At last Moore stopped, and waited until Westcott was near enough for him to whisper in the other’s ear.

“There’s a drop yere, ‘bout ten er twelve feet, I reckon; an’ then just a slope to ther bottom.  Don’t make no more noise then yer have to, an’ give me a chance ter git out of ther way afore yer let go.”

Westcott passed the word back across his shoulder to Brennan who was panting heavily, and, watched, as best he could on hands and knees, while Moore lowered himself at arm’s length over the narrow rock ledge.  The boy loosened his grip, but landed almost noiselessly.  Westcott, peering over, could see nothing; there was beneath only impenetrable blackness.  Silently he also dropped and his feet struck earth, sloping rapidly downward.  Hardly had he advanced a yard, when the little marshal struck the dirt, with a force that made him grunt audibly.  At the foot of this pile of debris, Moore waited for them, the night so dark down there in the depths, Westcott’s outstretched hand touched the fellow before he was assured of his presence.

The Mexicans were still; whatever deviltry they were up to, it was being carried on now in silence; the only sound was a muffled scraping.  Brennan yet struggled for breath, but was eager for action.  He shoved his head forward, listening.

“What do yer make o’ that noise?” he asked, his words scarcely audible.

“I heerd it afore yer come up,” returned Moore. “‘Tain’t nuthin’ regular.  I figure the Mex are goin’ in through that winder they busted.  That sound’s their boots scaling the wall.”

“Ever been inside?”

“Wunst, ter take some papers ter Lacy.”

“Well, what’s it like?  For God’s sake speak up—­there’s goin’ ter be hell to pay in a minute.”

“Thar’s two rooms; ther outside door an’ winder are in the front one, which is the biggest.  The other is whar Mendez sleeps, an’ thar’s a door between ’em.”

“No windows in the rear room?”

“None I ever see.”

“And just the one door; what sort o’ partition?”

“Just plain log, I reckon.”

“That’s all right, Jim,” and Westcott felt the marshal’s fingers grasp his arm.  “I got it sized up proper.  Whoever them folks be, they’ve barricaded inter that back room.  Likely they’ve got a dead range on the front door, an’ them Mexes have had all they want tryin’ to get to ‘em in that way.  So now they’re crawlin’ in through the window.  There’ll be some hellabaloo in there presently to my notion, an’ I want ter be thar ter see the curtain go up.  Wharabouts are we, Matt?”

“Back o’ the bunk-house.  Whar do yer want ter go?  I kin travel ’round yere with my eyes shut.”

“The front o’ Mendez’s cabin,” said the marshal shortly.  “Better take the other side; if that door is down we’ll take those fellows in the rear afore they know what’s happening.”  He chuckled grimly.  “We’ve sure played in luck so far, boys; go easy now, and draw yer guns.”