Naturally, Bob’s first thought was of escape, of some way in which to get out of the four walls which kept him from carrying the warning to Mr. Whitney that might mean the saving of the dam. If he could only get out, he did not fear Harper’s being on guard. The last speech that had come to him through the door had been so and had emphasized so strongly the fact that Harper would be outside, that Bob was quite sure he wouldn’t. At any rate he was willing to take the chance if only he could get out.  
The first thing was to examine his prison. There might be an opening that had been overlooked. Bob started from the door and felt every inch of the wall within his reach. His fingers had to do duty for his eyes, as by this time night had fallen and the interior of the hut was pitch dark. Not even a ray of moonlight came through the cracks in the door. In this slow fashion he made the circuit of the room without finding even a crack in the dried clay.
 
He was trapped!
 
But Bob refused to give up hope. Too much depended on his getting free and being at the dam in time to prevent anything serious happening. Back at the door, he threw his whole weight time and time again on the boards but they held firm. This way, too, was closed to him.
 
What next? he started to go through his pockets, hoping that in their hurried search the cowmen had overlooked his jackknife. If they had he could try to dig through the walls! Hope up for a moment but soon died, as all he could find was a loose button and a broken match that had in the of his khaki jacket.
 
“Much good they’ll do me,” he muttered to himself and sat down with his back to the door to plan some new attempt.
 
But at first all he could think of was what would happen if he did not get out. Probably it meant the blowing up of the dam and and a serious uprising of the Mexicans—one that would mean bloodshed. It was terrible to think of, yet he was convinced that that was the least that could be expected. The cattlemen could not hold the Mexicans in check once they had been started on the rampage.
 
Mr. Whitney knew that something was wrong, but he did not know what. Bob’s confidence in his Chief was great but he feared that no matter how strong and capable Mr. Whitney might be, he would be powerless to the that seemed on the way, unless he had some definite notice that it was approaching.
 
Who else could help?
 
Feather-in-the-Wind! Perhaps the Indian would miss him and sound the alarm? Besides, Bob had asked him to look out for trouble with the Mexicans and perhaps, just perhaps, he might tell Mr. Whitney.
 
Then, as suddenly as the hope had come, it fled. Possibly Mr. Whitney had not come back! Feather-in-the-Wind alone would be no use! He must get out himself!
 
As he pondered his problem, his fingers had been playing with the loose button that had been in his pocket, and now it slipped from his hand and rolled off on the dirt floor toward the center of the room. Rather aimlessly, he reached out and groped for it. As his hand swept the floor it came in contact with a fine, floury substance. “Ashes,” was his thought. An inch or so farther and he gripped an object that he felt to be a half burned stick of wood.
 
Immediately the button was forgotten, for an idea had come to him. He would burn down the door!
 
He had a match and if there was enough wood there was a chance. The planking of the door was dry and there was no reason why it would not catch.
 
The possibility of getting free him and on hands and knees he searched the floor. There were other sticks. Evidently the horse thief had been given a fire and it had only been put out when he was taken away for the last time—probably to the nearest tree high enough to swing a man clear of the ground. Besides this, to Bob’s great delight, a little pile of unburnt wood was stacked in one corner. He wondered why he had not stumbled over them when he first made the circuit of the hut.
 
Only when he had carried all his treasure to the door, did he realize that in all probability his work had been in vain.
 
There was nothing to use as ! He had only one match and a broken one at that. To make sure of his fire he ought to have paper or some substance equally easy to light. The wood was dry but it was too big to catch from one match.
 
Bob almost with his great disappointment. It seemed to be the end; there was nothing more to be done. He had explored the room—every nook and cranny of it—and he had come across nothing that could be used.
 
But he made one more try. Possibly a picture or newspaper had been on the wall and had escaped his fingers when he had first gone round the room.
 
There was no better luck this time and when he came again to the door he was ready to admit defeat.
 
Then, in a flash, he knew ............