He thought it better to answer the summons.  “What do you want?” he called.

“We want to talk to your partner,” said a voice.

“He’s sleepin’,” called Pete.  “He was out ’most all night.”

“Well, we’ll talk with you then.”

“Go ahead.  I’m listenin’.”

“Suppose you open the door.”

“And jest suppose I don’t?  My pardner ain’t like to be friendly if he’s woke up sudden.”

Pete could hear the murmuring of voices as if in consultation.  Then, “All right.  We’ll come back later.”

“Who’ll I say wants to see him?” asked Pete.

“He’ll know when he sees us.  Old friends of his.”

Meanwhile Pete had risen and moved softly toward the door.  Standing to one side he listened.  He heard footsteps along the hall—­and the sound of some one descending the stairs.  “One of ’em has gone down.  The other is in the hall waitin’,” he thought.  “And both of ’em scared to bust in that door.”

He tiptoed back to the window and glanced down.  The heavy-shouldered man had crossed the street and was again in the restaurant.  Pete saw him step to the telephone.  Surmising that the other was telephoning for reinforcements, Pete knew that he would have to act quickly, or surrender.  He was not afraid to risk being killed in a running fight.  He was willing to take that chance.  But the thought of imprisonment appalled him.  To be shut from the sun and the space of the range—­perhaps for life—­or to be sentenced to be hanged, powerless to make any kind of a fight, without friends or money . . .  He thought of The Spider, of Boca, of Montoya, and of Pop Annersley; of Andy White and Bailey.  He wondered if Ed Brevoort had got clear of El Paso.  He knew that there was some one in the hall, waiting.  To make a break for liberty in that direction meant a killing, especially as Brevoort was supposed to be in the room.  “I’ll keep ’em guessin’,” he told himself, and went back to his chair by the window.  And if there was supposed to be another man in the room, why not carry on the play—­for the benefit of the watcher across the street?  Every minute would count for or against Brevoort’s escape.

Thrusting aside all thought of his own precarious situation, Pete began a brisk conversation with his supposed companion.  “How does your head feel?” he queried, leaning forward and addressing the empty bed.  He nodded as if concurring in the answer.

Then, “Uh-huh!  Well, you look it, all right!”

“You don’t want no breakfast?  Well, I done had mine.”

....................

“What’s the time?  ‘Bout ten.  Goin’ to git up?”