But Doble clung to his weapon as a lost cow does to a ’dobe water-hole in the desert.  Bob got a grip on his arm and twisted till he screamed with pain.  He did a head spin and escaped.  One hundred and sixty pounds of steel-muscled cowpuncher landed on his midriff and the six-shooter went clattering away to a far corner of the room.

Bob dived for the revolver, Doble for the door.  A moment, and Hart had the gun.  But whereas there had been three in the room there were now but two.

A voice from the bed spoke in curt command.  “Cut me loose.”  Bob had heard that voice on more than one round-up.  It was that of Emerson Crawford.

The range-rider’s sharp knife cut the ropes that tied the hands and feet of his employer.  He worked in the dark and it took time.

“Who are you?  Howcome you here?” demanded the cattleman.

“I’m Bob Hart.  It’s quite a story.  Miss Joyce sent me and Dave Sanders,” answered the young man, still busy with the ropes.

From below came the sound of a shot, the shuffling of many feet.

“Must be him downstairs.”

“I reckon.  They’s a muley gun in the hall.”

Crawford stretched his cramped muscles, flexing and reflexing his arms and legs.  “Get it, son.  We’ll drift down and sit in.”

When Bob returned he found the big cattleman examining Doble’s revolver. 
He broke the shotgun to make sure it was loaded.

Then, “We’ll travel,” he said coolly.

The battle sounds below had died away.  From the landing they looked down into the hall and saw a bar of light that came through a partly open door.  Voices were lifted in excitement.

“One of Em Crawford’s riders,” some one was saying.  “A whole passel of ’em must be round the place.”

Came the thud of a boot on something soft.  “Put the damn spy outa business, I say,” broke in another angrily.

Hart’s gorge rose.  “Tha’s Miller,” he whispered to his chief.  “He’s kickin’ Dave now he’s down ’cause Dave whaled him good.”

Softly the two men padded down the stair treads and moved along the passage.

“Who’s that?” demanded Shorty, thrusting his head into the hall.  “Stay right there or I’ll shoot.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” answered the cattleman evenly.  “I’m comin’ into that room to have a settlement.  There’ll be no shootin’—­unless I do it.”

His step did not falter.  He moved forward, brushed Shorty aside, and strode into the midst of his enemies.

Dave lay on the floor.  His hair was clotted with blood and a thin stream of it dripped from his head.  The men grouped round his body had their eyes focused on the man who had just pushed his way in.  All of them were armed, but not one of them made a move to attack.

For there is something about a strong man unafraid more potent than a company of troopers.  Such a man was Emerson Crawford now.  His life might be hanging in the balance of his enemies’ fears, but he gave no sign of uncertainty.  His steady gray eyes swept the circle, rested on each worried face, and fastened on Brad Steelman.