The result was that while his feet were flung away
far enough and to spare, the body of Denver inclined
forward. He seemed bound to strike the roof with
his feet and then drop head first into the alley below.
Terry set his teeth with a groan, but as he did so,
Denver whirled in the air like a cat. His body
straightened, his feet barely secured a toehold on
the edge of the roof. The strong arm of Terry
jerked him in to safety.
For a moment they stood close together, Denver panting.
He was saying over and over again: “Never
again. I ain’t any acrobat,
Black Jack!”
That name came easily on his lips now.
Once on the roof it was simple enough to find what
they wanted. There was a broad skylight of dark
green glass propped up a foot or more above the level
of the rest of the flat roof. Beside it Terry
dropped upon his knees and pushed his head under the
glass. All below was pitchy-black, but he distinctly
caught the odor of Durham tobacco smoke.
That scent of smoke was a clear proof that there was
an open way through the loft to the room of the bank
below them. But would the opening be large enough
to admit the body of a man? Only exploring could
show that. He sat back on the roof and put on
the mask with which the all-thoughtful Denver had
provided him. A door banged somewhere far down
the street, loudly. Someone might be making a
hurried and disgusted exit from Pedro’s.
He looked quietly around him. After his immersion
in the thick darkness of the house, the outer night
seemed clear and the stars burned low through the
thin mountain air. Denver’s face was black
under the shadow of his hat.
“How are you, kid—shaky?” he
whispered.
Shaky? It surprised Terry to feel that he had
forgotten about fear. He had been wrapped in
a happiness keener than anything he had known before.
Yet the scheme was far from accomplished. The
real danger was barely beginning. Listening keenly,
he could hear the sand crunch underfoot of the watcher
who paced in front of the building; one of the cardplayers
laughed from the room below—a faint, distant
sound.
“Don’t worry about me,” he told
Denver, and, securing a strong fingerhold on the edge
of the ledge, he dropped his full length into the darkness
under the skylight.
His tiptoes grazed the floor beneath, and letting
his fingers slide off their purchase, he lowered himself
with painful care so that his heels might not jar
on the flooring. Then he held his breath—but
there was no creaking of the loft floor.
That made the adventure more possible. An ill-laid
floor would have set up a ruinous screeching as he
moved, however carefully, across it. Now he whispered
up to Denver. The latter instantly slid down and
Terry caught the solid bulk of the man under the armpits
and lowered him carefully.
“A rotten rathole,” snarled Denver to
his companion in that inimitable, guarded whisper.
“How we ever coming back this way—in
a hurry?”
