Suddenly a series of blood-curdling yells broke from the direction of the corral, and they stopped.  But Clarence at once recognized the well-known war-whoop imitation of Jim Hooker,—­infinitely more gruesome and appalling than the genuine aboriginal challenge.  A half dozen shots fired in quick succession had evidently the same friendly origin.

“Now is our time,” said Clarence eagerly.  “We must run for the house.”

They had fortunately reached by this time the angle of the adobe wall of the casa, and the long afternoon shadows of the building were in their favor.  They pressed forward eagerly with the sounds of Jim Hooker’s sham encounter still in their ears, mingled with answering shouts of defiance from strange voices within the building towards the front.

They rapidly skirted the wall, even passing boldly before the back gateway, which seemed empty and deserted, and the next moment stood beside the narrow window of the boudoir.  Clarence’s surmises were correct; the iron grating was not only loose, but yielded to a vigorous wrench, the vine itself acting as a lever to pull out the rusty bars.  The young man held out his hand, but Mrs. Peyton, with the sudden agility of a young girl, leaped into the window, followed by Mary and Susy.  The inner casement yielded to her touch; the next moment they were within the room.  Then Mrs. Peyton’s flushed and triumphant face reappeared at the window.

“It’s all right; the men are all in the courtyard, or in the front of the house.  The boudoir door is strong, and we can bolt them out.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Clarence quietly; “you will not be disturbed.”

“But are you not coming in?” she asked timidly, holding the window open.

Clarence looked at her with his first faint smile since Peyton’s death.

“Of course I am, but not in that way.  I am going in by the front gate.”

She would have detained him, but, with a quick wave of his hand, he left her, and ran swiftly around the wall of the casa toward the front.  The gate was half open; a dozen excited men were gathered before it and in the archway, and among them, whitened with dust, blackened with powder, and apparently glutted with rapine, and still holding a revolver in his hand, was Jim Hooker!  As Clarence approached, the men quickly retreated inside the gate and closed it, but not before he had exchanged a meaning glance with Jim.  When he reached the gate, a man from within roughly demanded his business.

“I wish to see the leader of this party,” said Clarence quietly.

“I reckon you do,” returned the man, with a short laugh.  “But I kalkilate he don’t return the compliment.”

“He probably will when he reads this note to his employer,” continued Clarence still coolly, selecting a paper from his pocketbook.  It was addressed to Francisco Robles, Superintendent of the Sisters’ Title, and directed him to give Mr. Clarence Brant free access to the property and the fullest information concerning it.  The man took it, glanced at it, looked again at Clarence, and then passed the paper to a third man among the group in the courtyard.  The latter read it, and approached the gate carelessly.