icer
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.

Five minutes later he was on board a street car. He was not at all
particular as to its destination. He wanted to be anywhere but here.
This neighborhood was getting entirely too active for him.

CHAPTER XV

THE GANGMAN SEES RED

Exactly thirty minutes after Clay had left him to break into the house,
Johnnie lifted his voice in a loud wail for the police. He had read
somewhere that one can never find an officer when he is wanted, but the
Bull-of-Bashan roar of the cowpuncher brought them running from all
directions.

Out of the confused explanations of the range-rider the first policeman
to reach him got two lucid statements.

"They're white-slavin' a straight girl. This busher says his pal went
in to rescue her half an hour ago and hasn't showed up since," he told
his mates.

With Johnnie bringing up the rear they made a noisy attack on the front
door of Number 121. Almost immediately it was opened from the inside.
Four men had come down the stairs in a headlong rush to cut off the
escape of one who had outwitted and taunted them.

Those who wanted to get in and those who wanted to get out all tried to
talk at once, but as soon as the police recognized Jerry Durand they
gave him the floor.

"We're after a flat-worker," explained the ex-pugilist. "He must be
tryin' for a roof getaway." He turned and led the joint forces back up
the stairs.

Thugs and officers surged up after him, carrying with them in their
rush the Runt. He presently found himself on the roof with those
engaged in a man-hunt for his friend. When Clay shattered the window
and disap