He put his eye to the keyhole, and through it saw a narrow segment of the room.  Ad Miller was sitting a-straddle a chair, his elbows on the back.  Another man, one not visible to the cowpuncher, was announcing a decision and giving an order.

“Hook up the horses, Shorty.  He’s got his neck bowed and he won’t sign.  All right.  I’ll get the durn fool up in the hills and show him whether he will or won’t.”

“I could ‘a’ told you he had sand in his craw.”  Shorty was speaking.  He too was beyond the range of Dave’s vision.  “Em Crawford won’t sign unless he’s a mind to.”

“Take my advice, Brad.  Collect the kid, an’ you’ll sure have Em hogtied.  He sets the world an’ all by her.  Y’betcha he’ll talk turkey then,” predicted Miller.

“Are we fightin’ kids?” the squat puncher wanted to know.

“Did I ask your advice, Shorty?” inquired Steelman acidly.

The range-rider grumbled an indistinct answer.  Dave did not make out the words, and his interest in the conversation abruptly ceased.

For from upstairs there came the sudden sounds of trampling feet, of bodies thrashing to and fro in conflict.  A revolver shot barked its sinister menace.

Dave rose to go.  At the same time the door in front of him was jerked open.  He pushed his forty-five into Miller’s fat ribs.

“What’s yore hurry?  Stick up yore hands—­stick ’em up!”

The boy was backing along the passage as he spoke.  He reached the newel post in that second while Miller was being flung aside by an eruption of men from the room.  Like a frightened rabbit Dave leaped for the stairs, taking them three at a time.  Halfway up he collided with a man flying down.  They came together with the heavy impact of fast-moving bodies.  The two collapsed and rolled down, one over the other.

Sanders rose like a rubber ball.  The other man lay still.  He had been put out cold.  Dave’s head had struck him in the solar plexus and knocked the breath out of him.  The young cowpuncher found himself the active center of a cyclone.  His own revolver was gone.  He grappled with a man, seizing him by the wrist to prevent the use of a long-barreled Colt’s.  The trigger fell, a bullet flying through the ceiling.

Other men pressed about him, trying to reach him with their fists and to strike him with their weapons.  Their high heels crushed cruelly the flesh of his stockinged feet.  The darkness befriended Dave.  In the massed melee they dared not shoot for fear of hitting the wrong mark.  Nor could they always be sure which shifting figure was the enemy.

Dave clung close to the man he had seized, using him as a shield against the others.  The pack swayed down the hall into the wedge of light thrown by the lamp in the room.

Across the head of the man next him Shorty reached and raised his arm.  Dave saw the blue barrel of the revolver sweeping down, but could not free a hand to protect himself.  A jagged pain shot through his head.  The power went out of his legs.  He sagged at the hinges of his knees.  He stumbled and went down.  Heavy boots kicked at him where he lay.  It seemed to him that bolts of lightning were zigzagging through him.