemme look the range over for the old man.”

“Didn’t Miss Joyce tell me to find her paw?  What’s eatin’ you, pard?”

“You pore plugged nickel!” derided Hart.  “Think she picked you special for this job, do you?”

“Be reasonable, Bob,” pleaded Dave.

His friend gave way.  “Cut yore stick, then.  Holler for me when I’m wanted.”

Dave moved down the roof to the nearest dormer.  The house, he judged, had originally belonged to a well-to-do Mexican family and had later been rebuilt upon American ideas.  The thick adobe walls had come down from the earlier owners, but the roof had been put on as a substitute for the flat one of its first incarnation.