The man from Arizona did not answer and did not stop. 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.