There was something fascinating in the sight of that faint illumination which linked the wilderness with civilization; so the two watched it in silence for several moments. Finally Bob spoke up:
"Let's get out on the roof, Dave," he whispered, "and take a squint at it through the field-glass."
The literary boy, yawning, nodded assent.
Shutting the window, they tiptoed softly across the room, casting a look at the sleepers. Jack Conroy, partially aroused, began to mumble:
"No, I tell you; he couldn't have thrown me; no, sir; not in a hundred years!" Then his regular breathing told that he was fast asleep again.
The trap-door was mighty hard to budge, but Bob Somers, after some time, worked it loose, and they cautiously climbed out upon a gently-sloping roof.
The moon had now risen high enough to send a faint silvery sheen across the quiet landscape and light up in ghostly patches the ranch-house and its tower.
Bob raised the field-glass to his eyes and looked earnestly at the little spot of flaring color. Instantly it seemed to be flashed startlingly near.
A tracery of underbrush could just be distinguished rising in front, but the flames were still hidden by the hilltop.
"Wish to thunder it was on this side," murmured Bob. "Wonder who it can be—not cowboys, that's sure!"