Sinclair raised his head and surveyed the side of the wall for the last time.  The sill of the window of the first floor was no higher than his shoulders.  The eaves above that window projected well out, and they would afford an excellent hold by which he could swing himself up.  But having swung up, the great problem was to obtain sufficient purchase for his knee to keep from sliding off before he had a chance to steady himself.  Once on the ledge of those eaves, he could stand up and look through any one of the three windows into the room which, according to the boy, Cartwright occupied.

He lifted himself onto the sill of the first window, bumping his nose sharply against the pane of the glass.

Then began the more difficult task.  He straightened and fixed his fingers firmly on the ledge above him, waiting until his palm and the fingertips had sweated into a steady grip.  Then he stepped as far as possible to one side and sprang up with a great heave of the shoulders.

But the effort was too great.  He not only flung himself far enough up, but too far, and his descending knee, striving for a hold, slipped off as if from an oiled surface.  He came down with a jar, the full length of his arms, a fall that flung him down on his back on the ground.

With a stifled curse he leaped up again.  It seemed that the noise of that fall must have resounded for a great distance, but, as he stood there listening, no one drew near.  Someone came out of the front door of the hotel, laughing.

The cowpuncher tried again.  He managed the first stage of the ascent, as before, very easily, but, making the second effort he exceeded too much in caution and fell short.  However, the fall did not include a toppling all the way to the ground.  His feet landed softly on the sill, and, at the same time, voices turned the corner of the building beside him.  Sinclair flattened himself against the pane of the lower window and held his breath.  Two men were beneath him.  Their heads were level with his feet.  He could have kicked the hats off their heads, without the slightest trouble.

It was a mystery that they did not see him, he thought, until he recalled that all men, at night, naturally face outward from a wall.  It is an instinct.  They stood close together, talking rather low.  The one was fairly tall, and the other squat.  The shorter man lighted a cigarette.  The match light glinted on an oily, olive skin, and so much of the profile as he could see was faintly familiar.  He sent his memory lurching back into far places and old times, but he had no nerve for reminiscence.  He recalled himself to the danger of the moment and listened to them talking.

“What’s happened?” the taller man was saying.

“So far, nothing,” grunted the other.

“And how long do you feel we’d ought to keep it up?”

“I dunno.  I’ll tell you when I get tired.”

“Speaking personal, Fatty, I’m kind of tired of it right now.  I want to hit the hay.”