The range-rider was wearing plain shiny leather chaps with a gun in an open holster tied at the bottom to facilitate quick action.  He drew out the revolver, tested it noiselessly, and restored it carefully to its place.  If he needed the six-shooter at all, he would need it badly and suddenly.

Gingerly he tested the window of the dormer, working at it from the side so that his body would not be visible to anybody who happened to be watching from within.  Apparently it was latched.  He crept across the roof to the other dormer.

It was a casement window, and at the touch of the hand it gave way.  The heart of the cowpuncher beat fast with excitement.  In the shadowy darkness of that room death might be lurking, its hand already outstretched toward him.  He peered in, accustoming his eyes to the blackness.  A prickling of the skin ran over him.  The tiny cold feet of mice pattered up and down his spine.  For he knew that, though he could not yet make out the objects inside the room, his face must be like a framed portrait to anybody there.

He made out presently that it was a bedroom with sloping ceiling.  A bunk with blankets thrown back just as the sleeper had left them filled one side of the chamber.  There were two chairs, a washstand, a six-inch by ten looking-glass, and a chromo or two on the wall.  A sawed-off shotgun was standing in a corner.  Here and there were scattered soiled clothing and stained boots.  The door was ajar, but nobody was in the room.

Dave eased himself over the sill and waited for a moment while he listened, the revolver in his hand.  It seemed to him that he could hear a faint murmur of voices, but he was not sure.  He moved across the bare plank floor, slid through the door, and again stopped to take stock of his surroundings.

He was at the head of a stairway which ran down to the first floor and lost itself in the darkness of the hall.  Leaning over the banister, he listened intently for any sign of life below.  He was sure now that he heard the sound of low voices behind a closed door.

The cowpuncher hesitated.  Should he stop to explore the upper story?  Or should he go down at once and try to find out what those voices might tell him?  It might be that time was of the essence of his contract to discover what had become of Emerson Crawford.  He decided to look for his information on the first floor.

Never before had Dave noticed that stairs creaked and groaned so loudly beneath the pressure of a soft footstep.  They seemed to shout his approach, though he took every step with elaborate precautions.  A door slammed somewhere, and his heart jumped at the sound of it.  He did not hide the truth from himself.  If Steelman or his men found him here looking for Crawford he would never leave the house alive.  His foot left the last tread and found the uncarpeted floor.  He crept, hand outstretched, toward the door behind which he heard men talking.  As he moved forward his stomach muscles tightened.  At any moment some one might come out of the room and walk into him.