Then the big man, who evidently was the leader of the present convention, got up to depart.  He went as swiftly as he had come, and was followed by the slender fellow.  As far as it was possible for me to be sure, I identified these two as Snecker and his son.  The others, however, remained.  Blome removed his mask, which action was duplicated by the two rustlers who had stayed with him.  They were both young, bronzed, hard of countenance, not unlike cowboys.  Evidently this was now a social call on Sampson.  He set out cigars and liquors for his guests, and a general conversation ensued, differing little from what might have been indulged in by neighborly ranchers.  There was not a word spoken that would have caused suspicion.

Blome was genial, gay, and he talked the most.  Wright alone seemed uncommunicative and unsociable.  He smoked fiercely and drank continually.  All at once he straightened up as if listening.  “What’s that?” he called suddenly.

The talking and laughter ceased.  My own strained ears were pervaded by a slight rustling sound.

“Must be a rat,” replied Sampson in relief.  Strange how any sudden or unknown thing weighed upon him.

The rustling became a rattle.

“Sounds like a rattlesnake to me,” said Blome.

Sampson got up from the table and peered round the room.  Just at that instant I felt an almost inappreciable movement of the adobe wall which supported me.  I could scarcely credit my senses.  But the rattle inside Sampson’s room was mingling with little dull thuds of falling dirt.  The adobe wall, merely dried mud was crumbling.  I distinctly felt a tremor pass through it.  Then the blood gushed with sickening coldness back to my heart and seemingly clogged it.

“What in the hell!” exclaimed Sampson.

“I smell dust,” said Blome sharply.

That was the signal for me to drop down from my perch, yet despite my care I made a noise.

“Did you hear a step?” queried Sampson.

Then a section of the wall fell inward with a crash.  I began to squeeze my body through the narrow passage toward the patio.

“Hear him!” yelled Wright.  “This side.”

“No, he’s going that way,” yelled someone else.  The tramp of heavy boots lent me the strength and speed of desperation.  I was not shirking a fight, but to be cornered like a trapped coyote was another matter.  I almost tore my clothes off in that passage.  The dust nearly stifled me.

When I burst into the patio it was not one single instant too soon.  But one deep gash of breath revived me, and I was up, gun in hand, running for the outlet into the court.  Thumping footsteps turned me back.  While there was a chance to get away I did not want to meet odds in a fight.  I thought I heard some one running into the patio from the other end.  I stole along, and coming to a door, without any idea of where it might lead, I softly pushed it open a little way and slipped in.