He knew that
shooting from above is an art that few men have acquired.
A bullet sang past his ear just as he swung in and crouched on the
window-sill. Another one hit the bricks close to his head.
The firing stopped. A pair of uniformed legs appeared dangling from
the eaves. A body and a head followed these. They began to descend
jerkily.
Clay took a turn at the gun-play. He fired his revolver into the air.
The spasmodic jerking of the blue legs abruptly ceased.
"He's got a gun!" the man in the air called up to those above.
The fact was obvious. It could not be denied.
"Yuh'd better give up quietly. We're bound to get yuh," an officer
shouted from the roof by way of parley.
The cattleman did not answer except by the smashing of glass. He had
forced his way into two houses within the past hour. He was now busy
breaking into a third. The window had not yielded to pressure.
Therefore he was knocking out the glass with the butt of his revolver.
He crawled through the opening just as some one sat up in bed with a
frightened exclamation.
"Who--is--s--s--s it?" a masculine voice asked, teeth chattering.
Clay had no time to gratify idle curiosity. He ran through the room,
reached the head of the stairs, and went down on the banister to the
first floor. He fled back to the rear of the house and stole out by
the kitchen door.
The darkness of the alley swallowed him, but he could still hear the
shouts of the men on thereof and answering ones from new arrivals below.
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