John Terry was observing.  He had been fluttering around the north window, constantly getting bolder, and had not been disturbed.  When he withdrew his sombrero and found that it was intact he smiled to himself and leaned his elbows on the sill, looking carefully around the plain.  The discovery that there was no cover on the north side cheered him greatly and he called to Boggs, outlining a plan of action.

Boggs listened intently and then smiled for the first time since dawn.  “Bully for you, Terry!” he enthused.  “Wait till dark—­we’ll fool ’em.”

A bullet chipped the ’dobe at Terry’s side and he ducked as he leaped back.  “From an angle—­what did I tell you?” he laughed.  “We’ll drop out here an’ sneak behind the house after dark.  They’ll be watching the door—­an’ they won’t be able to see us, anyhow.”

Boggs sucked his thumb tenderly and grinned.  “After which—­,” he elated.

“After which—­,” gravely repeated Terry, the others echoing it with unrestrained joy.

“Then, mebby, I can get a drink,” chuckled Larkin, brightening under the thought.

“The moon comes up at ten,” warned a voice.  “It’ll be full to-night—­an’ there ain’t many clouds in sight.”

“Ol’ King Cole was a merry ol’ soul,” hummed McQuade, lightly.

“An’—­a—­merry—­ol’—­soul—­was—­he!—­was—­he!” thundered the chorus, deep-toned and strong. “He had a wife for every toe, an’ some toes counted three!”

“Listen!” cried Meade, holding up his hand.

“An’ every wife had sixteen dogs, an’ every dog a flea!” shouted a voice from the besiegers, followed by a roar of laughter.

The hilarity continued until dark, only stopping when John Terry slipped out of the window, dropped to all-fours and stuck his head around the corner of the rear wall.  He saw many stars and was silently handed to Pete Wilson.

“What was that noise?” exclaimed Boggs in a low tone.  “Are you all right, Terry?” he asked, anxiously.

Three knocks on the wall replied to his question and then McQuade went out, and three more knocks were heard.

“Wonder why they make that funny noise,” muttered Boggs.

“Bumped inter something, I reckon,” replied Jim Larkin.  “Get out of my way—­I’m next.”

Boggs listened intently and then pushed Duke Lane back.  “Don’t like that—­sounds like a crack on the head.  Hey, Jim! Say something!” he called softly.  The three knocks were repeated, but Boggs was suspicious and he shook his head decisively.  “To ’ell with the knocking—­say something!”

“Still got them twelve men?” asked a strange voice, pleasantly.

“An’ every dog a flea,” hummed another around the corner.

“Hell!” shouted Boggs.  “To the door, fellers!  To the door—­quick!”