The thought of the transom occurred to me.  I tiptoed over to that side and looked down.  The opening was about five feet below the parapet.  After a moment’s thought I tied a bit of stone from the coping in the end of my silk bandana and lowered it at arm’s length.  By swinging it gently back and forth I determined that the transom was open.  With the stub of the pencil every cowboy carried to tally with I scribbled a few words on an envelope which I wrapped about the bit of coping.  Something to the effect that I was there, and expected to gain entrance to her room later, and to be prepared.  Then I lowered my contraption, caused it to tap gently a dozen times on the edge of the transom, and finally swung it with a rather nice accuracy to fly, bandana and all, through the opening.  After a short interval of suspense I saw the reflection of a light and so knew my message had been received.

There was nothing to do now but return to a point of observation.  On my way I stubbed my stockinged foot against a stone metate or mortar in which Indians and Mexicans make their flour.  The heavy pestle was there.  I annexed it.  Dropped accurately from the height of the roof it would make a very pretty weapon.  The trouble, of course, lay in that word “accurately.”

But I soon found the fates playing into my hands.  At the end of a quarter hour the sentry emerged from under the verandah, looked up at the sky, yawned, stretched, and finally sat down with his back against the wall of the building opposite.  Inside of ten minutes he was sound asleep and snoring gently.

I wanted nothing better than that.  The descent was a little difficult to accomplish noiselessly, as I had to drop some feet, but I managed it.  After crouching for a moment to see if the slight sounds had aroused him, I crept along the wall to where he sat.  The stone pestle of the metate I had been forced to leave behind me, but I had the heavy barrel of my gun, and I was going to take no chances.  I had no compunctions as to what I did to any one of this pack of mad dogs.  Cautiously I drew it from its holster and poised it to strike.  At that instant I was seized and pinioned from behind.

CHAPTER XI

I did not struggle.  I would have done so if I had been able, but I was caught in a grip so skillful that the smallest move gave me the most exquisite pain.  At that time I had not even heard the words jiu jitsu, but I have looked them up since.  Cortinez, the sleepy sentry, without changing his position, had opened his eyes and was grinning at me.

I was forced to my feet and marched to the open door of the corner room.  There I was released, and turned around to face Hooper himself.  The old man’s face was twisted in a sardonic half-snarl that might pass for a grin; but there was no smile in his unblinking wildcat eyes.  There seemed to be trace neither of the girl nor the girl’s occupation.