I retired to the vicinity of the willows and uttered the cry of the barred owl.  After ten seconds I repeated it, and so continued.  My only regret was that I could not chirp convincingly like a frog.  I saw a shadow shift suddenly through one of the transoms, and at once glided to the wall near the little door.  After a moment or so it opened to emit Old Man Hooper and another bulkier figure which I imagined to be that of Ramon.  Both were armed with shotguns.  Suddenly it came to me that I was lucky not to have been able to chirp convincingly like a frog.  They hunted frogs with torches and in a crowd.  Those two carried no light and they were so intent on making a sneak on the willows and the supposititious owl that I, flattened in the shadow of the wall, easily escaped their notice.  I slipped inside the doorway.

This brought me into a narrow passage between two buildings.  The other end looked into the interior court.  A careful reconnaissance showed no one in sight, so I walked boldly along the verandah in the direction of the girl’s room.  Her note had said she was constantly guarded; but I could see no one in sight, and I had to take a chance somewhere.  Two seconds’ talk would do me:  I wanted to know in which of the numerous rooms the old man slept.  I had a hunch it would be a good idea to share that room with him.  What to do then I left to the hunch.

But when I was half way down the verandah I heard the wicket door slammed shut.  The owl hunters had returned more quickly than I had anticipated.  Running as lightly as possible I darted down the verandah and around the corner of the left wing.  This brought me into a narrow little garden strip between the main house and the wall dividing the court from the corrals and stable yards.  Footsteps followed me but stopped.  A hand tried the door knob to the corner room.

“Nothing,” I heard Hooper’s voice replying to a question.  “Nothing at all.  Go to sleep.”

The fragrant smell of Mexican tobacco reached my nostrils.  After a moment Ramon—­it was he—­resumed a conversation in Spanish: 

“I do not know, senor, who the man was.  I could but listen; it was not well to inquire nor to show too much interest.  His name, yes; Jim Starr, but who he is——­” I could imagine the shrug.  “It is of no importance.”

“It is of importance that the other man still lives,” broke in Hooper’s harsher voice.  “I will not have it, I say!  Are you sure of it?”

“I saw him.  And I saw his horse at the Senor Meigs.  It was the brown that bucks badly, so I cut the quarter straps of his saddle.  It might be that we have luck; I do not count on it.  But rest your mind easy, senor, it shall be arranged.”

“It better be.”

“But there is more, senor.  The senor will remember a man who rode in races for him many years ago, one named Artie——­”

“Brower!” broke in Hooper.  “What about him?”

“He is in town.  He arrived yesterday afternoon.”