THE RANGELAND AVENGER

BY MAX BRAND

Originally published in 1922 in _Western Story Magazine_ under thetitle of THREE WHO PAID, written under the pseudonym of George OwenBaxter, and subsequently in book form under the title THE RANGELANDAVENGER in 1924. 

1

Of the four men, Hal Sinclair was the vital spirit. In the actual laborof mining, the mighty arms and tireless back Of Quade had been atreasure. For knowledge of camping, hunting, cooking, and all the loreof the trail, Lowrie stood as a valuable resource; and Sandersen wasthe dreamy, resolute spirit, who had hoped for gold in those mountainsuntil he came to believe his hope. He had gathered these threestalwarts to help him to his purpose, and if he lived he would lead yetothers to failure. 

Hope never died in this tall, gaunt man, with a pale-blue eye the colorof the horizon dusted with the first morning mist. He was the veryspirit of lost causes, full of apprehensions, foreboding, superstitions. A hunch might make him journey five hundred miles; asnort of his horse could make him give up the trail and turn back. 

But Hal Sinclair was the antidote for Sandersen. He was still a boy atthirty--big, handsome, thoughtless, with a heart as clean as new snow. His throat was so parched by that day's ride that he dared not open hislips to sing, as he usually did. He compromised by humming songs newand old, and when his companions cursed his noise, he contented himselfwith talking softly to his horse, amply rewarded when the ponyoccasionally lifted a tired ear to the familiar voice. 

Failure and fear were the blight on the spirit of the rest. They hadfound no gold worth looking at twice, and, lingering too long in thesearch, they had rashly turned back on a shortcut across the desert. Two days before, the blow had fallen. They found Sawyer's water holenearly dry, just a little pool in the center, with caked, dead mud allaround it. They drained that water dry and struck on. Since then thewater famine had gained a hold on them; another water hole had not adrop in it. Now they could only aim at the cool, blue mockery of themountains before them, praying that the ponies would last to thefoothills. 

Still Hal Sinclair could sing softly to his horse and to himself; and, though his companions cursed his singing, they blessed him for it intheir hearts. Otherwise the white, listening silence of the desertwould have crushed them; otherwise the lure of the mountains would havemaddened them and made them push on until the horses would have diedwithin five miles of the labor; otherwise the pain in their slowlyswelling throats would have taken their reason. For thirst in thedesert carries the pangs of several deaths--death from fire, suffocation, and insanity. 

No wonder the three scowled at Hal Sinclair when he drew his revolver. 

"My horse is gun-shy, " he said, "but I'll bet the rest of you I candrill a horn off that skull before you do. "

Of course it was a foolish challenge. Lowrie was the gun expert of theparty. Indeed he had reached that dangerous point of efficiency withfirearms where a man is apt to reach for his gun to decide an argument. Now Lowrie followed the direction of Sinclair's gesture. It was theskull of a steer, with enormous branching horns. The rest of theskeleton was sinking into the sands. 

"Don't talk fool talk, " said Lowrie. "Save your wind and yourammunition. You may need 'em for yourself, son!"

That grim suggestion made Sandersen and Quade shudder. But a grinspread on the broad, ugly face of Lowrie, and Sinclair merely shruggedhis shoulders. 

"I'll try you for a dollar. "

"Nope. "

"Five dollars?"

"Nope. "

"You're afraid to try, Lowrie!"

It was a smiling challenge, but Lowrie flushed. He had a childish pridein his skill with weapons. 

"All right, kid. Get ready!"

He brought a Colt smoothly into his hand and balanced it dexterously, swinging it back and forth between his eyes and the target to makeready for a snap shot. 

"Ready!" cried Hal Sinclair excitedly. 

Lowrie's gun spoke first, and it was the only one that was fired, forSinclair's horse was gun-shy indeed. At the explosion he pitchedstraight into the air with a squeal of mustang fright and came downbucking. The others forgot to look for the results of Lowrie's shot. They reined their horses away from the pitching broncho disgustedly. Sinclair was a fool to use up the last of his mustang's strength inthis manner. But Hal Sinclair had forgotten the journey ahead. He wasrioting in the new excitement cheering the broncho to new exertions. And it was in the midst of that flurry of action that the great blowfell. The horse stuck his right forefoot into a hole. 

To the eyes of the others it seemed to happen slowly. The mustang washalted in the midst of a leap, tugged at a leg that seemed glued to theground, and then buckled suddenly and collapsed on one side. They heardthat awful, muffled sound of splintering bone and then the scream ofthe tortured horse. 

But they gave no heed to that. Hal Sinclair in the fall had been pinnedbeneath his mount. The huge strength of Quade sufficed to budge thewrithing mustang. Lowrie and Sandersen drew Sinclair's pinioned rightleg clear and stretched him on the sand. 

It was Lowrie who shot the horse. 

"You've done a brown turn, " said Sandersen fiercely to the prostratefigure of Sinclair. "Four men and three hosses. A fine partner you are, Sinclair!"

"Shut up, " said Hal. "Do something for that foot of mine. "

Lowrie cut the boot away dexterously and turned out the foot. It waspainfully twisted to one side and lay limp on the sand. 

"Do something!" said Sinclair, groaning. 

The three looked at him, at the dead horse, at the white-hot desert, atthe distant, blue mountains. 

"What the devil can we do? You've spoiled all our chances, Sinclair. "

"Ride on then and forget me! But tie up that foot before you go. Ican't stand it!"

Silently, with ugly looks, they obeyed. Secretly every one of the threewas saying to himself that this folly of Sinclair's had ruined alltheir chances of getting free from the sands alive. They looked acrossat the skull of the steer. It was still there, very close. It seemed tohave grown larger, with a horrible significance. And each instinctivelyput a man's skull beside it, bleached and white, with shadow eyes. Quade did the actual bandaging of Sinclair's foot, drawing tight abovethe ankle, so that some of the circulation was shut off; but it easedthe pain, and now Sinclair sat up. 

"I'm sorry, " he said, "mighty sorry, boys!"

There was no answer. He saw by their lowered eyes that they were hatinghim. He felt it in the savage grip of their hands, as they lifted himand put him into Quade's saddle. Quade was the largest, and it wasmutely accepted that he should be the first to walk, while Sinclairrode. It was accepted by all except Quade, that is to say. That big manstrode beside his horse, lifting his eyes now and then to glareremorselessly at Sinclair. 

It was bitter work walking through that sand. The heel crunched intoit, throwing a strain heavily on the back of the thigh, and then theball of the foot slipped back in the midst of a stride. Also the laborraised the temperature of the body incredibly. With no wind stirring itwas suffocating. 

And the day was barely beginning!

Barely two hours before the sun had been merely a red ball on the edgeof the desert. Now it was low in the sky, but bitterly hot. And theirmournful glances presaged the horror that was coming in the middle ofthe day. 

Deadly silence fell on that group. They took their turns by the watch, half an hour at a time, walking and then changing horses, and, as eachman took his turn on foot, he cast one long glance of hatred atSinclair. 

He was beginning to know them for the first time. They were chanceacquaintances. The whole trip had been undertaken by him on the spur ofthe moment; and, as far as lay in his cheery, thoughtless nature, hehad come to regret it. The work of the trail had taught him that he wasmismated in this company, and the first stern test was stripping themasks from them. He saw three ugly natures, three small, cruel souls. 

It came Sandersen's turn to walk. 

"Maybe I could take a turn walking, " suggested Sinclair. 

It was the first time in his life that he had had to shift any burdenonto the shoulders of another except his brother, and that wasdifferent. Ah, how different! He sent up one brief prayer for RileySinclair. There was a man who would have walked all day that hisbrother might ride, and at the end of the day that man of iron would beas fresh as those who had ridden. Moreover, there would have been noquestions, no spite, but a free giving. Mutely he swore that he wouldhereafter judge all men by the stern and honorable spirit of Riley. 

And then that sad offer: "Maybe I could take a turn walking, Sandersen. I could hold on to a stirrup and hop along some way!"

Lowrie and Quade sneered, and Sandersen retorted fiercely: "Shut up!You know it ain't possible, but I ought to call your bluff. "

He had no answer, for it was not possible. The twisted foot was asteady torture. 

In another half hour he asked for water, as they paused for Sandersento mount, and Lowrie to take his turn on foot. Sandersen snatched thecanteen which Quade reluctantly passed to the injured man. 

"Look here!" said Sandersen. "We got to split up on this. You sit thereand ride and take it easy. Me and the rest has to go through hell. Youtake some of the hell yourself. You ride, but we'll have the water, andthey ain't much of it left at that!"

Sinclair glanced helplessly at the others. Their faces were set instern agreement. 

Slowly the sun crawled up to the center of the sky and stuck there forendless hours, it seemed, pouring down a fiercer heat. And thefoothills still wavered in blue outlines that meant distance--terribledistance. 

Out of the east came a cloud of dust. The restless eye of Sandersen sawit first, and a harsh shout of joy came from the others. Quade waswalking. He lifted his arms to the cloud of dust as if it were a visionof mercy. To Hal Sinclair it seemed that cold water was already runningover his tongue and over the hot torment of his foot. But, after thatfirst cry of hoarse joy, a silence was on the others, and gradually hesaw a shadow gather. 

"It ain't wagons, " said Lowrie bitterly at length. "And it ain'triders; it comes too fast for that. And it ain't the wind; it comes tooslow. But it ain't men. You can lay to that!"

Still they hoped against hope until the growing cloud parted and liftedenough for them to see a band of wild horses sweeping along at a steadylope. They sighted the men and veered swiftly to the left. A momentlater there was only a thin trail of flying dust before the four. Threepairs of eyes turned on Sinclair and silently cursed him as if thiswere his fault. 

"Those horses are aiming at water, " he said. "Can't we follow 'em?"

"They're aiming for a hole fifty miles away. No, we can't follow 'em!"

They started on again, and now, after that cruel moment of hope, it wasredoubled labor. Quade was cursing thickly with every other step. Whenit came his turn to ride he drew Lowrie to one side, and they conversedlong together, with side glances at Sinclair. 

Vaguely he guessed the trend of their conversation, and vaguely hesuspected their treacherous meanness. Yet he dared not speak, even hadhis pride permitted. 

It was the same story over again when Lowrie walked. Quade rode asidewith Sandersen, and again, with the wolfish side glances, they eyed theinjured man, while they talked. At the next halt they faced him. Sandersen was the spokesman. 

"We've about made up our minds, Hal, " he said deliberately, "that yougot to be dropped behind for a time. We're going on to find water. Whenwe find it we'll come back and get you. Understand?"

Sinclair moistened his lips, but said nothing. 

Then Sandersen's voice grew screechy with sudden passion. "Say, do youwant three men to die for one? Besides, what good could we do?"

"You don't mean it, " declared Sinclair. "Sandersen, you don't mean it!Not alone out here! You boys can't leave me out here stranded. Might aswell shoot me!"

All were silent. Sandersen looked to Lowrie, and the latter stared atthe sand. It was Quade who acted. 

Stepping to the side of Sinclair he lifted him easily in his powerfularms and lowered him to the sands. "Now, keep your nerve, " he advised. "We're coming back. "

He stumbled a little over the words. "It's all of us or none of us, " hesaid. "Come on, boys. _My_ conscience is clear!"

They turned their horses hastily to the hills, and, when the voice ofSinclair rang after them, not one dared turn his head. 

"Partners, for the sake of all the work we've done together--don't dothis!"

In a shuddering unison they spurred their horses and raised the wearybrutes into a gallop; the voice faded into a wail behind them. Andstill they did not look back. 

For that matter they dared not look at one another, but pressed on, their eyes riveted to the hills. Once Lowrie turned his head to markthe position of the sun. Once Sandersen, in the grip of some passion ofremorse or of fear of death, bowed his head with a strange moan. But, aside from that, there was no sound or sign between them until, hardlyan hour and a half after leaving Sinclair, they found water. 

At first they thought it was a mirage. They turned away from it bymutual assent. But the horses had scented drink, and they becameunmanageable. Five minutes later the animals were up to their knees inthe muddy water, and the men were floundering breast deep, drinking, drinking, drinking. 

After that they sat about the brink staring at one another in a stunnedfashion. There seemed no joy in that delivery, for some reason. 

"I guess Sinclair will be a pretty happy gent when he sees us comingback, " said Sandersen, smiling faintly. 

There was no response from the others for a moment. Then they began tojustify themselves hotly. 

"It was your idea, Quade. "

"Why, curse your soul, weren't you glad to take the idea? Are you goingto blame it on to me?"

"What's the blame?" asked Lowrie. "Ain't we going to bring him water?"

"Suppose he ever tells we left him? We'd have to leave these partspronto!"

"He'll never tell. We'll swear him. "

"If he does talk, I'll stop him pretty sudden, " said Lowrie, tappinghis holster significantly. 

"Will you? What if he puts that brother of his on your trail?"

Lowrie swallowed hard. "Well--" he began, but said no more. 

They mounted in a new silence and took the back trail slowly. Not untilthe evening began to fall did they hurry, for fear the darkness wouldmake them lose the position of their comrade. When they were quite nearthe place, the semidarkness had come, and Quade began to shout in histremendous voice. Then they would listen, and sometimes they heard anecho, or a voice like an echo, always at a great distance. 

"Maybe he's started crawling and gone the wrong way. He should have satstill, " said Lowrie, "because--"

"Oh, Lord, " broke in Sandersen, "I knew it! I been seeing it all theway!" He pointed to a figure of a man lying on his back in the sand, with his arms thrown out crosswise. They dismounted and found HalSinclair dead and cold. Perhaps the insanity of thirst had taken him;perhaps he had figured it out methodically that it was better to endthings before the madness came. There was a certain stern repose abouthis face that favored this supposition. He seemed much older. But, whatever the reason, Hal Sinclair had shot himself cleanly through thehead. 

"You see that face?" asked Lowrie with curious quiet. "Take a goodlook. You'll see it ag'in. "

A superstitious horror seized on Sandersen. "What d'you mean, Lowrie?What d'you mean?"

"I mean this! The way he looks now he's a ringer for Riley Sinclair. And, you mark me, we're all going to see Riley Sinclair, face to face, before we die!"

"He'll never know, " said Quade, the stolid. "Who knows except us? Andwill one of us ever talk?" He laughed at the idea. 

"I dunno, " whispered Sandersen. "I dunno, gents. But we done an awfulthing, and we're going to pay--we're going to pay!"

2

Their trails divided after that. Sandersen and Quade started back forSour Creek. At the parting of the ways Lowrie's last word was forSandersen. 

"You started this party, Sandersen. If they's any hell coming out ofit, it'll fall chiefly on you. Remember, because I got one of your ownhunches!"

After that Lowrie headed straight across the mountains, traveling asmuch by instinct as by landmarks. He was one of those men who are bornto the trail. He stopped in at Four Pines, and there he told the storyon which he and Sandersen and Quade had agreed. Four Pines would spreadthat tale by telegraph, and Riley Sinclair would be advised beforehand. Lowrie had no desire to tell the gunfighter in person of the passing ofHal Sinclair. Certainly he would not be the first man to tell thestory. 

He reached Colma late in the afternoon, and a group instantly formedaround him on the veranda of the old hotel. Four Pines had indeedspread the story, and the crowd wanted verification. He replied assmoothly as he could. Hal Sinclair had broken his leg in a fall fromhis horse, and they had bound it up as well as they could. They hadtied him on his horse, but he could not endure the pain of travel. Theystopped, nearly dying from thirst. Mortification set in. Hal Sinclairdied in forty-eight hours after the halt. 

Four Pines had accepted the tale. There had been more deadly storiesthan this connected with the desert. But Pop Hansen, the proprietor, drew Lowrie to one side. 

"Keep out of Riley's way for a while. He's all het up. He was fond ofHal, you know, and he takes this bad. Got an ugly way of askingquestions, and--"

"The truth is the truth, " protested Lowrie. "Besides--"

"I know--I know. But jest make yourself scarce for a couple of days. "

"I'll keep on going, Pop. Thanks!"

"Never mind, ain't no hurry. Riley's out of town and won't be back fora day or so. But, speaking personal, I'd rather step into a nest ofrattlers than talk to Riley, the way he's feeling now. "

Lowrie climbed slowly up the stairs to his room, thinking very hard. Heknew the repute of Riley Sinclair, and he knew the man to be even worsethan reputation, one of those stern souls who exact an eye for aneye--and even a little more. 

Once in his room he threw himself on his bed. After all there was noneed for a panic. No one would ever learn the truth. To make suretydoubly sure he would start early in the dawn and strike out for fartrails. The thought had hardly come to him when he dismissed it. Aflight would call down suspicion on him, and Riley Sinclair would bethe first to suspect. In that case distance would not save him, notfrom that hard and tireless rider. 

To help compose his thoughts he went to the washstand and bathed hishot face. He was drying himself when there was a tap on the door. 

"Can I come in?" asked a shrill voice. 

He answered in the affirmative, and a youngster stepped into the room. 

"You're Lowrie?"

"Yep. "

"They's a gent downstairs wants you to come down and see him. "

"Who is it?"

"I dunno. We just moved in from Conway. I can point him out to you onthe street. "

Lowrie followed the boy to the window, and there, surrounded by half adozen serious-faced men, stood Riley Sinclair, tall, easy, formidable. The sight of Sinclair filled Lowrie with dismay. Pushing a silver coininto the hand of the boy, he said: "Tell him--tell him--I'm comingright down. "

As soon as the boy disappeared, Lowrie ran to the window which openedon the side of the house. When he looked down his hope fled. At onetime there had been a lean-to shed running along that side of thebuilding. By the roof of it he could have got to the ground unseen. Nowhe remembered that it had been torn down the year before; there was astraight and perilous drop beneath the window. As for the stairs, theyled almost to the front door of the building. Sinclair would be sure tosee him if he went down there. 

Of the purpose of the big man he had no doubt. His black guilt was soapparent to his own mind that it seemed impossible that the keen eyesof Sinclair had not looked into the story of Hal's broken leg and seena lie. Besides, the invitation through a messenger seemed a hollowlure. Sinclair wished to fight him and kill him before witnesses whowould attest that Lowrie had been the first to go for his gun. 

Fight? Lowrie looked down at his hand and found that the very wrist wasquivering. Even at his best he felt that he would have no chance. Oncehe had seen Sinclair in action in Lew Murphy's old saloon, had seen RedJordan get the drop, and had watched Sinclair shoot his mandeliberately through the shoulder. Red Jordan was a cripple for life. 

Suppose he walked boldly down, told his story, and trusted to the skillof his lie? No, he knew his color would pale if he faced Sinclair. Suppose he refused to fight? Better to die than be shamed in themountain country. 

He hurried to the window for another look into the street, and he foundthat Sinclair had disappeared. Lowrie's knees buckled under his weight. He went over to the bed, with short steps like a drunken man, andlowered himself down on it. 

Sinclair had gone into the hotel, and doubtless that meant that he hadgrown impatient. The fever to kill was burning in the big man. ThenLowrie heard a steady step come regularly up the stairs. They creakedunder a heavy weight. 

Lowrie drew his gun. It caught twice; finally he jerked it out in afrenzy. He would shoot when the door opened, without waiting, and thentrust to luck to fight his way through the men below. 

In the meantime the muzzle of the revolver wabbled crazily from side toside, up and down. He clutched the barrel with the other hand. Andstill the weapon shook. 

Curling up his knee before his breast he ground down with both hands. That gave him more steadiness; but would not this contorted positiondestroy all chance of shooting accurately? His own prophecy, made overthe dead body of Hal Sinclair, that all three of them would see thatface again, came back to him with a sense of fatality. Someforward-looking instinct, he assured himself, had given him thatknowledge. 

The step upon the stairs came up steadily. But the mind of Lowrie, between the steps, leaped hither and yon, a thousand miles and back. What if his nerve failed him at the last moment? What if he buckled andshowed yellow and the shame of it followed him? Better a hundred timesto die by his own hand. 

Excitement, foreboding, the weariness of the long trail--all wereworking upon Lowrie. 

Nearer drew the step. It seemed an hour since he had first heard itbegin to climb the stairs. It sounded heavily on the floor outside hisdoor. There was a heavy tapping on the door itself. For an instant theclutch of Lowrie froze around his gun; then he twitched the muzzle backagainst his own breast and fired. 

There was no pain--only a sense of numbness and a vague feeling of tornmuscles, as if they were extraneous matter. He dropped the revolver onthe bed and pressed both hands against his wound. Then the door opened, and there appeared, not Riley Sinclair, but Pop Hansen. 

"What in thunder--" he began. 

"Get Riley Sinclair. There's been an accident, " said Lowrie faintly andhuskily. "Get Riley Sinclair; quick. I got something to say to him. "

3

Riley Sinclair rode over the mountain. An hour of stern climbing laybehind him, but it was not sympathy for his tired horse that made himdraw rein. Sympathy was not readily on tap in Riley's nature. "Hossflesh" to Riley was purely and simply a means to an end. Neitherhad he paused to enjoy that mystery of change which comes overmountains between late afternoon and early evening. His keen eyesanswered all his purposes, and that they had never learned to see bluein shadows meant nothing to Riley Sinclair. 

If he looked kindly upon the foothills, which stepped down from thepeaks to the valley lands, it was because they meant an easy descent. Riley took thorough stock of his surroundings, for it was a newcountry. Yonder, where the slant sun glanced and blinked on windows, must be Sour Creek; and there was the road to town jagging across thehills. Riley sighed. 

In his heart he despised that valley. There were black patches ofplowed land. A scattering of houses began in the foothills andthickened toward Sour Creek. How could men remain there, where therewas so little elbow room? He scowled down into the shadow of thevalley. Small country, small men. 

Pictures failed to hold Riley, but, as he sat the saddle, hand onthigh, and looked scornfully toward Sour Creek, he was himself apicture to make one's head lift. As a rule the horse comes in for asmuch attention as the rider, but when Riley Sinclair came near, peoplesaw the man and nothing else. Not because he was good-looking, butbecause one became suddenly aware of some hundred and eighty pounds oflithe, tough muscle and a domineering face. 

Somewhere behind his eyes there was a faint glint of humor. That wasthe only soft touch about him. He was in that hard age between thirtyand thirty-five when people are still young, but have lost theillusions of youth. And, indeed, that was exactly the word which peoplein haste used to describe Riley Sinclair--"hard. "

Having once resigned himself to the descent into that cramped countrybeneath he at once banished all regret. First he picked out hisobjective, a house some distance away, near the road, and then hebrought his mustang up on the bit with a touch of the spurs. Then, having established the taut rein which he preferred, he sent the cowpony down the slope. It was plain that the mustang hated its rider; itwas equally plain that Sinclair was in perfect touch with his horse, what with the stern wrist pulling against the bit, and the spurskeeping the pony up on it. In spite of his bulk he was not heavy in thesaddle, for he kept in tune with the gait of the horse, with that swayof the body which lightens burdens. A capable rider, he was sojudicious that he seemed reckless. 

Leaving the mountainside, he struck at a trot across a tableland. Somemysterious instinct enabled him to guide the pony without glancing onceat the ground; for Sinclair, with his head high, was now carefullyexamining the house before him. Twice a cluster of trees obscured it, and each time, as it came again more closely in view, the eye of RileySinclair brightened with certainty. At length, nodding slightly toexpress his conviction, he sent the pony into the shelter of a littlegrove overlooking the house. From this shelter, still giving half hisattention to his objective, he ran swiftly over his weapons. The pairof long pistols came smoothly into his hands, to be weighed nicely, andhave their cylinders spun. Then the rifle came out of its case, and itsmagazine was looked to thoroughly before it was returned. 

This done, the rider seemed in no peculiar haste to go on. He merelypushed the horse into a position from which he commanded all theenvirons of the house; then he sat still as a hawk hovering in awindless sky. 

Presently the door of the little shack opened, and two men came out andwalked down the path toward the road, talking earnestly. One was astall as Riley Sinclair, but heavier; the other was a little, slightman. He went to a sleepy pony at the end of the path and slowlygathered the reins. Plainly he was troubled, and apparently it was thebig man who had troubled him. For now he turned and cast out his handtoward the other, speaking rapidly, in the manner of one making a lastappeal. Only the murmur of that voice drifted up to Riley Sinclair, butthe loud laughter of the big man drove clearly to him. The smaller ofthe two mounted and rode away with dejected head, while the otherremained with arms folded, looking after him. 

He seemed to be chuckling at the little man, and indeed there wascause, for Riley had never seen a rider so completely out of place in asaddle. When the pony presently broke into a soft lope it caused theelbows of the little man to flop like wings. Like a great clumsy birdhe winged his way out of view beyond the edge of the hilltop. 

The big man continued to stand with his arms folded, looking in thedirection in which the other had disappeared; he was still shaking withmirth. When he eventually turned, Riley Sinclair was riding down on himat a sharp gallop. Strangers do not pass ungreeted in the mountaindesert. There was a wave of the arm to Riley, and he responded bybringing his horse to a trot, then reining in close to the big man. Atclose hand he seemed even larger than from a distance, a burly figurewith ludicrously inadequate support from the narrow-heeled ridingboots. He looked sharply at Riley Sinclair, but his first speech wasfor the hard-ridden pony. 

"You been putting your hoss through a grind, I see, stranger. "

The mustang had slumped into a position of rest, his sides heaving. 

"Most generally, " said Riley Sinclair, "when I climb into a saddle itain't for pleasure--it's to get somewhere. "

His voice was surprisingly pleasant. He spoke very deliberately, sothat one felt occasionally that he was pausing to find the right words. And, in addition to the quality of that deep voice, he had animpersonal way of looking his interlocutor squarely in the eye, a habitthat pleased the men of the mountain desert. On this occasion hiscompanion responded at once with a grin. He was a younger man thanRiley Sinclair, but he gave an impression of as much hardness as Rileyhimself. 

"Maybe you'll be sliding out of the saddle for a minute?" he asked. "Got some pretty fair hooch in the house. "

"Thanks, partner, but I'm due over to Sour Creek by night. I guessthat's Sour Creek over the hill?"

"Yep. New to these parts?"

"Sort of new. "

Riley's noncommittal attitude was by no means displeasing to the largerman. His rather brutally handsome face continued to light, as if hewere recognizing in Riley Sinclair a man of his own caliber. 

"You're from yonder?"

"Across the mountains. "

"You travel light. "

His eyes were running over Riley's meager equipment. Sinclair had beenknown to strike across the desert loaded with nothing more than arifle, ammunition, and water. Other things were nonessentials to him, and it was hardly likely that he would put much extra weight on ahorse. The only concession to animal comfort, in fact, was the slickerrolled snugly behind the saddle. He was one of those rare Westerners towhom coffee on the trail is not the staff of life. As long as he had agun he could get meat, and as long as he could get meat, he caredlittle about other niceties of diet. On a long trip his "extras" wereusually confined to a couple of bags of strength-giving grain for hishorse. 

"Maybe you'd know the gent I'm down here looking for?" asked Riley. "Happen to know Ollie Quade--Oliver Quade?"

"Sort of know him, yep. "

Riley went on explaining blandly "You see, I'm carrying him a sort of adeath message. "

"H'm, " said the big man, and he watched Riley, his eyes grown suddenlyalert, his glance shifting from hand to face with catlike uncertainty. 

"Yep, " resumed Sinclair in a rambling vein. "I come from a gent thatused to be a pal of his. Name is Sam Lowrie. "

"Sam Lowrie!" exclaimed the other. "You a friend of Sam's?"

"I was the only gent with him when he died, " said Sinclair simply. 

"Dead!" said the other heavily. "Sam dead!"

"You must of been pretty thick with him, " declared Riley. 

"Man, I'm Quade. Lowrie was my bunkie!"

He came close to Sinclair, raising an eager face. "How'd Lowrie goout?"

"Pretty peaceful--boots off--everything comfortable. "

"He give you a message for me?"

"Yep, about a gent called Sinclair--Hal Sinclair, I think it was. "Immediately he turned his eyes away, as if he were striving torecollect accurately. Covertly he sent a side glance at Quade and foundhim scowling suspiciously. When he turned his head again, his eye wasas clear as the eye of a child. "Yep, " he said, "that was the name--HalSinclair. "

"What about Hal Sinclair?" asked Quade gruffly. 

"Seems like Sinclair was on Lowrie's conscience, " said Riley in thesame unperturbed voice. 

"You don't say so!"

"I'll tell you what he told me. Maybe he was just raving, for he had asort of fever before he went out. He said that you and him and HalSinclair and Bill Sandersen all went out prospecting. You got stuckclean out in the desert, Lowrie said, and you hit for water. ThenSinclair's hoss busted his leg in a hole. The fall smashed upSinclair's foot. The four of you went on, Sinclair riding one hoss, andthe rest of you taking turns with the third one. Without water thehosses got weak, and you gents got pretty badly scared, Lowrie said. Finally you and Sandersen figured that Sinclair had got to get off, butSinclair couldn't walk. So the three of you made up your minds to leavehim and make a dash for water. You got to water, all right, and inthree hours you went back for Sinclair. But he'd given up hope and shothimself, sooner'n die of thirst, Lowrie said. "

The horrible story came slowly from the lips of Riley Sinclair. Therewas not the slightest emotion in his face until Quade rubbed hisknuckles across his wet forehead. Then there was the faintest juttingout of Riley's jaw. 

"Lowrie was sure raving, " said Quade. 

Sinclair looked carelessly down at the gray face of Quade. "I guessmaybe he was, but what he asked me to say was: 'Hell is sure coming towhat you boys done. '"

"He thought about that might late, " replied Quade. "Waited till hecould shift the blame on me and Sandersen, eh? To hell with Lowrie!"

"Maybe he's there, all right, " said Sinclair, shrugging. "But I've gotrid of the yarn, anyway. "

"Are you going to spread that story around in Sour Creek?" asked Quadesoftly. 

"Me? Why, that story was told me confidential by a gent that was aboutto go out!"

Riley's frank manner disarmed Quade in a measure. 

"Kind of queer, me running on to you like this, ain't it?" he went on. "Well, you're fixed up sort of comfortable up here. Nice little shack, partner. And I suppose you got a wife and kids and everything? Prettylucky, I'd call you!"

Quade was glad of an opportunity to change the subject. "No wife yet!"he said. 

"Living up here all alone?"

"Sure! Why?"

"Nothing! Thought maybe you'd find it sort of lonesome. "

Back to the dismissed subject Quade returned, with the persistence of aguilty conscience. "Say, " he said, "while we're talking about it, youdon't happen to believe what Lowrie said?"

"Lowrie was pretty sick; maybe he was raving. So you're all along uphere? Nobody near?"

His restless, impatient eye ran over the surroundings. There was not asoul in sight. The mountains were growing stark and black against theflush of the western sky. His glance fell back upon Quade. 

"But how did Lowrie happen to die?"

"He got shot. "

"Did a gang drop him?"

"Nope, just one gent. "

"You don't say! But Lowrie was a pretty slick hand with a gun--next toBill Sandersen, the best I ever seen, almost! Somebody got the drop onhim, eh?"

"Nope, he killed himself!"

Quade gasped. "Suicide?"

"Sure. "

"How come?"

"I'll tell you how it was. He seen a gent coming. In fact he looked outof the window of his hotel and seen Riley Sinclair, and he figured thatRiley had come to get him for what happened to his brother, Hal. Lowriegot sort of excited, lost his nerve, and when the hotel keeper comeupstairs, Lowrie thought it was Sinclair, and he didn't wait. He shothimself. "

"You seem to know a pile, " said Quade thoughtfully. 

"Well, you see, I'm Riley Sinclair. " Still he smiled, but Quade was asone who had seen a ghost. 

"I had to make sure that you was alone. I had to make sure that you wasguilty. And you are, Quade. Don't do that!"

The hand of Quade slipped around the butt of his gun and clung there. 

"You ain't fit for a gun fight right now, " went on Riley Sinclairslowly. "You're all shaking, Quade, and you couldn't hit the side ofthe mountain, let alone me. Wait a minute. Take your time. Get allsettled down and wait till your hand stops shaking. "

Quade moistened his white lips and waited. 

"You give Hal plenty of time, " resumed Riley Sinclair. "Since Lowrietold me that yarn I been wondering how Hal felt when you and the othertwo left him alone. You know, a gent can do some pretty stiff thinkingbefore he makes up his mind to blow his head off. "

His tone was quite conversational. 

"Queer thing how I come to blunder into all this information, partner. I come into a room where Lowrie was. The minute he heard my name hefigured I was after him on account of Hal. Up he comes with his gunlike a flash. Afterward he told me all about it, and I give him apretty fine funeral. I'll do the same by you, Quade. How you feelingnow?"

"Curse you!" exclaimed Quade. 

"Maybe I'm cursed, right enough, but, Quade, I'd let 'em burn me, inchby inch in a fire, before I'd quit a partner, a bunkie in the desert!You hear? It's a queer thing that a gent could have much pleasure outof plugging another gent full of lead. I've had that pleasure once; andI'm going to have it again. I'm going to kill you, Quade, but I wishthere was a slower way! Pull your gun!"

That last came out with a snap, and the revolver of Quade flicked outof its holster with a convulsive jerk of the big man's wrist. Yet thespit of fire came from Riley Sinclair's weapon, slipping smoothly intohis hand. Quade did not fall. He stood with a bewildered expression, asa man trying to remember something hidden far in the past; and Sinclairfingered the butt of his gun lightly and waited. It was rather acrumbling than a fall. The big body literally slumped down into a heap. 

Sinclair reached down without dismounting and pulled the body over onits back. 

"Because, " he explained to what had been a strong man the momentbefore, "when the devil comes to you, I want the old boy to see yourface, Quade! Git on, old boss!"

As he rode down the trail toward Sour Creek he carefully and deftlycleaned his revolver and reloaded the empty chamber. 

4

Perhaps, in the final analysis, Riley Sinclair would not be condemnedfor the death of Lowrie or the killing of Quade, but for singing on thetrail to Sour Creek. And sing he did, his voice ringing from hill tohill, and the echoes barking back to him, now and again. 

He was not silent until he came to Sour Creek. At the head of the long, winding, single street he drew the mustang to a tired walk. It was avery peaceful moment in the little town Yonder a dog barked and acoyote howled a thin answer far away, but, aside from these, all othersounds were the happy noises of families at the end of a day. Fromevery house they floated out to him, the clamor of children, the deeplaughter of a man, the loud rattle of pans in the kitchen. 

"This ain't so bad, " Riley Sinclair said aloud and roused the mustangcruelly to a gallop, the hoofs of his mount splashing through inches ofpungent dust. 

The heaviness of the gallop told him that his horse was plainly spentand would not be capable of a long run before the morning. RileySinclair accepted the inevitable with a sigh. All his strong instinctscried out to find Sandersen and, having found him, to shoot him andflee. Yet he had a sense of fatality connected with Sandersen. Lowrie'sown conscience had betrayed him, and his craven fear had been hisexecutioner. Quade had been shot in a fair fight with not a soul nearby. But, at the third time, Sinclair felt reasonably sure that his luckwould fail him. The third time the world would be very apt to brand himwith murder. 

It was a bad affair, and he wanted to get it done. This stay in SourCreek was entirely against his will. Accordingly he put the mustang inthe stable behind the hotel, looked to his feed, and then went slowlyback to get a room. He registered and went in silence up to his room. If there had been the need, he could have kept on riding for atwenty-hour stretch, but the moment he found his journey interrupted, he flung himself on the bed, his arms thrown out crosswise, crucifiedwith weariness. 

In the meantime the proprietor returned to his desk to find a long, gaunt man leaning above the register, one brown finger tracing a name. 

"Looking for somebody, Sandersen?" he asked. "Know this gent Sinclair?"

"Face looked kind of familiar to me, " said the other, who had jerkedhis head up from the study of the register. "Somehow I don't tie thatname up with the face. "

"Maybe not, " said the proprietor. "Maybe he ain't Riley Sinclair ofColma; maybe he's somebody else. "

"Traveling strange, you mean?" asked Sandersen. 

"I dunno, Bill, but he looks like a hard one. He's got one of themnervous right hands. "

"Gunfighter?"

"I dunno. I'm not saying anything about what he is or what he ain't. But, if a gent was to come in here and tell me a pretty strong yarnabout Riley Sinclair, or whatever his name might be, I wouldn't inclineto doubt of it, would you, Bill?"

"Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn't, " answered Bill Sandersengloomily. 

He went out onto the veranda and squinted thoughtfully into thedarkness. Bill Sandersen was worried--very worried. The moment he sawSinclair enter the hotel, there had been a ghostly familiarity aboutthe man. And he understood the reason for it as soon as he saw the nameon the register. Sinclair! The name carried him back to the picture ofthe man who lay on his back, with the soft sands already half buryinghis body, and the round, purple blur in the center of his forehead. Ina way it was as if Hal Sinclair had come back to Me in a new and moreterrible form, come back as an avenger. 

Bill Sandersen was not an evil man, and his sin against Hal Sinclairhad its qualifying circumstances. At least he had been only one ofthree, all of whom had concurred in the thing. He devoutly wished thatthe thing were to be done over again. He swore to himself that in sucha case he would stick with his companion, no matter who deserted. Butwhat had brought this Riley Sinclair all the way from Colma to SourCreek, if it were not an errand of vengeance?

A sense of guilt troubled the mind of Bill Sandersen, but the obviousthing was to find out the reason for Sinclair's presence in Sour Creek. Sandersen crossed the street to the newly installed telegraph office. He had one intimate friend in the far-off town of Colma, and to thatfriend he now addressed a telegram. 

 * * * * *

Rush back all news you have about man calling self Riley Sinclair ofColma--over six feet tall, weight hundred and eighty, complexion dark, hard look. 

 * * * * *

There was enough meat in that telegram to make the operator rise hishead and glance with sharpened eyes at the patron. Bill Sandersenreturned that glance with so much interest that the operator loweredhis head again and made a mental oath that he would let the Westernersrun the West. 

With that telegram working for him in far-off Colma, Bill Sandersenstarted out to gather what information he could in Sour Creek. Hedrifted from the blacksmith shop to the kitchen of Mrs. Mary Caluson, but both these brimming reservoirs of news had this day run dry. Mrs. Caluson vaguely remembered a Riley Sinclair, a man who fought for thesheer love of fighting. A grim fellow!

Pete Handley, the blacksmith, had even less to say. He also, heaverred, had heard of a Riley Sinclair, a man of action, but he couldnot remember in what sense. Vaguely he seemed to recall that there hadbeen something about guns connected with the name of Riley Sinclair. 

Meager information on which to build, but, having seen this man, BillSandersen said the less and thought the more. In a couple of hours hewent back through the night to the telegraph office and found that hisColma friend had been unbelievably prompt. The telegram had been sent"collect, " and Bill Sandersen groaned as he paid the bill. But when heopened the telegram he did not begrudge the money. 

Riley Sinclair is harder than he looks, but absolutely honest and willpay fairer than anybody. Avoid all trouble. Trust his word, but not histemper. Gunfighter, but not a bully. By the way, your pal Lowrie shothimself last week. 

The long fingers of Bill Sandersen slowly gathered the telegram into aball and crushed it against the palm of his hand. That ball hepresently unraveled to reread the telegram; he studied it word by word. 

"Absolutely honest!"

It made Sandersen wish to go straight to the gunfighter, put his cardson the table, confess what he had done to Sinclair's brother, and thenexpress his sorrow. Then he remembered the cruel, lean face of Sinclairand the impatient eyes. He would probably be shot before he had halffinished his story of the gruesome trip through the desert. AlreadyLowrie was dead. Even a child could have put two and two together andseen that Sinclair had come to Sour Creek on a mission of vengeance. Sandersen was himself a fighter, and, being a fighter, he knew that inRiley Sinclair he would meet the better man. 

But two good men were better than one, even if the one were an expert. Sandersen went straight to the barn behind his shack, saddled hishorse, and spurred out along the north road to Quade's house. Oncewarned, they would be doubly armed, and, standing back to back, theycould safely defy the marauder from the north. 

There was no light in Quade's house, but there was just a chance thatthe owner had gone to bed early. Bill Sandersen dismounted to find out, and dismounting, he stumbled across a soft, inert mass in the path. Amoment later he was on his knees, and the flame of the sulphur matchsputtered a blue light into the dead face of Quade, staring upward tothe stars. Bill Sandersen remained there until the match singed hisfinger tips. 

All doubt was gone now. Lowrie and Quade were both gone; and he, Sandersen, alone remained, the third and last of the guilty. His firststrong impulse, after his agitation had diminished to such a point thathe was able to think clearly again, was to flee headlong into the nightand keep on, changing horses at every town he reached until he was overthe mountains and buried in the shifting masses of life in some greatcity. 

And then he recalled Riley Sinclair, lean and long as a hound. Such aman would be terrible on the trail--tireless, certainly. Besides therewas the horror of flight, almost more awful than the immediate fear ofdeath. Once he turned his back to flee from Riley Sinclair, thegunfighter would become a nightmare that would haunt him the rest ofhis life. No matter where he fled, every footstep behind him would bethe footfall of Riley Sinclair, and behind every closed door wouldstand the same ominous figure. On the other hand if he went back andfaced Sinclair he might reduce the nightmare to a mere creature offlesh and blood. 

Sandersen resolved to take the second step. 

In one way his hands were tied. He could not accuse Sinclair of thiskilling without in the first place exposing the tale of how Riley'sbrother was abandoned in the desert by three strong men who had beenhis bunkies. And that story, Sandersen knew, would condemn him to worsethan death in the mountain desert. He would be loathed and scorned fromone end of the cattle country to the other. 

All of these things went through his head, as he jogged his mustangback down the hill. He turned in at Mason's place. All at once herecalled that he was not acting normally. He had just come from seeingthe dead body of his best friend. And yet so mortal was his concern forhis own safety that he felt not the slightest touch of grief or horrorfor dead Quade. 

He had literally to grip his hands and rouse himself to a pitch ofsemihysteria. Then he spurred his horse down the path, flung himselfwith a shout out of the saddle, cast open the door of the house withouta preliminary knock, and rushed into the room. 

"Murder!" shouted Bill Sandersen. "Quade is killed!"

5

Who killed Quade? That was the question asked with the quiet deadlinessby six men in Sour Creek. It had been Buck Mason's idea to keep thewhole affair still. It was very possible that the slayer was still inthe environs of Sour Creek, and in that case much noise would simplyserve to frighten him away. It was also Buck's idea that they shouldgather a few known men to weigh the situation. 

Every one of the six men who answered the summons was an adept withfist or guns, as the need might be; every one of them had proved thathe had a level head; every one of them was a respected citizen. Sandersen was one; stocky Buck Mason, carrying two hundred pounds closeto the ground, massive of hand and jaw, was a second. After that theirchoice had fallen on "Judge" Lodge. The judge wore spectacles and ajudicial air. He had a keen eye for cows and was rather a sharper inhorse trades. He gave his costume a semiofficial air by wearing anecktie instead of a bandanna, even at a roundup. The glasses, thenecktie, and his little solemn pauses before he delivered an opinion, had given his nickname. 

Then came Denver Jim, a very little man, with nervous hands andremarkable steady eyes. He had punched cows over those ranges for tenyears, and his experience had made him a wildcat in a fight. OscarLarsen was a huge Swede, with a perpetual and foolish grin. Sour Creekhad laughed at Oscar for five years, considered him dubiously for fiveyears more, and then suddenly admitted him as a man among men. He wasstronger than Buck Mason, quicker than Denver Jim, and shrewder thanthe judge. Last of all came Montana. He had a long, sad face, prodigious ability to stow away redeye, and a nature as simple and kindand honest as a child's. These were the six men who gathered about andstared at the center of the floor. Something, they agreed, had to bedone. 

"First it was old man Collins. That was two years back, " said JudgeLodge. "You boys remember how Collins went. Then there was the drifterthat was plugged eight months ago. And now it's Ollie Quade. Gents, three murders in two years is too much. Sour Creek'll get a name. Thebad ones will begin to drop in on us and use us for headquarters. Wegot to make an example. We never got the ones that shot Collins or thedrifter. Since Quade has been plugged we got to hang somebody. Ain'tthat straight?"

"We got to hang somebody, " said Denver Jim. "The point is--who?"

His keen eyes went slowly, hungrily, from face to face, as if he wouldnot have greatly objected to picking one of his companions in that veryroom. 

"Is they any strangers in town?" asked Larsen with his peculiar, foolish grin. 

Sandersen stirred in his chair; his heart leaped. 

"There's a gent named Riley Sinclair nobody ain't never seen before. "

"When did he come in?"

"Along about dark. "

"That's the right time for us. You found Quade a long time dead, Bill. "

Sandersen swallowed. In his joy he could have embraced Larsen. 

"What'll we do?"

"Go talk to Sinclair, " said Larsen and rose. "I got a rope. "

"He's a dangerous-lookin' gent, " declared Sandersen. 

Larsen replied mildly: "Mostly they's a pile more interesting whenthey's dangerous. Come on, boys!"

It had been well after midnight when Mason and Sandersen got back toSour Creek. The gathering of the posse had required much time. Now, asthey filed out to the hotel, to the east the mountains were beginningto roll up out of the night, and one cloud, far away and high in thesky, was turning pink. They found the hotel wakening even at this earlyhour. At least, the Chinese cook was rattling in the kitchen as hebuilt the fire. When the six reached the door of Sinclair's room, stepping lightly, they heard the occupant singing softly to himself. 

"Early riser, " whispered Denver Jim. 

"Too early to be honest, " replied Judge Lodge. 

Larsen raised one of his great hands and imposed an absolute silence. Then, stepping with astonishing softness, considering his bulk, heapproached the door of Sinclair's room. Into his left hand slid his . 45and instantly five guns glinted in the hands of the others. With equalcaution they ranged themselves behind the big Swede. The latter glancedover his shoulder, made sure that everything was in readiness, and thenkicked the door violently open. 

Riley Sinclair was sitting on the side of his bed, tugging on a pair ofriding boots and singing a hushed song. He interrupted himself longenough to look up into the muzzle of Larsen's gun. Then deliberately hefinished drawing on the boot, singing while he did so; and, stilldeliberately, rose and stamped his feet home in the leather. Next hedropped his hands on his hips and considered the posse gravely. 

"Always heard tell how Sour Creek was a fine town but I didn't knowthey turned out reception committees before sunup. How are you, boys?Want my roll?"

Larsen, as one who scorned to take a flying start on any man, droppedhis weapon back in its holster. Sinclair's own gun and cartridge belthang on the wall at the foot of the bed. 

"That sounds too cool to be straight, " said the judge soberly. "Sinclair, I figure you know why we want you?"

"I dunno, gents, " said Sinclair, who grew more and more cheerful in theface of these six pairs of grim eyes. "But I'm sure obliged to the gentthat give me the sendoff. What d'you want?" Drawing into the backgroundLarsen said: "Open up on him, judge. Start the questions. "

But Sandersen was of no mind to let the slow-moving mind of the judgehandle this affair which was so vital to him. If Riley Sinclair did nothang, Sandersen himself was instantly placed in peril of his life. Hestepped in front of Sinclair and thrust out his long arm. 

"You killed Quade!"

Riley Sinclair rubbed his chin thoughtfully, looking past his accuser. 

"I don't think so, " he said at length. 

"You don't think so? Don't you know?"

"They was two Mexicans jumped me once. One of 'em was called Pedro. Maybe the other was Quade. That who you're talking about?'

"You can't talk yourself out of it, Sinclair, " said Denver Jim. "Wemean business, real business, you'll find out!"

"This here is a necktie party, maybe?" asked Riley Sinclair. 

"It is, partner, " said big Larsen, with his continual smile. 

"Sinclair, you come over the mountains, " went on Sandersen. "You cometo find Quade. You ride down off'n the hills, and you come up toQuade's house. You call him out to talk to you. You're sitting on yourhorse. All at once you snatch out a gun and shoot Quade down. We know!That bullet ranged down. It was shot from above him, plain murder! Hedidn't have a chance!"

Throwing out his facts as he saw them, one by one, there was a ring ofconviction in his voice. The six accusing faces grew hard and set. Then, to their astonishment, they saw that Sinclair was smiling!

"He don't noways take us serious, gents, " declared the judge. "Let'stake him out and see if a rope means anything to him. Sinclair, d'youfigure this is a game with us?"

Riley Sinclair chuckled. "Gents, " he said easily, "you come here allhet up. You want a pile of action, but you ain't going to get it off'nme--not a bit! I'll tell you why. You gents are straight, and you knowstraight talk when you hear it. This dead man--what's his name, Quade?--was killed by a gent that had a reason for killing him. Wantedto get Quade's money, or they was an old grudge. But what could myreason be for wanting to bump off Quade? Can any of you figure thatout? There's my things. Look through 'em and see if I got Quade'smoney. Maybe you think it's a grudge? Gents, I give you my word that Inever been into this country before this trip. How could there be anygrudge between me and Quade? Is that sense? Then talk sense back tome!"

His mirth had disappeared halfway through his speech, and in the latterpart of it his voice rang sternly. Moreover he looked them in the eye, one by one. All of this was noted by Sandersen. He saw suddenly andclearly that he had lost. They would not hang this man by hearsayevidence, or by chance presumption. 

Sinclair would go free. And if Sinclair went free, there would be shortshrift for Bill Sandersen. For a moment he felt his destiny waveringback and forth on a needle point. Then he flung himself into a newcourse diametrically opposed to the other. 

"Boys, it was me that started this, and I want to be the first to admitit's a cold trail. Men has been hung with less agin' them than we gotagin' Sinclair. We know when Quade must have been killed. We know ittallies pretty close with the time when Sinclair came down that sametrail, because that was the way he rode into Sour Creek. But no matterhow facts look, nobody _seen_ that shooting. And I say this gentSinclair ain't any murderer. Look him over, boys. He's clean, and Iregister a vote for him. What d'you say? No matter what the rest of youfigure, I'm going to shake hands with him. I like his style!"

He had turned his back on Riley while he spoke, but now he whirled andthrust out his hand. The fingers of Sinclair closed slowly over theproffered hand. 

"When it comes to the names, partner, seems like you got an edge overme. "

"Have I? I'm Sandersen. Glad to know you, Sinclair. "

"Sandersen!" repeated the stranger slowly. "Sandersen!"

Letting his fingers fall away nervelessly from the hand of the other, he sighed deeply. 

Sandersen with a side-glance followed every changing shade ofexpression in that hard face. How could Sinclair attack a man who hadjust defended him from a terrible charge? It could not be. For themoment, at least, Sandersen felt he was safe. In the future, manythings might happen. At the very least, he had gained a pricelesspostponement of the catastrophe. 

"Them that do me a good turn is writ down in red, " Sinclair was saying;"and them that step on my toes is writ down the same way. Sandersen, Igot an idea that for one reason or another I ain't going to forget youin a hurry. "

There was a grim double meaning in that speech which Sandersen alonecould understand. The others of the self-appointed posse had apparentlymade up their minds that Sandersen was right, and that this was a coldtrail. 

"It's like Sinclair says, " admitted the judge. "We got to find a gentthat had a reason for wishing to have Quade die. Where's the man?"

"Hunt for the reason first and find the man afterward, " said bigLarsen, still smiling. 

"All right! Did anybody owe Quade money, anybody Quade was pressing forit?"

It was the judge who advanced the argument in this solemn and dry form. Denver Jim declared that to his personal knowledge Quade had neitherborrowed nor loaned. 

"Well, then, had Quade ever made many enemies? We know Quade was afighter. Recollect any gents that might hold grudges?"

"Young Penny hated the ground he walked on. Quade beat Penny to a pulpdown by the Perkin water hole. "

"Penny wouldn't do a murder. "

"Maybe it was a fair fight, " broke in Larsen. 

"Fair nothin', " said Buck Mason. "Don't we all know that Quade was fastwith a gun? He barely had it out in his hand when the other gentdrilled him. And he was shot from above. No, sir, the way it happenedwas something like this. The murderin' skunk sat on his hoss sayinggoodby to Quade, and, while they was shaking hands or something likethat, he goes for his gun and plugs Quade. Maybe it was a gent thatknew he didn't have a chance agin' Quade. Maybe--"

He broke off short in his deductions and smote his hands together witha tremendous oath. "Boys, I got it! It's Cold Feet that done the job. It's Gaspar that done it!"

They stared at Buck vaguely. 

"Mason, Cold Feet ain't got the nerve to shoot a rabbit. "

"Not in a fight. This was a murder!"

"What's the schoolteacher's reason!"

"Don't he love Sally Bent? Didn't Quade love her?" He raised his voice. "I'm a big fool for forgetting! Didn't I see him ride over the hill toQuade's place and come back in the evening? Didn't I see it? Why elsewould he have called on Quade?"

There was a round chorus of oaths and exclamations. "The poisonouslittle skunk! It's him! We'll string him up!"

With a rush they started for the door. 

"Wait!" called Riley Sinclair. 

Bill Sandersen watched him with a keen eye. He had studied the face ofthe big man from up north all during the scene, and he found the sternfeatures unreadable. For one instant now he guessed that Sinclair wasabout to confess. 

"If you don't mind seven in one party, " said Riley Sinclair, "I thinkI'll go along to see justice done. You see, I got a sort of secondhandinterest in this necktie party. "

Mason clapped him on the shoulder. "You're just the sort of a gent weneed, " he declared. 

6

Down in the kitchen they demanded a loaf of bread and some coffee fromthe Chinese cook, and then the seven dealers of justice took horse andturned into the silence of the long mountain trail. 

The sunrise had picked those mountains out of the night, directly aboveSour Creek. Riley Sinclair regarded them with a longing eye. That washis country. A man could see up there, and he could see the truth. Downhere in the valley everything was askew. Men lived blindly and didblind things, like this "justice" which the six riders were bringing onan innocent man. 

Not by any means had Riley decided what he would do. If he confessedthe truth he would not only have a man-sized job trying to escape fromthe posse, but he would have to flee before he had a chance to dealfinally with Sandersen. Chiefly he wanted time. He wanted a chance tostudy Sandersen. The fellow had spoken for him like a man, but Sinclairwas suspicious. 

In his quandary he turned to sad-faced Montana and asked: "Who's thisgent you call Cold Feet?"

"He's a tenderfoot, " declared Montana, "and he's queer. He's yaller, they say, and that's why they call him Cold Feet. Besides, he teachesthe school. Where's they a real man that would do a schoolma'am's work?Living or dying, he ain't much good. You can lay to that!"

Sinclair was comforted by this speech. Perhaps the schoolteacher was, as Montana stated, not much good, dead or alive. Sinclair had knownmany men whose lives were not worth an ounce of powder. In this case hewould let Cold Feet be hanged. It was a conclusion sufficiently grim, but Riley Sinclair was admittedly a grim man. He had lived for himself, he had worked for himself. On his younger brother, Hal, he had wastedall the better and tenderer side of his nature. For Hal's education andadvantage he had sweated and saved for a long time. With the death ofHal, the better side of Riley Sinclair died. 

The horses sweated up a rise of ground. 

"For a schoolteacher he lives sort of far out of town, I figure, " saidRiley Sinclair. 

"That's on account of Sally Bent, " answered Denver Jim. "Sally and herbrother got a shack out this way, and Cold Feet boards with 'em. "

"Sally Bent! That's an old-maidish-sounding name. "

Denver Jim grinned broadly. "Tolerable, " he said, "just tolerableold-maidish sounding. "

When they reached the top of the knoll, the horses paused, as if bycommon assent. Now they stood with their heads bowed, sullen, tiredalready, steam going up from them into the cool of the morning. 

"There it is!"

It was as comfortably placed a house as Riley Sinclair had ever seen. The mountain came down out of the sky in ragged, uneven steps. Here itdipped away into a lap of quite level ground. A stream of spring waterflashed across that little tableland, dark in the shadow of the bigtrees, silver in the sunlight. At the back of the natural clearing wasthe cabin, built solidly of logs. Wood, water, and commanding positionfor defense! Riley Sinclair ran his eye appreciatively over theseadvantages. 

"My guns, I'd forgot Sally!" exclaimed the massive Buck Mason. 

"Is that her?" asked Riley Sinclair. 

A woman had come out of the shadow of a tree and stood over the edge ofthe stream, a bucket in her hand. At that distance it was quiteimpossible to make out her features, although Riley Sinclair foundhimself squinting and peering to make them out. She had on somethingwhite over her head and neck, and her dress was the faded blue of oldgingham. Then the wind struck her dress, and it seemed to lift the girlin its current. 

"I'd forgot Sally Bent!"

"What difference does she make?" asked Riley. 

"You don't know her, stranger. "

"And she won't know us. Got anything for masks?"

"I'm sure a Roman-nosed fool!" declared Mason. "Of course we got towear masks. "

The girl's pail flashed, as she raised it up from the stream anddissolved into the shadow of a big tree. 

"She don't seem noways interested in this here party, " remarked Riley. 

"That's her way, " said Denver Jim, arranging his bandanna to mask thelower part of his face from the bridge of his nose down. "She'll showplenty of interest when it comes to a pinch. "

Riley adjusted his own mask, and he did it thoroughly. Out of his vesthe ripped a section of black lining, and, having cut eyeholes, hefastened the upper edge of the cloth under the brim of his hat and tiedthe loose ends behind his head. Red, white, blue, black, and polka dotwas that quaint array of masks. 

Having completed his arrangements, Larsen started on at a lope, and therest of the party followed in a lurching, loose-formed wedge. At theedge of the little tableland, Larsen drew down his mount to a walk andturned in the saddle. 

"Quick work, no talk, and a getaway, " he said as he swung down to theground. 

In the crisis of action the big Swede seemed to be accorded the placeof leader by natural right. The others imitated his example silently. Before they reached the door Larsen turned again. 

"Watch Jerry Bent, " he said softly. "You watch him, Denver, and you, Sandersen. Me and Buck will take care of Cold Feet. He may fight like arat. That's the way with a coward when he gets cornered. " Then hestrode toward the door. 

"How thick is Sally Bent with this schoolteaching gent?" asked RileySinclair of Mason. 

"I dunno. Nobody knows. Sally keeps her thinking to herself. "

Larsen kicked open the door and at the same moment drew hissix-shooter. That example was also imitated by the rest, with theexception of Riley Sinclair. He hung in the background, watching. 

"Gaspar!" called Larsen. 

There was a voice of answer, a man's thin voice, then the sharp cry ofa girl from the interior of the house. Sinclair heard a flurry ofskirts. 

"Hysterics now, " he said into his mask. 

She sprang into the doorway, her hands holding the jamb on either side. In her haste the big white handkerchief around her throat had beentwisted awry. Sinclair looked over the heads of Mason and Denver Jiminto the suntanned face that had now paled into a delicate olive color. Her very lips were pale, and her great black eyes were flashing atthem. She seemed more a picture of rage than hysterical fear. 

"Why for?" she asked. "What are you-all here for in masks, boys? Whatyou mean calling for Gaspar? What's he done?"

In a moment of waiting Larsen cleared his throat solemnly. "It'd bebest we tell Gaspar direct what we're here for. "

This seemed to tell her everything. "Oh, " she gasped, "you're notreally _after_ him?"

"Lady, we sure be. "

"But Jig--he wouldn't hurt a mouse--he couldn't!"

"Sally, he's done a murder!"

"No, no, no!"

"Sally, will you stand out of the door?"

"It ain't--it ain't a lynching party, boys? Oh, you fools, you'll hangfor it, every one of you!"

Sinclair confided to Buck Mason beside him: "Larsen is letting her talkdown to him. She'll spoil this here party. "

"We're the voice of justice, " said Judge Lodge pompously. "We ain't gotany other names. They wouldn't be nothing to hang. "

"Don't you suppose I know you?" asked the girl, stiffening to her fullheight. "D'you think those fool masks mean anything? I can tell you byyour little eyes, Denver Jim!"

Denver cringed suddenly behind the man before him. 

"I know you by that roan hoss of yours, Oscar Larsen. Judge Lodge, theyain't nobody but you that talks about 'justice' and 'voices. ' BuckMason, I could tell you by your build, a mile off. Montana, you'd oughtto have masked your neck and your Adam's apple sooner'n your face. Andyou're Bill Sandersen. They ain't any other man in these parts thatstands on one heel and points his off toe like a horse with a sore leg. I know you all, and, if you touch a hair on Jig's head, I'll have youinto court for murder! You hear--murder! I'll have you hung, every manjack!"

She had lowered her voice for the last part of this speech. Now shemade a sweeping gesture, closing her hand as if she had clutched theirdestinies in the palm of her hand and could throw it into their faces. 

"You-all climb right back on your hosses and feed 'em the spur. "

They stood amazed, shifting from foot to foot, exchanging miserableglances. She began to laugh; mysterious lights danced and twinkled inher eyes. The laughter chimed away into words grown suddenly gentle, suddenly friendly. Such a voice Riley Sinclair had never heard. Itwalked into a man's heart, breaking the lock. 

"Why, Buck Mason, you of all men to be mixed up in a deal like this. And you, Oscar Larsen, after you and me had talked like partners somany a time! Denver Jim, we'll have a good laugh about this necktieparty later on. Why, boys, you-all know that Jig ain't guilty of noharm!"

"Sally, " said the wretched Denver Jim, "things seemed to be sort ofpointing to a--"

There was a growl from the rear of the party, and Riley Sinclair strodeto the front and faced the girl. "They's a gent charged with murderinside, " he said. "Stand off, girl. You're in the way!"

Before she answered him, her teeth glinted. If she had been a man, shewould have struck him in the face. He saw that, and it pleased him. 

"Stranger, " she said deliberately, making sure that every one in theparty should hear her words, "what you need is a stay around Sour Creeklong enough for the boys to teach you how to talk to a lady. "

"Honey, " replied Riley Sinclair with provoking calm, "you sure put up atidy bluff. Maybe you'd tell a judge that you knowed all these gentsbehind their masks, but they wouldn't be no way you could _prove_ it!"

A stir behind him was ample assurance that this simple point hadescaped the cowpunchers. All the soul of the girl stood up in her eyesand hated Riley Sinclair, and again he was pleased. It was not that hewished to bring the schoolteacher to trouble, but it had angered him tosee one girl balk seven grown men. 

"Stand aside, " said Riley Sinclair. 

"Not an inch!"

"Lady, I'll move you. "

"Stranger, if you touch me, you'll be taught better. The gents in SourCreek don't stand for suchlike ways!"

Before the appeal to the chivalry of Sour Creek was out of her lips, smoothly and swiftly the hands of Sinclair settled around her elbows. She was lifted lightly into the air and deposited to one side of thedoorway. 

Her cry rang in the ears of Riley Sinclair. Then her hand flashed up, and the mask was torn from his face. 

"I'll remember! Oh, if I have to wait twenty years, I'll remember!"

"Look me over careful, lady. Today's most likely the last time you'llsee me, " declared Riley, gazing straight into her eyes. 

A hand touched his arm. "Stranger, no rough play!"

Riley Sinclair whirled with whiplash suddenness and, chopping the edgeof his hand downward, struck away the arm of Larsen, paralyzing thenerves with the same blow. 

"Hands off!" said Sinclair. 

The girl's clear voice rang again in his ear: "Thank you, Oscar Larsen. I sure know my friends--and the gentlemen!"

She was pouring oil on the fire. She would have a feud blazing in amoment. With all his heart Riley Sinclair admired her dexterity. Hedrew the posse back to the work in hand by stepping into the doorwayand calling: "Hey, Gaspar!"

7

"He's right, Larsen, and you're wrong, " Buck Mason said. 

"She had us buffaloed, and he pulled us clear. Steady, boys. They ain'tno harm done to Sally!"

"Oh, Buck, is that the sort of a friend of mine you are?"

"I'm sorry, Sally. "

Sinclair gave this argument only a small part of his attention. Hefound himself looking over a large room which was, he thought, one ofthe most comfortable he had ever seen--outside of pictures. At thefarther end a great fireplace filled the width of the room. The insideof the log walls had been carefully and smoothly finished by somemaster axman. There were plenty of chairs, homemade and verycomfortable with cushions. A little organ stood against the wall to oneside. No wonder the schoolteacher had chosen this for his boardingplace!

Riley made his voice larger. "Gaspar!"

Then a door opened slowly, while Sinclair dropped his hand on the buttof his gun and waited. The door moved again. A head appeared andobserved him. 

"Pronto!" declared Riley Sinclair, and a little man slipped into fullview. 

He was a full span shorter, Riley felt, than a man had any right to be. Moreover, he was too delicately made. He had a head of bright blondhair, thick and rather on end. The face was thin and handsome, and theeyes impressed Riley as being at once both bright and weary. He waswearing a dressing gown, the first Riley had ever seen. 

"Get your hands out of those pockets!" He emphasized the command with ajerk of his gun hand, and the arms of the schoolteacher flew up overhis head. Lean, fragile hands, Riley saw them to be. Altogether it wasthe most disgustingly inefficient piece of manhood that he had everseen. 

"Slide out here, Gaspar. They's some gents here that wants to look youover. "

The voice that answered him was pitched so low as to be almostunintelligible. "What do they want?"

"Step lively, friend! They want to see a gent that lets a woman do hisfighting for him. "

He had dropped his gun contemptuously back into its holster. Now hewaved the schoolteacher to the door with his bare hands. 

Gaspar sidled past as if a loaded gun were about to explode in hisdirection. He reached the door, his arms still held stiffly above hishead, but, at the sight of the masked faces, one arm dropped to hisside, and the other fell across his face. He slumped against the sideof the door with a moan. 

It was Judge Lodge who broke the silence. "Guilty, boys. Ain't one lookat the skunk enough to prove it?"

"Make it all fair and legal, gents, " broke in Larsen. 

Buck Mason strode straight up to the prisoner. 

"Was you over to Quade's house yesterday evening?"

The other shrank away from the extended, pointing arm. 

"Yes, " he stammered. "I--I--what does all this mean?"

Mason whirled on his companions, still pointing to the schoolmaster. "Take a slant at him, boys. Can't you read it in his face?"

There was a deep and humming murmur of approval. Then, without a word, Mason took one of Gaspar's arms and Montana took the other. Sally Bentran forward at them with a cry, but the long arm of Riley Sinclairbarred her way. 

"Man's work, " he said coldly. "You go inside and cover your head. "

She turned to them with extended hands. 

"Buck, Montana, Larsen--boys, you-all ain't going to let it happen? He_couldn't_ have done it!"

They lowered their heads and returned no answer. At that she whirledwith a sob and ran back into the house. The procession moved on, Buckand Montana in the lead, with the prisoner between them. The othersfollowed, Judge Lodge uncoiling a horribly significant rope. Last ofall came Bill Sandersen, never taking his eyes from the face of RileySinclair. 

The latter was thoughtful, very thoughtful. He seemed to feel the eyesof Sandersen upon him, for presently he turned to the other. "Whatgood's a coward to the world, Sandersen?"

"None that I could see. "

"Well, look at that. Ever see anything more yaller?"

Gaspar walked between his two guards. Rather he was dragged betweenthem, his feet trailing weakly and aimlessly behind him, his whole bodysinking with flabby terror. The stern lip of Riley Sinclair curled. 

"He's going to let it go through, " said Sandersen to himself. "Afterall nobody can blame him. He couldn't put his own neck in the noose. "

Over the lowest limb of a great cottonwood Judge Lodge accurately flungthe rope, so that the noose dangled a significant distance from theground. There was a businesslike stir among the others. Denver, Larsen, the judge, and Sandersen held the free end of the rope. Buck Mason tiedthe hands of the prisoner behind him. Montana spoke calmly through hismask. 

"Jig, you sure done a rotten bad thing. You hadn't ought to of killedhim, Jig. These here killings has got to stop. We ain't hanging you forspite, but to make an example. "

Then with a dexterous hand he fitted the noose around the neck of theschoolteacher. As the rough rope grated against Gaspar's throat, heshrieked and jerked against the rope end that bound his hands. Then, asif he realized that struggling would not help him, and that only speechcould give him a chance for life, he checked the cry of horror andlooked around him. His glances fell on the grim masks, and it was onlynatural that he should address himself to the only uncovered face hesaw. 

"Sir, " he said to Riley in a rapid, trembling voice, "you look to melike an honest man. Give me--give me time to speak. "

"Make it pronto, " said Riley Sinclair coldly. 

The four waited, with their hands settled high up on the rope, readyfor the tug which would swing Gaspar halfway to his Maker. 

"We're kind of pushed for time, ourselves, " said Riley. "So hurry iton, Gaspar. "

Bill Sandersen was a cold man, but such unbelievable heartlessnesschilled him. Into his mind rushed a temptation suddenly to denounce thereal slayer before them all. He checked that temptation. In the firstplace it would be impossible to convince five men who had already madeup their minds, who had already acquitted Sinclair of the guilt. In thesecond place, if he succeeded in convincing them, there would be aninstant gunplay, and the first man to come under Sinclair's fire, heknew well enough, would be himself. He drew a long breath and waited. 

"Good friends, gentlemen, " Gaspar was saying, "I don't even know whatyou accuse me of. Kill a man? Why should I wish to kill a man? You knowI'm not a fighter. Gentlemen--"

"Jig, " cut in Buck Mason, "you was as good as seen to murder. You'regoing to hang. If you got anything to say make a confession. "

Gaspar attempted to throw himself on his knees, but his weight struckagainst the rope. He staggered back to his feet, struggling for breath. 

"For mercy's sake--" began Gaspar. 

"Cut it short, boys!" cried Buck Mason. "Up with him!"

The four men at the rope reached a little higher and settled theirgrips. In another moment Gaspar would dangle in the air. Now RileySinclair made his decision. The agonized eyes of the condemned man, wide with animal terror, were fixed on his face. Sinclair raised hishand. 

"Wait!"

The arms, growing tense for the jerk, relaxed. 

"How long is this going to be dragged out?" asked the judge in disgust. "The worst lynching I ever see, that's what I call it! They ain't nojustice in it--it's just plain torture. " "Partner, " declared RileySinclair, "I'm sure glad to see that you got a good appetite for akilling. But it's just come home to me that in spite of everything, this here gent might be innocent. And if he is, heaven help our souls. We're done for!"

"Bless you for that!" exclaimed Gaspar. 

"Shut up!" said Sinclair. "No matter what you done, you deserve hangin'for being yaller. But concerning this here matter, gents, it looks tome like it'd be a pretty good idea to have a fair and square trial forGaspar. "

"Trial?" asked Buck Mason. "Don't we all know what trials end up with?Law ain't no good, except to give lawyers a living. "

"Never was a truer thing said, " declared Sinclair. "All I mean is, thatyou and me and the rest of us run a trial for ourselves. Let's get inthe evidence and hear the witness and make out the case. If we decidethey ain't enough agin' Gaspar to hang him, then let him go. If wedecide to stretch him up, we'll feel a pile better about it and nearerto the truth. "

He went on steadily in spite of the groans of disapproval on everyside. "Why, this is all laid out nacheral for a courtroom. That therestump is for the judge, and the black rock yonder is where the prisonersits. That there nacheral bench of grass is where the jury sits. Gents, could anything be handier for a trial than this layout?"

To the theory of the thing they had been entirely unresponsive, but tothe chance to play a game, and a new game, they responded instantly. 

"Besides, " said Judge Lodge, "I'll act as the judge. I know somethingabout the law. "

"No, you won't, " declared Riley. "I thought up this little party, andI'm going to run it. " Then he stepped to the stump and sat down on it. 

8

Denver Jim was already heartily in the spirit of the thing. 

"Sit down on that black rock, Jig, " he said, taking Gaspar to thedesignated stone as he spoke, and removing the noose from the latter'sneck. "Black is a sign you're going to swing in the end. Jest atriflin' postponement, that's all. "

Riley placated the judge with his first appointment. "Judge Lodge, " hesaid, "you know a pile about these here things. I appoint you clerk. It's your duty to take out that little notebook you got in your vestpocket and write down a note for the important things that's said. Savvy?"

"Right, " replied Lodge, entirely won over, and he settled himself onthe grass, with the notebook on his knee and a stub of a pencil poisedover it. 

"Larsen, you're sergeant-at-arms. "

"How d'you mean that, Sinclair?"

"That's what they call them that keeps order; I disremember where Iheard it. Larsen, if anybody starts raising a rumpus, it's up to you toshut 'em up. "

"I'll sure do it, " declared Larsen. "You can sure leave that to me, judge. " He hoisted his gun belt around so that the gun butt hung moreforward and readier to his hand. 

"Denver, you're the jailer. You see the prisoner don't get away. Keepan eye on him, you see?"

"Easy, judge, " replied Denver. "I can do it with one hand. "

"Montana, you keep the door. "

"What d'you mean--door, judge?"

"Ain't you got no imagination whatever?" demanded Sinclair. "You keepthe door. When I holler for a witness you go and get 'em. AndSandersen, you're the hangman. Take charge of that rope!"

"That ain't such an agreeable job, your honor. "

"Neither is mine. Go ahead. "

Sandersen, glowering, gathered up the rope and draped it over his arm. 

"Buck Mason, you're the jury. Sit down over there on your bench, willyou? This here court being kind of shorthanded, you got to do twelvemen's work. If it's too much for you, the rest of us will help out. "

"Your honor, " declared Buck, much impressed, "I'll sure do my best. "

"The jury's job, " explained Sandersen, "is to listen to everything andnot say nothing, but think all the time. You'll do your talking in onelittle bunch when you say guilty or not guilty. Now we're ready tostart. Gaspar, stand up!"

Denver Jim officiously dragged the schoolteacher to his feet. 

"What's your name?"

"Name?" asked the bewildered Gaspar. "Why, everybody knows my name!"

"Don't make any difference, " announced Sinclair. "This is going to be astrictly regular hanging with no frills left marabout's your name?"

"John Irving Gaspar. "

"Called Jig for short, and sometimes Cold Feet, " put in the clerk. 

Sinclair cleared his throat. "John Irving Gaspar, alias Jig, alias ColdFeet, d'you know what we got agin' you? Know what you're charged with?"

"With--with an absurd thing, sir. "

"Murder!" said Sinclair solemnly. "Murder, Jig! What d'you say, guiltyor not guilty! Most generally, you'd say not guilty. "

"Not guilty--absolutely not guilty. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sinclair--"

"Denver, shut him up and make him sit down. "

One hard, brown hand was clapped over Jig's mouth. The other thrust himback on the black rock. 

"Gentlemen of the jury, " said his honor, "you've heard the prisoner sayhe didn't do it. Now we'll get down to the truth of it. What's thewitnesses for the prosecution got to say?"

There was a pause of consideration. 

"Speak up pronto, " said Sinclair. "Anybody know anything agin' theprisoner?"

Larsen stepped forward. "Your honor, it's pretty generally known--"

"I don't give a doggone for what's generally known. What d'you know?"

The Swede's smile did not alter in the slightest, but his voice becameblunter, more acrid. From that moment he made up his mind firmly thathe wanted to see John Irving Gaspar, otherwise Jig, hanged from thecottonwood tree above them. 

"I was over to Shorty Lander's store the other day--"

His honor raised his hand in weary protest, as he smiled apologeticallyat the court. "Darned if I didn't plumb forget one thing, " he said. "Wegot to swear in these witnesses before they can chatter. Is thereanybody got a Bible around 'em? Nope? Montana, I wished you'd lope overto that house and see what they got in the line of Bibles. "

Montana strode away in the direction of the house, and quiet fell overthe unique courtroom. Larsen, so pleasant of face and so unbending ofheart, was the first to speak. 

"Looks to me, gents, like we're wasting a lot of time on a rat!"

The blond head of Cold Feet turned, and his large, dark eyes restedwithout expression upon the face of the Swede. He seemed almostliterally to fold his hands and await the result of his trial. Theillusion was so complete that even Riley Sinclair began to feel thatthe prisoner might be guilty--of an act which he himself had done! Theopportunity was indeed too perfect to be dismissed withoutconsideration. It was in his power definitely to put the blame onanother man; then he could remain in this community as long as hewished, to work his will upon Sandersen. 

Sandersen himself was a great problem. If Bill had spoken up in goodfaith to save Sinclair from the posse that morning, the Riley felt thathe was disarmed. But a profound suspicion remained with him thatSandersen guessed his mission, and was purposely trying to brush awaythe wrath of the avenger. It would take time to discover the truth, butto secure that time it was necessary to settle the blame for thekilling. Cold Feet was a futile, weak-handed little coward. In thestern scheme of Sinclair's life, the death of such a man was almostless than nothing. 

"Wasting a lot of time on a rat!"

The voice of Larsen fell agreeably upon the ear of his honor. Behindthat voice came a faraway murmur, the scream of a hawk. He bent hishead back and looked up through the limbs of the cottonwood into thepale blue-white haze of the morning sky. 

A speck drifted across it, the hawk sailing in search of prey. Underthe noble arch of heaven floated that fierce, malignant creature!

Riley Sinclair lowered his head with a sigh. Was not he himself playingthe part of the hawk? He looked straight into the eyes of the prisoner, and Jig met the gaze without flinching. He merely smiled in anapologetic manner, and he made a little gesture with his right hand, asif to admit that he was helpless, and that he cast himself upon thegood will of Riley Sinclair. Riley jerked his head to one side andscowled. He hated that appeal. He wanted this hanging to be the work ofseven men, not of one. 

Montana returned, bringing with him a yellow-covered, red-backed book. "They wasn't a sign of a Bible in the house, " he stated, "but I foundthis here history of the United States, with the Declaration ofIndependence pasted into the back of it. I figured that ought to doabout as well as a Bible. "

"You got a good head, Montana, " said his honor. "Open up to that thereDeclaration. Here, Larsen, put your hand on this and swear you'retelling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Theyain't going to be any bum testimony taken in this court. We ain't goingto railroad this lynching through. "

He caught a glistening light of gratitude in the eyes of theschoolteacher. Riley's own breast swelled with a sense of virtue. Hehad never before taken the life of a helpless man; and now that it wasnecessary, he would do it almost legally. 

Larsen willingly took the oath. "I'm going to tell the truth, the wholetruth, and nothing but the truth, damn me if I don't! I was over toShorty Lander's store the other day--"

"What day?"

"Hmm! Last Tuesday, I reckon. "

"Go on, Larsen, but gimme nothin' but the facts. "

"I seen Jig come into the store. 'I want to look at a revolver, '" hesaid. 

"'The deuce you do! What might you want to do with a revolver, Jig?'says Shorty. 'You mean you want a toy gun?'

"I remember them words particular clear, because I didn't see how evena spineless gent like Jig could stand for such a pile of insult. But hejust sort of smiled with his lips and got steady with his eyes, like hewas sort of grieved. 

"'I want a gun that'll kill a man, ' he says to Shorty. 

"Shorty and me both laughed, but, when Shorty brung out a forty-five, doggone me if Jig didn't buy the gun. 

"'Look here, ' says he, 'is this the way it works?'

"And he raises it up in his skinny hand. I had to laugh. 

"'Hold it in both hands, ' says I. 

"'Oh, ' says he, and darned if he didn't take it in both hands. 

"'It seems much easier to handle in this way, ' says he. 

"But that's what I seen. I seen him buy a gun to kill a man. Them washis words, and I figure they're a mouthful. "

Larsen retired. 

"Damagin' evidence, they ain't no question, " said Mr. Clerk severely. "But I can lay over it, your honor. "

"Blaze away, judge. "

Larsen took the oath. "I'm going to show you they was bad feelingsbetween the prisoner and the dead man, your honor. I was over to thedance at the Woodville schoolhouse a couple of weeks ago. Jig wasthere, not dancing or nothing, but sitting in a corner, with all thegirls, mostly, hanging around him. They kept hanging around lookingreal foolish at him, and Jig looks back at 'em as if they wasn't there. Well, it riles the boys around these parts. Quade comes up to him andtakes him aside. 

"'Look here, ' he says, 'why don't you dance with one girl instead ofhogging them all?'

"'I don't dance, ' says Jig. 

"'Why do you stay if you won't dance?' asks Quade. 

"'It is my privilege, ' says Jig, smiling in that ornery way of his, like his thoughts was too big for an ordinary gent to understand 'em. 

"'You stay an' dance an' welcome, ' says Quade, 'but if you won't dance, get out of here and go home where you belong. You're spoiling the partyfor us, keeping all the girls over here. '

"'Is that a threat?' says Jig, smiling in that way of his. 

"'It sure is. And most particular I want you to keep away from SallyBent. You hear?'

"'You take advantage of your size, ' says Jig. 

"'Guns even up sizes, ' says Quade. 

"'Thank you, ' says Jig. 'I'll remember. '

"Right after that he went home because he was afraid that Quade wouldgive him a dressing. But they was bad feelings between him and Quade. They was a devil in them eyes of Jig's when he looked at big Quade. Iseen it, and I knowed they'd be trouble!" Lodge then retired. 

"Gents, " said his honor, "it looks kind of black for the prisoner. Weknow that Gaspar had a grudge agin' Quade, and that he bought a gun bigenough to kill a man. It sure looks black for you, Gaspar. "

The prisoner looked steadily at Sinclair. There was somethingunsettling in that gaze. 

"All we got to make sure of, " said the judge, "is that that quarrelbetween Gaspar and Quade was strong enough to make Gaspar want to killhim, and--"

"Your honor, " broke in Gaspar, "don't you see that I could never kill aman?" The prisoner stretched out his hands in a gesture of appeal toSinclair. 

Riley gritted his teeth. Suddenly a chill had passed through him at thethought of the hanging noose biting into that frail, soft throat. "Youshut up till you're asked to talk, " he said, frowning savagely. "Ithink we got a witness here that'll prove that you _did_ havesufficient cause to make you want to get rid of Quade. And, if we havethat proof, heaven help you. Montana, go get Sally Bent!"

Gaspar started up with a ring in his voice. "No, no!"

In response to a gesture from Sinclair, Denver Jim jerked the prisonerback onto the black rock. With blazing blue eyes, Gaspar glared at thejudge, his delicate lips trembling with unspoken words. 

Sinclair knew, with another strange falling of the heart, that theprisoner was perfectly aware that his judge had not the slightestsuspicion of his guilt. An entente was established between them, anentente which distressed Sinclair, and which he strove to destroy. But, despite himself, he could not get rid of the knowledge that the greatblue eyes were fixed steadily upon him, as if begging him to see thatjustice was done. Consequently, the judge made himself as impersonal aspossible. 

9

Sally Bent came willingly, even eagerly. It was the eagerness of anangry woman who wanted to talk. 

"What is your name?"

"A name you'll come to wish you'd never heard, " said the girl, "if anyharm comes to John Gaspar. Poor Jig, they won't _dare_ to touch a hairof your head!"

With a gentle voice she had turned to Gaspar to speak these last words. A faint smile came on the lips of Gaspar, and his gaze was far away, asif he were in the midst of an unimportant dream, with Sally Bent thelast significant part of it all. The girl flushed and turned back toRiley. 

"I asked you your name, " said his honor gravely. 

"What right have you to ask me my name, or any other question?"

"Mr. Lodge, " said his honor, "will you loosen up and tell this ladywhere we come in?"

"Sure, " said the judge, clearing his throat. "Sally, here's the point. They ain't been much justice around here. We're simply giving the law ahelping hand. And we start in today on the skunk that shot Quade. Quademay have had faults, but he was a man. And look at what done thekilling! Sally, I ask you to look! That bum excuse for a man! ThatGaspar!"

Following the command, Sally looked at Gaspar, the smile of pity andsympathy trembling on her lips again. But Gaspar took no notice. 

"How dare you talk like that?" asked Sally. "Gaspar is worth all sevenof you put together!"

"Order!" said Riley Sinclair. "Order in this here court. Mr. Sergeant-at-arms, keep the witness in order. "

Larsen strode near authoritatively. "You got to stop that fresh talk, Sally. Sinclair won't stand for it. "

"Oscar Larsen, " she cried, whirling on him, "I always thought you werea man. Now I see that you're only big enough to bully a woman. I--Inever want to speak to you again!"

"Silence!" thundered Riley Sinclair, smiting his hard brown handstogether. "Take that witness away and we'll hang Gaspar without hertestimony. We don't really need it--anyways. "

There was a shrill cry from Sally. "Let me talk!" she pleaded. "Let mestay! I won't make no more trouble, Mr. Sinclair. "

"All right, " he decided without enthusiasm. "Now, what's your name?"

"Sally Bent. " She smiled a little as she spoke. That name usuallybrought an answering smile, particularly from the men of Sour Creek. But Sinclair's saturnine face showed no softening. 

"Mr. Clerk, swear the witness. "

Judge Lodge rose and held forth the book and prescribed the oath. 

During that interval, Riley Sinclair raised his head to escape from thesteady, reproachful gaze of John Gaspar. Down in the valley bottom, Sour Creek flashed muddy-yellow and far away. Just beyond, the sungleamed on the chalk-faced cliff. Still higher, the mountains changedbetween dawn and full day. There was the country for Riley Sinclair. What he did down here in the valleys did not matter. Purificationwaited for him among the summit snows. He turned back to hear the lastof Sally Bent's voice, whipping his eyes past Gaspar to avoid meetingagain that clinging stare. 

"Sally Bent, " he said, "do you know the prisoner?"

"You know I know him. John Gaspar boards with us. "

"Ah, then you know him!"

"That's a silly question. What I want to say is--"

"Wait till you're asked, Sally Bent. "

She stamped her foot. Quietly Sinclair compared the girl and theaccused man. 

"Here's the point, " he said slowly. "You knew Quade, and you knew JohnGaspar. "

"Yes. "

"You know Quade's dead?"

"I've just heard it. "

"You didn't like him much?"

"I used to like him. "

"Until Gaspar blew in?"

"You've got no right to ask those questions. "

"I sure have. All right, I gather you were pretty sweet on Quade tillGaspar come along. "

"I never said so!"

"Girl, " pronounced Riley solemnly, "ain't it a fact that you wentaround to a lot of parties and suchlike things with Quade?"

She was silent. 

"It's the straight thing you're giving her, " broke in Larsen. "AfterGaspar come, she didn't have no time for none of us!"

"Ah!" said his honor significantly, scowling on Sally Bent. "After youcut out Quade, he got ugly, didn't he?"

"He sure did!" said Sally. "He said things that no gentleman would ofsaid to a lady. "

"Such as what?"

"Such as that I was a flirt. And he said, I swear to it, that he'd getGaspar!" She stopped, panting with excitement. "He wanted to murderJohn Gaspar!"

Riley Sinclair lifted his heavy brows. "That's a pretty serious thingto say, Sally Bent. "

"But, it's the truth! And I've even heard him threaten Gaspar!"

"But you tried to make them friends? You tried to smooth Quade down?"

"I wouldn't waste my time on a bully! I just told John to get a gun andbe ready to defend himself. "

"And he done it?"

"He done it. But he never fired the gun. "

"What was the last time Quade seen you?"

"The day before yesterday. He come up here and told me that he knew meand John Gaspar was going to get married, and that he wouldn't standstill and see the thing go through. "

"But what he said was right, wasn't it? Gaspar had asked you to marryhim?"

She dropped her head. "No. "

"What? You mean to say that Gaspar hadn't told you he loved you?"

"Never! But now that John's in this trouble, I don't care if the wholeworld knows it! I love John Gaspar!"

What a voice! What a lighted face, as she turned to the prisoner. But, instead of a flush of happiness, John Gaspar rose and shrank away fromthe outstretched hands of the girl. And he was pale--pale with sorrow, and even with pity, it seemed to Sinclair. 

"No, no, " said the soft voice of Gaspar. "Not that, Sally. Not that!"

Decidedly it would not do to let this scene progress. "Take away thewitness, Montana. "

Montana drew her arm into his, and she went away as one stunned, staring at John Gaspar as if she could not yet understand the extent ofthe calamity which had befallen her. She had been worse than scorned. She had been rejected with pity!

As she disappeared into the door of her house, Sinclair looked at thebowed head of John Gaspar. 

"Denver!" he called suddenly. 

"Yes, your honor. "

"The prisoner's hands are tied. Wipe the sweat off'n his face, willyou?"

"Sure!"

With a large and brilliant bandanna Montana obeyed. Then he paused inthe midst of his operation. 

"Your honor. "

"Well?"

"It ain't sweat. It's tears!"

"Tears!" Riley Sinclair started up, then slumped back on his stump witha groan. "Tears!" he echoed, with a voice that was a groan. "JohnGaspar, what kind of a man are you?"

He turned back to the court with a frown. 

"Mr. Jury, " he said, "look at this prisoner we got. Look him overconsiderable. I say, did you ever see a man like that? A man that ain'table to love a girl like Sally Bent when she just about throws herselfat his head? Is he worth keeping alive? Look at him, and then listen tome. I see the whole of it, Mr. Jury. "

Buck Mason leaned forward with interest, glowering upon John Gaspar. 

"This skunk of a John Gaspar gets Sally all tied up with his sappytalk. Gets her all excited because he's something brand new anddifferent. Quade gets sore, nacherallike. Then he comes to Gaspar andsays: 'Cut out this soft talk to Sally, or I'll bust your head. ' Gaspardon't love Sally, but he's afraid of Quade. He goes and gets a gun. Hegoes to Quade's house and tries to be friends. Quade kicks him out. Gaspar climbs back on his hoss and, while he's sitting there, pulls outa gun and shoots poor Quade dead. Don't that sound nacheral? Hewouldn't marry Sally, but he didn't want another man to have her. Andhe wouldn't give up his soft berth in the house of Sally's brother. Heknew Quade would never suspect him of having the nerve to fight. So hetakes Quade unready and plugs him, while Quade ain't looking. Is thatclear?"

"It sure sounds straight to me, " said Buck Mason. 

"All right! Stand up. "

Mason rose. 

"Take off your hat. "

The sombrero was withdrawn with a flourish. 

"God's up yonder higher'n that hawk, but seeing you clear, Buck. Tellus straight. Is Gaspar guilty or not?"

"Guilty as hell, your honor!"

A sigh from the prisoner. The last of life seemed to go from him, andSinclair braced himself to meet a hysterical appeal. But there was onlythat slight drooping of the shoulders and declining of the head. 

It was an appalling thing for Sinclair to watch. He was used to powerin men and beasts. He understood it. A cunning devil of a fightingoutlaw horse was his choice for a ride. "The meaner they are, thelonger they last, " he used to say. He respected men of evil as long asthey were men of action. He was perfectly at home and contented amongmen, where one's purse and life were at constant hazard, where a turnedback might mean destruction. 

To him this meek surrender of hope was incomprehensibly despicable. Ifhe had hesitated before, his hard soul was firm now in the decisionthat John Gaspar must die, and so leave Sinclair's own road free. Withall suspicion of a connection between him and Quade's death gone, Rileycould play a free hand against Sandersen. He turned a face of iron uponthe prisoner. 

"Sandersen and Denver Jim, bring the prisoner before me. "

They obeyed. But when they reached down their hands to Gaspar'sshoulders to drag him to his feet, he avoided them with a shudder andof his own free will rose and walked between them. 

"John Irving Gaspar, " said Sinclair sternly, "alias Jig, alias ColdFeet--which is a fitting and proper name for you--have you got anythingto say that won't take too long before I pronounce sentence on you?"

He had to set his teeth. The sad eyes of John Gaspar had risen from theground and fixed steadily, darkly upon the eyes of his judge. There wasinfinite understanding, infinite patience in that look, the patience ofthe weak man, schooled in enduring buffets. For the moment Sinclairalmost felt that the man was pitying him!

"I have only a little to say, " said John Gaspar. 

"Speak up then. Who d'you want to give the messages to?"

"To no living man, " said John Gaspar. 

"All right then, Gaspar. Blaze away with the talk, but make it short. "

John Gaspar raised his head until he was looking through the stalwartbranches of the cottonwood tree, into the haze of light above. 

"Our Father in Heaven, " said John Gaspar, "forgive them as I forgivethem!"

Riley Sinclair, quivering under those words, looked around him upon thestunned faces of the rest of the court; then back to the calm ofGaspar. Strength seemed to have flooded the coward. At the moment whenhe lost all hope, he became glorious. His voice was soft, never rising, and the great, dark eyes were steadfast. A sudden consciousness came toRiley Sinclair that God must indeed be above them, higher than theflight of the hawk, robed in the maze of that lofty cloud, seeing all, hearing all. And every word that Gaspar spoke was damning him, dragginghim to hell. 

But Riley Sinclair was not a religious man. Luck was his divinity. Heleft God and heaven and hell inside the pages of the Bible, undisturbed. The music of the schoolteacher's voice reminded him of thepurling of some tiny waterfall in the midst of a mountain wilderness. 

"I have no will to fight for life. For that sin, forgive me, and forwhatever else I have done wrong. Let no knowledge of the crime they arecommitting come to these men. Fierce men, fighters, toilers, full ofhate, full of despair, full of rage, how can they be other than blind?Forgive them, as I forgive them without malice. And most of all, LordGod, forgive this most unjust judge. "

"Louder!" whispered Sinclair, his hand cupped behind his ear. 

"Amen, " said John Gaspar, as his head bowed again. The fascinated posseseemed frozen, each man in his place, each in his attitude. 

"John Gaspar, " said his honor, "here's your sentence: You're to behanged by the neck till you're dead. "

John Gaspar closed his eyes and opened them again. Otherwise he made nomove of protest. 

"But not, " continued Sinclair, "from this cottonwood tree. "

A faint sigh, indubitably of relief, came from the posse. 

Riley Sinclair arose. "Gents, " he said, "I been thinking this over. They ain't any doubt that the prisoner is guilty, and they ain't anydoubt that John Gaspar is no good, anyway you look at him. But a gentthat can put the words together like he can, ought to get a chance totalk in front of a regular jury. I figure we'd better send for thesheriff to come over from Woodville and take the prisoner back there. One of you gents can slide over there today, and the sheriff'll be heretomorrow, mostlike. "

"But who'll take charge of Gaspar?"

"Who? Why me, of course! Unless somebody else would like the job more?I'll keep him right here in the Bent cabin. "

"Sinclair, " protested Buck Mason, "you're a pretty capable sort. Theyain't no doubt of that. But what if Jerry Bent comes home, which he'ssure to do before night? There'd be a mess, because Jerry'd fight forGaspar, I know!"

"Partner, " said Riley Sinclair dryly, "if it come to that, then I guessI'd have to fight back. "

It was foolish to question the power in that grave, sardonic face. Theother men gave way, nodding one by one. Secretly each man, now that theexcitement was gone, was glad that they had not proceeded to the lastextremity. In five minutes they were drifting away, and all this timeSinclair watched the face of John Gaspar, as the sorrow changed towonder, and the wonder to the vague beginnings of happiness. 

Suddenly he felt that he had the clue to the mystery of Cold Feet. As amatter of fact John Gaspar had never grown up. He was still a weak, dreamy boy. 

10

The posse had hardly thrown its masks to the wind and galloped down theroad when Sally Bent came running from the house. 

"I knew they couldn't, " she cried to John Gaspar. "I knew they wouldn'tdare. The cowards! I'll remember every one of them!"

"Hush!" murmured Gaspar. His faint smile was for Riley Sinclair. "Oneof them is still here, you see!"

With wrath flushing her face, the girl looked at Riley. 

"How do you dare to stay here and face me--after the things you said!"

"Lady, " replied Sinclair, "you mean after the things I made you say. "

"Just wait till Jerry comes, " exclaimed Sally. 

At this Sinclair grew more sober. 

"Honey, " he said dryly, "when your brother drops in, you just calm himdown, will you? Because if him and Gaspar together was to start inraising trouble--well, they'd be more action than you ever seen in thatcabin before. And, after it was all over, they'd have a dead Gaspar tocart over to Woodville. You can lay to that!"

It took Sally somewhat aback, this confident ferociousness. 

"Them that brag ain't always the ones that do things, " she declared. "But why are you staying here?"

"To keep Gaspar till the sheriff comes for him. "

Sally grew white. 

"Don't you see that there's nothing to be afraid of?" asked JohnGaspar. "See how close I came to death, and yet I was saved. Why, Goddoesn't let innocent men be killed, Sally. "

For a moment the girl stared at the schoolteacher with tears in hereyes; then she flashed at Riley a glance of utter scorn, as if invitinghim to see what an angel upon the earth he was persecuting. ButSinclair remained unmoved. 

He informed them of the conditions of his stay. He must be allowed tokeep John Gaspar in sight at all times. Only suspicious moves he wouldresent with violence. Sally Bent heard all of this with openlyexpressed hatred and contempt. John Gaspar showed no emotion whatever. 

"By heaven, " declared Sinclair, when the girl had gone about somehousework, "I'd actually think you believed that God was on your side. You talk about Him so familiar--like you and Him was partners. "

John Gaspar smiled one of his rare smiles. He had a way of looking fora long moment at another before he spoke. All that he was about to saywas first registered in his face. It was easy to understand how SallyBent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features andthe strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country wheremasculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasantexception. 

"You see, " explained Gaspar, "I had to cheer Sally by saying somethinglike that. Women like to have such things said. She'll be absolutelyconfident now, because she thinks I'm not disturbed. Very odd, but verytrue. "

"And it seems to me, " said Sinclair, frowning, "that you're not muchdisturbed, Gaspar. How does that come?"

"What can I do?"

"Maybe you'd be man enough to try to break away. "

"From you? Tush! I know it is impossible. I'd as soon try to hidemyself in an open field from that hawk. No, no! I'll give you myparole, my word of honor that I'll make no escape. "

But Sinclair struck in with: "I don't want your parole. Hang it, man, just do your best, and I'll do mine. You try to give me the slip, andI'll try to keep you from it. That's square all around. "

Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air ofjudicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap. A great manywords came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained fromspeech. 

In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had neverdetested any human being before or since. To him no sin was so great asthe sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlativelyweak. He had something in place of courage, but just what that thingwas, Sinclair could not tell. 

Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsedhim. No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary. One certaintywas growing upon him. He wished Gaspar to escape. It would bring himshame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not theslightest respect. Let them think as they pleased. 

It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never knownbefore, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. Hesoftened his voice. "Gaspar, " he said, "keep your head up. Make upyour mind that you'll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumbsick to see a grown man give up like you do!"

His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder. 

"You'd ought to be packing yourself full of courage, " went on Sinclair. "Here's your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin' one, you'll be. Ain't that a chance, I ask you?"

But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amused. 

"Not against a man like you, Sinclair. You love fighting, you see. You're made for fighting. You make me think of that hawk. All beak andtalons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty. "

"That's overrating me a pile, " muttered Riley, greatly pleased by thistribute, as he felt it to be. "If you tried, maybe you could do a lotyourself. You're full of nerves, and a gent that's full of nerves makesa first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do. With themfingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash. Start inand learn to be a man, Gaspar!"

Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smallerman. The hand passed through thin air. Gaspar had slipped away. Hestood at a greater distance. On his face there was a strong expressionof displeasure. 

Sinclair scowled darkly. "Now what d'you mean by that?"

"I mean that I don't envy you, " said Gaspar steadily. "I'd rather havethe other thing. "

"What other thing, Jig?"

Gaspar overlooked the contemptuous nickname, doubly contemptuous on thelips of a stranger. 

"You go into the world and take what you want. I'm stronger than that. "

"How are you stronger?" asked Riley. 

"Because I sit in my room, and I can make the world come to me. "

"Jig, I was never smart at riddles. Go ahead and clear yourself up witha few more words. "

The other hesitated--not for words, but as if he wondered if it mightbe worth while for him to explain. Never in Riley Sinclair's life hadhe been taken so lightly. 

"Will you follow me into the house?" asked Gaspar at length. 

"I'll follow you, right enough, " said Sinclair. "That's my job. Leadon. "

He was brought through the living room of the cabin and into a smallerroom to the side. 

Comfort seemed to fill this smaller room. Bookcases ranged along onewall were packed with books. The couch before the window was heapedwith cushions. There was an easy chair with an adjustable back, so thatone could either sit or lie in it. There was a lamp with a biggreenish-yellow shade. 

"This is what I mean, " murmured Jig. 

Riley Sinclair's bold eye roved swiftly, contemptuously. "Well, you gotthis place fixed up pretty stuffy, " he answered. "Outside of that, hangme if I see what you mean. "

Cold Feet slipped into a chair and, interlacing those fingers whosedelicacy baffled and disturbed Sinclair, stared over them at hiscompanion. 

"I really shouldn't expect you to understand, my friend. "

"Friend!" Sinclair exploded. "You're a queer bird, Jig. What do youmean by 'friend'?"

"Why not?" asked this amazing youth, and the quiet of his facebrightened into a smile. "I'd be swinging from the end of a rope if itweren't for you, you know. "

Sinclair shrugged away this rejoinder. He trod heavily to thebookshelves, took up two or three random volumes, and tossed themheedlessly back into place. 

"Well, kid, you're going to be yanked out of this little imitationworld of yours pretty pronto. "

"Ah, but perhaps not!"

"Eh?"

"Something may happen. "

"What can happen?"

"Just something like you, my friend. "

The insistence on that word irritated Riley Sandersen. 

"Don't call me that, " he replied in his most brutal manner. "Jig, d'youknow what a friend means?" he asked. "How d'you figure that word out?"

Jig considered. "A friend is somebody you know and like and are glad tohave around. "

Contempt spread on the face of Sinclair. "That's just about what I knewyou'd say. "

"Am I wrong?"

"Son, they ain't anything right about you, as far as I can make out. Wrong? You're as wrong as a yearling in a blizzard. Wrong? I shouldtell a man you're wrong! Lemme tell you what a friend is. He's thebunkie that guards your back in a fight; he's the man that can ask foryour hoss or your gun or your life, no matter how bad you want 'em;he's the gent that trusts you when the world calls you a liar; he's theone that don't grin when you're in trouble, who gives a cheer whenyou're going good. With a friend you let down the bars and turn yourmind loose like wild hosses. I take out my soul like a gun and show itto my friend in the palm of my hand. It's sure full of holes andstains, this life of mine, but my friend checks off the good agin' thebad, and when you're through he says: 'Partner, now I like you betterbecause I know you better. '

"Son, I don't know what God means very well, and I ain't any bunkie ofthe law, but I'm tolerable well acquainted with what the word 'friend'means. When you use it, you want to look sharp. "

"I really believe, " Jig said, "that you would be a friend like that. Ithink I understand. "

"You don't, though. To a friend you give yourself away, and you getyourself back bigger and stronger. "

"I didn't know, " said Jig softly, "that friendship could mean all that. How many friends have you had?"

The big cowpuncher paused. Then he said gently at length, "One friend. "

"In all your life?"

"Sure! I was lucky and had one friend. "

Cold Feet leaned forward, eagerness in his eyes. "Tell me about him!"

"I don't know you well enough, son. "

That jarring speech thrust Jig back into his chair, as if with aphysical hand. There, as though in covert, he continued to studySinclair. Presently he began to nod. 

"I knew it from the first, in spite of appearances. "

"Knew what?"

"Knew that we'd get along. "

"And are we getting along, Jig?"

"I think so. "

"Glad of that, " muttered the cowpuncher dryly. 

"Ah, " cried John Gaspar, "you're not as hard as you seem. One of thesedays I'll prove it. Besides, you won't forget me. "

"What makes you so sure of that?"

Jig rose from his chair and stood leaning against it, his hands droppedlightly into the pockets of his dressing gown. He lookedextraordinarily boyish at that moment, and he seemed to have thefearlessness of a child which knows that the world has no real accountagainst it. Riley Sinclair set his teeth to keep back a flood of pitythat rose in him. 

"You wait and see, " said Jig. He raised a finger at Sinclair. "I'llkeep coming back into your mind a long time after you leave me; andyou'll keep coming back into my mind. Oh, I know it!"

"How in thunder do you?"

"I don't know. Just because--well, how did I understand at the trialthat you knew I was innocent, and that you would let no harm come tome?"

"Did you know that?" asked Sinclair. 

Instead of answering, Jig broke into his soft, pleasant laughter. 

11

"Laugh and be hanged, " declared Sinclair. "I'm going outside. And don'ttry no funny breaks while I'm gone, " he said. "I'll be watching andwaiting when you ain't expecting. " With that he was gone. 

At the door of the house a gust of hot wind struck him, for the day wasverging on noon, and there seemed more heat than light in the sun. Evento that hot gust Sinclair jerked his bandanna knot aside and opened histhroat gratefully. He felt as if he had been under a hard nervousstrain for some time past. Cold Feet, the craven, the weak of hand andthe frail of spirit, had tested him in a new way. He had beenconfronting a novel and unaccountable thing. He felt very oddly as ifsomeone had been prodding into corners of his nature yet unknown evento himself. He tingled from the rapier touches of that last laughter. 

Now his eyes roamed with relief across the valley. Heat waves blurredthe hollow and pushed Sour Creek away until it seemed a river ofmist--yellow mist. He raised his attention out of that swelteringhollow to the cool, blue, mighty mountains--his country!

Presently he had forgotten all this. He settled his hat on the back ofhis head and began to kick a stone before him, following it aimlessly. 

Someone was humming close to him, and he turned sharply to see SallyBent go by, carrying a bucket. She smiled generously, and though heknew that she doubtless hated him in her heart and smiled for apurpose, he had to reply with a perfunctory grin. He stalked after herto the little leaping creek and dipped out a full bucket. 

"Thanks, " said Sally, wantonly meeting his eye. 

As well try to soften a sphinx. Sinclair carried the dripping bucket onthe side nearest the girl and thereby gained valuable distance. "I'mmighty glad it's you and not one of the rest, " confided Sally, stillsmiling firmly up to him. 

He avoided that appeal with a grunt. 

"Like Sandersen, say, " went on the girl. 

"Why not him?"

"He's a bad hombre, " said the girl. "Hate to have Jig in his hands. With you it's different. "

Sinclair waited until he had put down the bucket in the kitchen. Thenhe faced Sally thoughtfully. 

"Why?" he asked. 

"Because you're reasonable. "

"Did Jig tell you that?"

"And a pile more. Jig says you're a pretty fine sort. That's hiswords. "

The cowpuncher caressed the butt of his gun with his fingertips, hishabitual gesture when in doubt. 

"Lady, " he said at length, "suppose I cut this short? You think I ain'tgoing to keep Cold Feet here till the sheriff comes for him?"

"You see what it would mean?" she asked eagerly. "It wouldn't be a fairtrial. You couldn't get a fair jury for Jig around Sour Creek andWoodville. They hate him--all the young men do. D'you know why? Simplybecause he's different! Simply because--"

"Because all the girls are pretty fond of him, eh?"

"You can put it that way if you want, " she answered steadily enough, though she flushed under his stare. Then: "you'll keep that in mind, and you're man enough to do what you think is right, ain't you, Mr. Sinclair?"

He shifted away from the hand which was moving toward him. 

"I'll tell you what, " he answered. "I'm man enough to be afraid of agirl like you, Sally Bent. "

Then he saw her head fall in despair, as he turned away. When hereached the shimmering heat of the outdoors again, he was feeling likea murderer. His reason told him that Cold Feet was "yaller, " not worthsaving. His reason told him that he could save Jig only by a confessionthat would drive him, Sinclair, away from Sour Creek and his destinedvictim, Sandersen. Or he could save Jig by violating the law, and thatalso would drive him from Sour Creek and Sandersen. 

Suddenly he halted in the midst of his pacing to and fro. Why was heturning these alternatives back and forth in his mind? Because, heunderstood all at once, he had subconsciously determined that Cold Feetmust not die!

The face of his brother rose up and looked into his eyes. That was thefriend of whom he would not speak to Jig, brother and friend at once. And as surely as ever ghost called to living man, that face demandedthe death of Sandersen. He blinked the vision away. 

"I _am_ going nutty, " muttered Sinclair. "Whether Sandersen lives ordies, Jig ain't going to dance at a rope's end!"

Presently Sally called him in to lunch, and Riley ate halfheartedly. All during the meal neither Sally nor John Gaspar had more than a wordfor him, while they talked steadily together. They seemed to understandeach other so well that he felt a hidden insult in it. 

Once or twice he made a heavy attempt to enter the conversation, alwaysaddressing his remarks to Sally Bent. He was received graciously, buthis remarks always fell dead, and a moment later Cold Feet had pickedup the frayed ends of his own talk and won the entire attention ofSally. Riley was beginning to understand why the youth of that districtdetested Cold Feet. 

"Always takes some soft-handed dude to make a winning with a foolgirl, " he comforted himself. 

He expected the arrival of Jerry Bent before nightfall, and with thatarrival, perhaps, there would be a new sort of attack on him. Sally andCold Feet were trying persuasion, but they might encourage Jerry Bentto attempt physical force. With all his heart Riley Sinclair hoped so. He had a peculiar desire to do something significant for the eyes ofboth Sally and Jig. 

But nightfall came, and then supper, and still no Jerry appeared. Afterward, Sinclair made ready to sleep in Jig's room. Cold Feetoffered him the couch. 

"Beds and me don't hitch" declared Riley, throwing two or three of therugs together. "I ain't particular partial to a floor, neither, butthese here rugs will give it a sort of a ground softness. "

He sat cross-legged on the low pile of rugs, while he pulled off hisboots and smoked his good-night cigarette. Jig coiled up in a bigchair, while he studied his jailer. 

"But how can you go to bed so early?" he asked. 

"Early? It ain't early. Sun's down, ain't it? Why do they bring onnight, except for folks to go to sleep?"

"For my part the best part of the day generally begins when the sungoes down. "

With patient contempt Riley considered John Gaspar. "You look kind ofthat way, " he decided aloud. "Pale and not much good with yourshoulders. Now, what d'you most generally do with your time in theevening?"

"Why--talk. "

"Talk? Huh! A fine way of wasting time for a growed-up man. "

"And I read, you know. "

"I can see by the looks of them shelves that you do. How many of thembooks might you have read, Jig?"

"All of them. "

"I ask you, man to man, ain't they mostly somebody's idea of what lifeis?"

"I suppose that's a short way of putting it. "

"And I ask you ag'in, what's better to take a secondhand hunch out ofwhat somebody else thinks life might be, or to go out and do someliving on your own hook?"

Cold Feet had been smiling faintly up to this point, as though he hadmany things in reserve which might be said at need. Now his smiledisappeared. 

"Perhaps you're right. "

"And maybe I ain't. " Sinclair brushed the entire argument away into athin mist of smoke. "Now, look here, Cold Feet, I'm about to go tosleep, and when I sleep, I sure sleep sound, taking it by and large. They's times when I don't more'n close one eye all night, and they'stimes when you'd have to pull my eyes open, one by one, to wake me up. Understand? I'm going to sleep the second way tonight. About eighthours of the soundest sleep you ever heard tell of. "

Jig considered him gravely. 

"I'm afraid, " he answered, "that I won't sleep nearly as well. "

Riley Sinclair smiled. "Wouldn't be no ways nacheral for you to do muchsleeping, " he agreed. "Take a gent that's in danger of having his neckstretched, like you, and most generally he don't do much sleeping. Helies around awake, cussing his luck, I s'pose. Take you, now, ColdFeet, and I s'pose you'll be figuring on how far a hoss could carry youin the eight hours that I'll be sleeping. Eh?"

There was a suggestive lift of the eyebrows, as he spoke, but beforeJig had a chance to study his face, he had turned and wrapped himselfin one of the rugs. He lay perfectly still, stretched on one side, withhis back turned to Jig. He stirred neither hand nor foot. 

Outside, a door slammed heavily; Cold Feet heard the heavy voice ofJerry Bent and the beat of his heels across the floor. In spite ofthose noises Riley Sinclair was presently sound asleep, as he hadpromised. Gaspar knew it by the rise and fall of the arm which layalong Sinclair's side, also by the sound of his breathing. 

Cold Feet went to the window and looked out on the mountains, black andhuge, with a faint shimmer of snow on the farthest summits. At the verythought of trying to escape into that wilderness and wandering aloneamong the peaks, he shuddered. He came back and studied the sleeper. Something about the nonchalance with which Sinclair had gone to sleepunder the very eye of his prisoner affected John Gaspar strangely. Doubtless it was sheer contempt for the man he was guarding. And, indeed, something assured Jig that, no matter how well he employed thenext eight hours in putting a great distance between himself and SourCreek, the tireless riding of Sinclair would more than make up thedistance. 

Gaspar went to the door, then turned sharply and glanced over hisshoulder at the sleeper; but the eyes of Sinclair were still closed, and his regular breathing continued. Jig turned the knob cautiously andslipped out into the living room. 

Jerry and Sally beckoned instantly to him from the far side of theroom. The beauty of the family had descended upon Sally alone. Jerrywas a swart-skinned, squat, bow-legged, efficient cowpuncher. He nowambled awkwardly to meet John Gaspar. 

"Are you all set?" he asked. 

"For what?"

"To start on the trail!" exclaimed Jerry. "What else? Ain't Sinclairasleep?"

"How d'you know?"

"I listened at the door and heard his breathing a long time ago. Thought you'd never come out. "

Sally Bent was already on the other side of Gaspar, drawing him towardthe door. 

"You can have my hoss, Jig, " she offered. "Meg is sure as sin in themountains. You won't have nothing to fear on the worst trail they is. "

"Not a thing, " asserted Jerry. 

They half led and half dragged Cold Feet to the door. 

"I'll show you the best way. You see them two peaks yonder, like a pairof mule's ears? You start--"

"I don't know, " said Jig. "It seems very difficult, even to think ofriding alone through those mountains. "

Sally was white with fear. "You ain't going to throw away this chance, Jig? It'll mean hanging sure, if you don't run now. Ask Jerry whatthey're saying in Sour Creek tonight?"

Jerry volunteered the information. "They're all wondering why youwasn't strung up today, when they got so much evidence agin' you. Alsothey're thinking that the boys played plumb foolish in turning you overto this stranger, Sinclair, to guard. But they're waiting for SheriffKern to come over from Woodville an' nab you in the morning. They'ssome that says that they won't wait, if it looks like the law is goingto take too long to hang you. They'll get up a necktie party and breakthe jail and do their own hanging. I heard all them things and more, Jig. "

John Gaspar looked uncertainly from one to the other of his friends. 

"You've _got_ to go!" cried Sally. 

"I've got to go, " admitted Cold Feet in a whisper. 

"I've got Meg saddled for you already. She's plumb gentle. "

"Just a minute. I've forgotten something. "

"You don't mean you're going back into that room where Sinclair is?"

"I won't waken him. He's sleeping like the dead. "

Jig turned away from them and hurried back to his room. Having openedand closed the door softly, he went to a chest of drawers near thewindow and fumbled in the half-light of the low-burning lamp. Heslipped a small leather case into the breast pocket of his coat, andthen stole back toward the door, as softly as before. With his hand onthe knob, he paused and looked back. For all he knew, Sinclair might bereally awake now, watching his quarry from beneath those heavy lashes, waiting until his prisoner should have made a definite attempt toescape. 

And then the big man would rise to his feet as soon as the door wasclosed. The picture became startlingly real to John Gaspar. Sinclairwould slip out that window, no doubt, and circle around toward thehorse shed. There he would wait until his prisoner came out on Meg, andthen without warning would come a shot, and there would be an end ofSinclair's trouble with his prisoner. Gaspar could easily attributesuch cunning cruelty to Sinclair. And yet there was something untested, unprobed, different about the rangy fellow. 

Whatever it was, it kept Gaspar staring down into the lean face ofSinclair for a long moment. Then he went resolutely back into theliving room and faced Sally Bent; Jerry was already waiting outdoors. 

"I'm not going, " said Gaspar slowly. "I'll stay. "

Sally cried out. "Oh, Jig, have you lost your nerve ag'in? Ain't yougot _no_ courage?"

The schoolteacher sighed. "I'm afraid not, Sally. I guess my onlycourage comes in waiting and seeing how things turn out. "

He turned and went gloomily back to his room. 

12

With the first brightness of dawn, Sinclair wakened even more suddenlythat he had fallen asleep. There was no slow adjusting of himself tothe requirements of the day. One prodigious stretching of the longarms, one great yawn, and he was as wide awake as he would be at noon. He jerked on his boots and rose, and not until he stood up, did he seeJohn Gaspar asleep in the big chair, his head inclining to one side, the book half-fallen from his hand, and the lamp sputtering its lastbeside him. But instead of viewing the weary face with pity, Sinclairburst into sudden and amazed profanity. 

The first jarring note brought Gaspar up and awake with a start, and hestared in astonishment at the uninterrupted flood which rippled fromthe lips of the cowpuncher. It concluded: "Still here! Of all theshorthorned fatheads that I ever seen, the worst is this Gaspar--thisJig--this Cold Feet. Say, man, ain't you got no spirit at all?"

"What do you mean?" asked Gaspar. "Still here? Of course I'm stillhere! Did you expect me to escape?"

Sinclair flung himself into a chair, speechless with rage and disgust. 

"Did you think I was joking when I told you I was going to sleep eighthours without waking up?"

"It might very well have been a trap, you know. "

Sinclair groaned. "Son, they ain't any man in the world that'll tellyou that Riley Sinclair sets his traps for birds that ain't got theirstiff feathers growed yet. Trap for you? What in thunder should I wantyou for, eh?"

He strode to the window, still groaning. 

"There's where you'd ought to be, over yonder behind them mule ears. They'd never catch you in a thousand years with that start. Eight hoursstart! As good as have eight years, kid--just as good. And you'vethrowed that chance away!"

He turned and stared mournfully at the schoolteacher. 

"It ain't no use, " he said sadly. "I see it all now. You was cut out toend in a rope collar. "

Not another word could be pried from his set lips during breakfast, agloomy meal to which Sally Bent came with red eyes, and Jerry Bentsullenly, with black looks at Sinclair. Jig was the cheeriest one ofthe party. That cheer at last brought another explosion from Sinclair. They stood in front of the house, watching a horseman wind his way upthe road through the hills. 

"It's Sheriff Kern, " said Jerry Bent. "I can tell by the way he rides, sort of slanting. It's Kern, right enough. "

Sally Bent choked, but Jig continued to hum softly. 

"Singin'?" asked Riley Sinclair suddenly. "Ain't you no more worriedthan that?"

The voice of the schoolteacher in reply was as smooth as running water. "I think you'll bring me out of the trouble safely enough, Mr. Sinclair. "

"Mr. Sinclair'll see you damned before he lifts a hand for you!" Rileyretorted savagely. 

He strode to his horse and expended his wrath by viciously jerking atthe cinches, until the mustang groaned. Sheriff Kern came suddenly intoclear view around the last turn and rode quickly up to them, a veryshort man, muscular, sweaty. He always gave the impression that he hadbeen working ceaselessly for a week, and certainly he found time toshave only once in ten days. Dense bristle clouded the lower featuresof his face. He was a taciturn man. His greetings took the form of asingle grunt. He took possession of John Gaspar with a single glancethat sent the latter nervously toward his saddle horse. 

"I see you got this party all ready for me, " said the sheriff moreamiably to Riley Sinclair, who was watching in disgust the clumsymethod of Jig's mounting. "You're Sinclair, I guess?"

"I'm Sinclair, sheriff. "

They shook hands. 

"Nice bit of work you done for me, Sinclair, keeping the boys fromstringing up Jig, yonder. These here lynchings don't set none too wellon the reputation of a sheriff. I guess we're ready to start. S'longSally--Jerry. Are you riding our way, Sinclair?"

"I thought I'd happen along. Ain't never seen Woodville yet. "

"Glad to have you. But they ain't much to see unless you look twice atthe same thing. "

They started down the trail three abreast. 

"Ride on ahead, " commanded Sinclair to Jig. "We don't want you ridingin the same line with men. Git on ahead!"

John Gaspar obeyed that brutal order with bowed head. He rodelistlessly, with loose rein, letting the pony pick its own way. OnceSinclair looked back to Sally Bent, weeping in the arms of her brother. Again his face grew black. 

"And yet, " confided the sheriff softly, "I ain't never heard no troubleabout this Gaspar before. "

"He's poison, " declared Sinclair bitterly, and he raised his voice thatit would unmistakably carry to the shrinking figure before them. "He'ssuch a yaller-hearted skunk, sheriff, that it makes me ashamed of bein'a man!"

"They's only one thing I misdoubt, " said the sheriff. "How'd that sortof a gent ever get the nerve to murder a man like Quade? Quade wasn'tno tenderfoot, and he could shoot a bit, besides. "

"Speaking personal, sheriff, I don't think he done it, now I've had achance to go over the evidence. "

"Maybe he didn't, but most like he'll hang for it. The boys is dead setagin' him. First, he's a dude; second, he's a coward. Sour Creek andWoodville wasn't never cut out for that sort. They ain't wantedaround. "

That speech made Riley Sinclair profoundly thoughtful. He had knownwell enough before this that there were small chances of Jig escapingfrom the damning judgment of twelve of these cowpunchers. The statementof the sheriff made the belief a fact. The death sentence of Jig waspronounced the moment the doors of the jail at Woodville clanged uponhim. 

They struck the trail to Sour Creek and almost immediately swung off ona branch which led south and west, in the opposite direction from thecreek. It was a day of high-driving clouds, thin and fleecy, so thatthey merely filtered the sunlight and turned it into a haze withoutdecreasing the heat perceptibly, and that heat grew until it becamedifficult to look down at the blazing sand. 

Now the trail climbed among broken hills until they reached a summit. From that point on, now and again the road elbowed into view of a wideplain, and in the center of the plain there was a diminutive dump ofbuildings. 

"Woodville, " said the sheriff. "Hey, you, Jig, hustle that hoss along!"

Obediently the drooping Gaspar spurred his horse. The animal broke intoa gallop that set Gaspar jolting in the seat, with wildly floppingelbows. 

"Look at that, " said Sinclair. "Would you ever think that men could beborn as awkward as that? Would you ever think that men would be bornthat didn't have no use in the world?"

"He ain't altogether useless, " decided the sheriff. "Seems as how he'sdone noble in the school. Takes on with the little boys and girls mostamazing, and he knows how to keep even the eighth graders interested. But what can you expect of a gent that ain't got no more pride than tobe a schoolteacher, eh?"

Sinclair shook his head. 

The trail drifted downward now less brokenly, and Woodville came intoview. It was a wretched town in a wretched landscape, far differentfrom the wild hills and the rich plowed grounds around Sour Creek. Allthat came to life in the brief spring, the long summer had long sinceburned away to drab yellows and browns. A horrible place to die in, Sinclair thought. 

"Speaking of hosses, that's a wise-looking hoss you got, sheriff. "

"Rode him for five years, " said the sheriff. "Raised him and busted himand trained him all by myself. Ain't nobody but me ever rode him. Hecan go so soft-footed he wouldn't bust eggs, sir, and he can turn looseand run like the wind. They ain't no better hoss than this that's comeunder my eye, Sinclair. Are you much on the points of a hoss?"

"I use hosses--I don't love 'em, " said Sinclair gloomily. "But I canread the points tolerable. "

The sheriff eyed Sinclair coldly. "So you don't love hosses, eh?" hesaid, returning distantly to the subject. It was easy to see where hisown heart lay by the way his roan picked up its head whenever itsmaster spoke. 

"Sheriff, " explained Sinclair, "I'm a single-shot gent. I don't aim tohave no scatter fire in what I like. They's only one man that I evercalled friend, they's only one place that I ever called home--themountains, yonder--and they's only one hoss that I ever took to much. Iraised Molly up by hand, you might say. She was ugly as sin, but theywasn't nothing she couldn't do--nothing!" He paused. "Sheriff, I usedto talk to that hoss!"

The sheriff was greatly moved. "What became of her?" he asked softly. 

"I took after a gent once. He couldn't hit me, but he put a slugthrough Molly. "

"What became of the gent?" asked the sheriff still more softly. 

"He died just a little later. Just how I ain't prepared to state. "

"Good!" said the sheriff. He actually smiled in the pleasure ofnewfound kinship. "You and me would get on proper, Sinclair. "

"Most like. "

"This hoss of mine, now, has sense enough to take me home without metouching a rein. Knows direction like a wolf. "

"Could you guide her with your knees?"

"Sure. "

"And she's plumb safe with you?"

"Sure. "

"I know a gent once that said he'd trust himself tied hand and foot onhis hoss. "

"That goes for me and my hoss, too, Sinclair. "

"Well, then, just shove up them hands, sheriff!"

The sheriff blinked, as the sun flashed on the revolver in the steadyhand of Sinclair. There was a significant little jerking up of therevolver. Each time the muzzle stirred, the hands of the sheriff jumpedhigher and higher until his arms were stiffly stretched. Gaspar hadhalted his horse and looked back in amazement. 

"I hate to do it, " declared Sinclair. "Right off I sort of took to you, sheriff. But this has got to be done. "

"Sinclair, have you done much thinking before you figured this allout?"

"Enough! If I knowed you one shade better, sheriff, I'd take your wordthat you'd ride on into Woodville, good and slow, and not start nopursuit. But I don't know you that well. I got to tie you on the backof that steady old hoss of yours and turn you loose. We need that muchstart. "

He dismounted, still keeping careful aim, took the rope coiled besidethe sheriff's own saddle horn and began a swift and sure process oftying. He worked deftly, without undue fear or haste, and Gaspar cameback to look on with scared eyes. 

"You're a fool, Sinclair, " murmured the sheriff. "You'll never get shutof me. I'll foller you till I drop dead. I'll never forget you. Changeyour mind now, and we'll say nothing has happened. But if you keep on, you're done for as sure as my name is Kern. Take you by yourself, andyou'd be a handful to catch. But two is easier than one, and, when oneof them two is a deadweight like Gaspar, they ain't nothing to it. "

He finished his appeal completely trussed. 

"I ain't tied you on the hoss, " said Sinclair. "Take note of that. AlsoI'm leaving you your guns, sheriff. "

"I hope you'll have a chance to see 'em come out of the holster lateron, Sinclair. "

The cowpuncher took no notice of this bitterness. Gaspar, who lookedon, was astonished by a certain deferential politeness on the part ofthe big cowpuncher. 

"Speaking personal, I hope I don't never have no trouble with you, sheriff. I like you, understand?"

"Have your little joke, Sinclair!"

"I mean it. I know I'm usin' you like a skunk. But I got a specialneed, and I can't take no chances. Sheriff, I tell you out of my heartthat I'm sorry! Will you believe me?"

The sheriff smiled. "The same as you'll believe me when we changeparts, Sinclair. "

The big man sighed. "I s'pose it's got to be that way, " he said. "Butif you come for me, Kern, come all primed for action. It'll be a hardtrail. "

"That's my specialty. "

"Well, sheriff, s'long--and good luck!"

The sheriff nodded. "Thanks!"

Pressing his horse with his knees, Kern started down the trail at aslow canter. Sinclair followed the retiring figure, nodding withadmiration at the skill with which the sheriff kept his mount undercontrol, merely by power of voice. Presently the latter turned a cornerof the trail and was out of sight. 

"But--I knew--I knew!" exclaimed John Gaspar. "Only, why did you lethim go on into town?" The cold glance of Sinclair rested on hiscompanion. "What would you have done?"

"Tied him up and left him here. "

"I think you would--to die in the sun!" He swung up into his saddle. "Now, Gaspar, we've started on what's like to prove the last trail forboth of us, understand? By night we'll both be outlawed. They'll have aprice on us, and long before night, Kern will be after us. For thefirst time in your soft-hearted life you've got to work, and you've gotto fight. "

"I'll do it, Mr. Sinclair!"

"Bah! Save your talk. Talk's dirt cheap. "

"I only ask one thing. Why have you done it?"

"Because, you fool, I killed Quade!"

13

From the first there was no thought in the sheriff's mind of ridingstraight into Woodville, trussed and helpless as he was. Woodvillerespected him, and the whole district was proud of its sheriff. He knewthat five minutes of laughter can blast the finest reputation that wasever built by a lifetime of hard labor. He knew the very faces of themen who would never let the story die, of how the sheriff came intotown, not only without his prisoner, but tied hand and foot, helplessin the saddle. 

Without his prisoner!

Never before in his twenty years as sheriff had a criminal escaped fromhis hands. Many a time they had tried, and on those occasions he hadbrought back a dead body for the hand of the law. 

This time he had ample excuse. Any man in the world might admit that hewas helpless when such a fellow as Riley Sinclair took him by surprise. He knew Sinclair well by reputation, and he respected all that he hadheard. 

No matter for that. The fact remained that his unbroken string ofsuccesses was interrupted. Perhaps Woodville would explain his failureaway. No doubt some of the men knew of Sinclair and would not wonder. They would stand up doughtily for the prowess of their sheriff. Yet thefact held that he had failed. It was a moral defeat more than anythingelse. 

His mind was made up to remain in the mountains until he starved, oruntil he had removed those shameful ropes--his own rope! At thatthought he writhed again. But here an arroyo opening in the ragged wallof a cliff caught his eye. He turned his horse into it and continued onhis way until he saw a projecting rock with a ragged edge, left where agreat fragment had recently fallen away. 

Here he found it strangely awkward and even perilous to dismountwithout his hands to balance his weight, as he shifted out of thestirrups. In spite of his care, he stumbled over a loose rock as hestruck the ground and rolled flat on his back. He got up, grinding histeeth. His hands were tied behind him. He turned his back on the brokenrock and sawed the ropes against it. To his dismay he felt the rockedge crumble away. It was some chalky, friable stuff, and it gave atthe first friction. 

Beads of moisture started out on the sheriff's forehead. Hastily hestarted on down the arroyo and found another rock, with an edge notnearly so favorable in appearance, but this time it was granite. Heleaned his back against it and rubbed with a short shoulder motionuntil his arms ached, but it was a happy labor. He felt the rock edgetaking hold of the ropes, fraying the strands to weakness, and theneating into them. It was very slow work!

The sun drifted up to noon, and still he was leaning against that rock, working patiently, with his head near to bursting, and perspiration, which he could not wipe away, running down to blind him. Finally, whenhis brain was beginning to reel with the heat, and his shoulders achedto numbness, the last strand parted. The sheriff dropped down to theground to rest. 

Presently he drew out his jackknife and methodically cut the remainingbonds. It came to him suddenly, as he stood up, that someone might haveseen this singular performance and carried the tale away for futurelaughter. The thought drove the sheriff mad. He swung savagely into thesaddle and drove his horse at a dead run among the perilous going ofthat gorge. When he reached the plain he paused, hesitant between abulldog desire to follow the trail single-handed into the mountains andrun down the pair, and a knowledge that he who retreats has an addedpower that would make such a pursuit rash beyond words. 

A phrase which he had coined for the gossips of Woodville, came backinto his mind. He was no longer as young as he once was, and even athis prime he shrewdly doubted his ability to cope with Riley Sinclair. With the weight of Gaspar thrown in, the thing became an impossibility. Gaspar might be a weakling, but a man who was capable of murder wasalways dangerous. 

To have been thwarted once was shame enough, but he dared not risk twofailures with one man. He must have help in plenty from Woodville, and, fate willing, he would one day have the pleasure of looking down intothe dead face of Sinclair; one day have the unspeakable joy of seeingthe slender form of Gaspar dangling from the end of a rope. 

His mind was filled with the wicked pleasure of these pictures until hecame suddenly upon Woodville. He drew his horse back to a dogtrot toenter the town. 

It was a short street that led through Woodville, but, short though itwas, the news that something was wrong with the sheriff reached theheart of the town before he did. Men were already pouring out on theveranda of the hotel. 

"Where is he, sheriff?" was the greeting. 

Never before had that question been asked. He switched to one side inhis saddle and made the speech that startled the mind of Woodville formany a day. 

"Boys, I've been double-crossed. Have any of you heard tell of RileySinclair?"

He waited apparently calm. Inwardly he was breathless with excitement, for according to the size of Riley's reputation as a formidable manwould be the size of his disgrace. There was a brief pause. Old Shawfilled the gap, and he filled it to the complete satisfaction of thesheriff. 

"Young Hopkins was figured for the hardest man up in Montana way, " hesaid. "That was till Riley Sinclair beat him. What about Sinclair?"

"It was him that double-crossed me, " said the sheriff, vastly relieved. "He come like a friend, stuck me up on the trail when I wasn't lookin'for no trouble, and he got away with Gaspar. "

A chorus, astonished, eager. "What did he do it for?"

"No man'll ever know, " said the sheriff. 

"Why not?"

"Because Sinclair'll be dead before he has a chance to look a jury inthe face. "

There were more questions. The little crowd had got its breath again, and the words came in volleys. The sheriff cut sharply through thenoise. 

"Where's Bill Wood?"

"He's in town now. "

"Charley, will you find Billy for me and ask him to slide over to myoffice? Thanks! Where's Arizona and Red Chalmers?"

"They went back to the ranch. "

"Be a terrible big favor if you'd go out and try to find 'em for me, boys. Where's Joe Stockton?"

"Up to the Lewis place. "

Old Shaw struck in: "You ain't makin' no mistake in picking the bestyou can get. You'll need 'em for this Riley Sinclair. I've heard tellabout him. A pile!"

The very best that Woodville and its vicinity could offer, was indeedwhat the sheriff was selecting. Another man would have looked fornumbers, but the sheriff knew well enough that numbers meant littlespeed, and speed was one of the main essentials for the task that laybefore him. He knew each of the men he had named, and he had known themfor years, with the exception of Arizona. But the latter, coming upfrom the southland, had swiftly proved his ability in many a brawl. 

Bill Wood was a peerless trailer; Red Chalmers would, the sheriff felt, be one day a worthy aspirant for the office which he now held, and Redwas the only man the sheriff felt who could succeed to that perilousoffice. As for Joe Stockton, he was distinctly bad medicine, but in acase like this, it might very well be that poison would be the antidotefor poison. Of all the men the sheriff knew, Joe was the neatest handwith a gun. The trouble with Joe was that he appreciated his ownability and was fond of exhibiting his prowess. 

Having sent out for his assistants on the chase, the sheriff retired tohis office and set his affairs in order. There was not a great deal ofpaper work connected with his position; in twenty minutes he hadcleared his desk, and, by the time he had finished this task, the firstof his posse had sauntered into the doorway and stood leaning idlythere, rolling a cigarette. 

"Have a chair, Bill, will you?" said the sheriff. He tilted back in hisown and tossed his heels to the top of his desk. "Getting sort of warmtoday, ain't it?"

Bill Wood had never seen the sheriff so cheerful. He sat down gingerly, knowing well that some task of great danger lay before them. 

14

All that Gaspar dreaded in Riley Sinclair had come true. Theschoolteacher drew his horse as far away as the trail allowed and rodeon in silence. Finally there was a stumble, and it seemed as if thewords were jarred out from his lips, hitherto closely compressed:"_You_ killed Quade!"

A scowl was his answer. 

But he persisted in the inquiry with a sort of trembling curiosity, though he could see the angry emotions rise in Sinclair. The emotion ofa murderer, perhaps?

"How?"

"With a gun, fool. How d'you think?"

Even that did not halt John Gaspar. 

"Was it a fair fight?"

"Maybe--maybe not. It won't bring him back to life!"

Riley laughed with savage satisfaction. Gaspar watched him as a birdmight watch a snake. He had heard tales of men who could findsatisfaction in a murder, but he had never believed that a human beingcould actually gloat over his own savagery. He stared at Riley as if hewere looking at a wild beast that must be placated. 

Thereafter the talk was short. Now and again Sinclair gave some curtdirection, but they put mile after mile behind them without a singlephrase interchanged. Gaspar began to slump in the saddle. It brought afierce rebuke from Sinclair. 

"Straighten up. Put some of your weight in them stirrups. D'you thinkany hoss can buck up when it's carrying a pile of lead? Come alive!"

"It's the heat. It takes my strength, " protested Gaspar. 

"Curse you and your strength! I wouldn't trade all of you for one earof the hoss you're riding. Do what I tell you!"

Without protest, without a flush of shame at this brutal abuse, JohnGaspar attempted to obey. Then, as they topped a rise and reached acrest of a range of hills, Gaspar cried out in surprise. Sour Creek layin the hollow beneath them. 

"But you're running straight into the face of danger!"

"Don't tell me what I'm doing. I know maybe, all by myself!"

He checked his horse and sat his saddle, eying Gaspar with suchdisgust, such concentrated scorn and contempt, that the schoolteacherwinced. 

"I've brought you in sight of the town so's you can go home. "

"And be hanged?"

"You won't be hanged. I'll send a confession along with you. I'vebusted the law once. They're after me. They might as well have somemore reasons for hitting my trail. "

"But is it fair to you?" asked Gaspar, intertwining his nervousfingers. 

Sinclair heard the words and eyed the gesture with unutterable disgust. At last he could speak. 

"Fair?" he asked in scorn. "Since when have you been interested inplaying fair? Takes a man with some nerve to play fair. You've spoiledmy game, Gaspar. You've blocked me every way from the start, Cold Feet. I killed Quade, and they's another in Sour Creek that needs killing. That's something you can do. Go down and tell the sheriff when hehappens along and show him my confession. Go down and tell him that Iain't running away--that I'm staying close, and that I'm going to nabmy second man right under his nose. That'll give him something to thinkabout. "

He favored the schoolteacher with another black look and then swung outof the saddle, throwing his reins. He sat down with his back to astunted tree. Gaspar dismounted likewise and hovered near, after thefashion of a man who is greatly worried. He watched while Sinclairdeliberately took out an old stained envelope and the stub of a penciland started to write. His brows knitted in pain with the effort. Suddenly Gaspar cried: "Don't do it, Mr. Sinclair!"

A slight lifting of Sinclair's heavy brows showed that he had heard, but he did not raise his head. 

"Don't do what?"

"Don't try to kill that second man. Don't do it!"

Gaspar was rewarded with a sneer. 

"Why not?"

The schoolteacher was desperately eager. His glance roved from the setface of the cowpuncher and through the scragged branches of the tree. 

"You'll be damned for it--in your own mind. At heart you're a good man;I swear you are. And now you throw yourself away. Won't you try to openyour mind and see this another way?"

"Not an inch. Kid, I gave my word for this to a dead man. I told youabout a friend of mine?"

"I'll never forget. "

"I gave my word to him, though he never heard it. If I have to waitfifty years I'll live long enough to kill the gent that's in Sour Creeknow. The other day I had him under my gun. Think of it! I let him go!"

"And you'll let him go again. Sinclair, murder isn't in your nature. You're better than you think. "

"Close up, " growled the cowpuncher. "It ain't no Saturday night partyfor me to write. Keep still till I finish. "

He resumed his labor of writing, drawing out each letter carefully. Hehad reached his signature when a low call from John Gaspar alarmed him. He looked up to find the little man pointing and staring up the trail. A horseman had just dropped over the crest and was winding leisurelydown toward the plain below. 

"We can get behind that knoll, perhaps, before he sees us, " suggestedJig in a whisper. His suggestion met with no favor. 

"You hear me talk, son, " said Sinclair dryly. "That gent ain't carryingno guns, which means that he ain't on our trail, we being figuredparticularly desperate. " He pointed this remark with a cold survey ofthe "desperate" Jig. 

"But the best way to make danger follow you, Jig, is to run away fromit. We stay put!"

He emphasized the remark by stretching luxuriously. Gaspar, however, did not seem to hear the last words. Something about the strangehorseman had apparently riveted his interest. His last gesture wasarrested halfway, and his color changed perceptibly. 

"You stay, then, Mr. Sinclair, " he said hurriedly. "I'm going to slipdown the hill and--"

"You stay where you are!" cut in Sinclair. 

"But I have a reason. "

"Your reasons ain't no good. You stay put. You hear?"

It seemed that a torrent of explanation was about to pour from the lipsof Jig, but he restrained himself, white of face, and sank down in theshade of the tree. There he stretched himself out hastily, with hishands cupped behind his head and his hat tilted so far down over hisface that his entire head was hidden. 

Sinclair followed these proceedings with a lackluster eye. 

"When you _do_ move, Jig, " he said, "you ain't so slow about it. That'spretty good faking, take it all in all. But why don't you want thisstrange gent to see your face?"

A slight shudder was the only reply; then Jig lay deadly still. In themeantime, before Sinclair could pursue his questions, the horseman wasalmost upon them. The cowpuncher regarded him with distinct approval. He was a man of the country, and he showed it. As his pony sloucheddown the slope, picking its way dexterously among the rocks, the ridermet each jolt on the way with an easy swing of his shoulders, riding"straight up, " just enough of his weight falling into his stirrups tobreak the jar on the back of the mustang. 

The stranger drew up on the trail and swung the head of his horse intoward the tree, raising his hand in cavalier greeting. He was asunbrowned fellow, as tall as Sinclair and more heavily built; as forhis age, he seemed in that joyous prime of physical life, twenty-five. Sinclair nodded amiably. 

"Might that be Sour Creek yonder?" asked the brown man. 

"It might be. I reckon it is. Get down and rest your hoss. "

"Thanks. Maybe I will. "

He dropped to the ground and eased and stiffened his knees to get outthe cramp of long riding. Off the horse he seemed even bigger and morecapable than before, and now that he had come sufficiently close, sothat the shadow from his sombrero's brim did not partially mask theupper part of his face, it seemed to Sinclair that about the eyes hewas not nearly so prepossessing as around the clean-cut fighter's mouthand chin. The eyes were just a trifle too small, a trifle too closetogether. Yet on the whole he was a handsome fellow, as he pushed backhis hat and wiped his forehead dry with a gay silk handkerchief. 

Sinclair noted, furthermore, that the other had a proper cowpuncher'spride in his dress. His bench-made boots molded his long and slenderfeet to a nicety and fitted like gloves around the high instep. Thepolished spurs, with their spoon-handle curve, gleamed and flashed, ashe stepped with a faint jingling. The braid about his sombrero was athing of price. These details Sinclair noted. The rest did not matter. 

"The kid's asleep?" asked the stranger, casting a careless glance atthe slim form of Jig. 

"I reckon so. "

"He done it almighty sudden. Thought I seen him up and walking aroundwhen I come over the hill. "

"You got good eyes, " said Sinclair, but he was instantly put on thedefensive. He was heartily tired of Cold Feet Gaspar, hispeculiarities, his whims, his weaknesses. But Cold Feet was his ridingcompanion, and this was a stranger. He was thrown suddenly in theposition of a defender of the helpless. "That's the way with thesekids, " he confided carelessly to the stranger. "They get out and ridefast for a couple of hours. Full of ambition, they are. But just when agrowed man gets warmed up to his work; they're through. The kid's tiredout. "

"Come far?" asked the stranger. 

"Tolerable long ways. "

Sinclair disliked questions, and for each interrogation his opinion ofthe newcomer descended lower and lower. His own father had raised himon a stern pattern. "What you mean by questions, Riley? What you can'tfigure out with your own eyes and ears and good common hoss sense, mostlikely the other gent don't want you to know. " Thereafter he hadschooled himself in this particular point. He could suppress allcuriosity and go six months without knowing more than the nickname of aboon companion. 

"You come from Sour Creek, maybe?" went on the other. 

"Sort of, " replied Sinclair dryly. 

His companion proceeded to dispense information on his own part so asto break the ice. 

"I'm Jude Cartwright. "

He paused significantly, but Sinclair's face was a blank. 

"Glad to know you, Mr. Cartwright. Mostly they call me Long Riley. "

"How are you, Riley?"

They shook hands heartily. Cartwright took a place on the ground, cross-legged and not far from Sinclair. 

"I guess you don't know me?" he asked pointedly. 

"I guess not. "

"I'm of the Jesse Cartwright family. "

Sinclair smiled blankly. 

"Lucky Cartwright was my dad's name. "

"That so?"

"I guess you ain't ever been up Montana way, " said the stranger indisgust which he hardly veiled. 

"Not much, " said Sinclair blandly. 

"I wished that I was back up there. This is a hole of a country downhere. "

"Hossflesh and time will take you back, I reckon. "

"I reckon they will, when my job's done. "

He turned a disparaging eye upon Sour Creek and its vicinity. 

"Now, who would want to live in a town like that, can you tell me?"

It occurred very strongly to Riley Sinclair that Cartwright had not yetfully ascertained whether or not his companion came from that verytown. And, although the day before, he had decided that Sour Creek wasmost undesirable and all that pertained to it, this unaskedconfirmation of his own opinion grated on his nerves. 

"Well, they seems to be a few that gets along tolerable well in thattown, partner. "

"They's ten fools for one wise man, " declared Cartwright sententiously. 

Sinclair veiled his eyes with a downward glance. He dared not let theother see the cold gleam which he knew was coming into them. "I guessthem's true words. "

"Tolerable true, " admitted Cartwright. "But I've rode a long ways, andthis ain't much to find at the end of the trail. "

"Maybe it'll pan out pretty well after all. "

"If Sour Creek holds the person I'm after, I'll call it a good-payinggame. "

"I hope you find your friend, " remarked Riley, with his deceptivesoftness of tone. 

"Friend? Hell! And that's where this friend will wish me when I heavein sight. You can lay to that, and long odds!"

Sinclair waited, but the other changed his tack at once. 

"If you ain't from Sour Creek, I guess you can't tell me what I want toknow. "

"Maybe not. "

The brown man looked about him for diversion. Presently his eyes restedon Cold Feet, who had not stirred during all this interval. 

"Son?"

"Nope. "

"Kid brother?"

"Nope. "

Cartwright frowned. "Not much of nothing, I figure, " he said withmarked insolence. 

"Maybe not, " replied Sinclair, and again he glanced down. 

"He's slept long enough, I reckon, " declared the brown man. "Let's havea look at him. Hey, kid!"

Cold Feet quivered, but seemed lost in a profound sleep. Cartwrightreached for a small stone and juggled it in the palm of his hand. 

"This'll surprise him, " he chuckled. 

"Better not, " murmured Sinclair. 

"Why not?"

"Might land on his face and hurt him. "

"It won't hurt him bad. Besides, kids ought to learn not to sleep inthe daytime. Ain't a good idea any way you look at it. Puts fog in thehead. "

He poised the stone. 

"You might hit his eye, you see, " said Sinclair. 

"Leave that to me!"

But, as his arm twisted back for the throw, the hand of Sinclairflashed out and lean fingers crushed the wrist of Cartwright. YetSinclair's voice was still soft. 

"Better not, " he said. 

They sat confronting each other for a moment. The stone dropped fromthe numbed fingers of Cartwright, and Sinclair released his wrist. Their characters were more easily read in the crisis. Cartwright's faceflushed, and a purple vein ran down his forehead between the eyes. Sinclair turned pale. He seemed, indeed, almost afraid, and apparentlyCartwright took his cue from the pallor. 

"I see, " he said sneeringly. "You got your guns on. Is that it?"

Sinclair slipped off the cartridge belt. 

"Do I look better to you now?"

"A pile better, " said Cartwright. 

They rose, still confronting each other. It was strange how swiftlythey had plunged into strife. 

"I guess you'll be rolling along, Cartwright. "

"Nope. I guess I like it tolerable well under this here tree. "

"Except that I come here first, partner. "

"And maybe you'll be the first to leave. "

"I'd have to be persuaded a pile. "

"How's this to start you along?"

He flicked the back of his hand across the lips of Sinclair, and thensprang back as far as his long legs would carry him. So doing, thefirst leap of Sinclair missed him, and when the cowpuncher turned hewas met with a stunning blow on the side of the head. 

At once the blind anger faded from the eyes of Riley. By the weight ofthat first blow he knew that he had encountered a worthy foeman, and bythe position of Cartwright he could tell that he had met a confidentone. The big fellow was perfectly poised, with his weight well back onhis right foot, his left foot feeling his way over the rough ground ashe advanced, always collected for a heavy blow, or for a leap in anydirection. He carried his guard high, with apparent contempt for anattack on his body, after the manner of a practiced boxer. 

As for Riley Sinclair, boxing was Greek to him. His battles had beenthose of bullets and sharp steel, or sudden, brutal fracas, where therule was to strike with the first weapon that came to hand. This singleencounter, hand to hand, was more or less of a novelty to him, butinstead of abashing or cowing him, it merely brought to the surface allhis coldness of mind, all of his cunning. 

He circled Cartwright, his long arms dangling low, his step soft andquick as the stride of a great cat, and always there was thought in hisface. One gained an impression that if ever he closed with his enemythe battle would end. 

Apparently even Cartwright gained that impression. His own bruteconfidence of skill and power was suddenly tinged with doubt. Insteadof waiting he led suddenly with his left, a blow that tilted the headof Sinclair back, and then sprang in with a crushing right. It was poortactics, for half of a boxer's nice skill is lost in a plunging attack. The second blow shot humming past Sinclair as the latter dodged; and, before the brown man could recover his poise, the cowpuncher had divedin under the guarding arms. 

A shrill cry rose from Cold Feet, a cry so sharp and shrill that itsent a chill down the back of Sinclair. For a moment he whirled withthe weight of his struggling, cursing enemy, and then his right handshot up over the shoulder of Cartwright and clutched his chin. Withthat leverage one convulsive jerk threw Cartwright heavily back; herolled on his side, with Sinclair following like a wildcat. 

But Cartwright as he fell had closed his fingers on a jagged littlestone. Sinclair saw the blow coming, swerved from it, and straightwaywent mad. The brown man became a helpless bulk; the knee of Sinclairwas planted on his shoulders, the talon fingers of Sinclair were buriedin his throat. 

Then--he saw it only dimly through his red anger and hardly felt it atall--Jig's hands were tearing at his wrists. He looked up in dullsurprise into the face of John Gaspar. 

"For heaven's sake, " Jig was pleading, "stop!"

But what checked Sinclair was not the schoolteacher. Cartwright hadbeen fighting with the fury of one who sees death only inches away. Suddenly he grew limp. 

"You!" he cried. "You!"

To the astonishment of Sinclair the gaze of the beaten man resteddirectly upon the face of Jig. 

"Yes, " Gaspar admitted faintly, "it is I!"

Sinclair released his grip and stood back, while Cartwright, stumblingto his feet, stood wavering, breathing harshly and fingering hisinjured throat. 

"I knew I'd find you, " he said, "but I never dreamed I'd find you likethis!"

"I know what you think, " said Cold Feet, utterly colorless, "but youthink wrong, Jude. You think entirely wrong!"

"You lie like a devil!"

"On my honor. "

"Honor? You ain't got none! Honor!"

He flung himself into his saddle. "Now that I've located you, the nexttime I come it'll be with a gun. "

He turned a convulsed face toward Sinclair. 

"And that goes for you. "

"Partner, " said Riley Sinclair, "that's the best thing I've heard yousay. Until then, so long!"

The other wrenched his horse about and went down the trail at areckless gallop, plunging out of view around the first shoulder of ahill. 

15

Sinclair watched him out of sight. He turned to find that Jig hadslumped against the tree and stood with his arm thrown across his face. It reminded him, with a curious pang of mingled pity and disgust, ofthe way Gaspar had faced the masked men of Sour Creek's posse the daybefore. There was the same unmanly abnegation of the courage to meetdanger and look it in the eye. Here, again, the schoolteacher waswincing from the very memory of a crisis. 

"Look here!" exclaimed Sinclair. His contempt rang in his voice. "Theyain't any danger now. Turn around here and buck up. Keep your chin highand look a man in the face, will you?"

Slowly the arm descended. He found himself looking into a white andtortured face. His respect for the schoolteacher rose somewhat. Thevery fact that the little man could endure such pain in silence, nomatter what that pain might be, was something to his credit. 

"Now come out with it, Gaspar. You double-crossed this Cartwright, eh?"

"Yes, " whispered Jig. 

"Will you tell me? Not that I make a business of prying into theaffairs of other gents, but I figure I might be able to help youstraighten things out with this Cartwright. "

He made a wry face and then rubbed the side of his head where a lumpwas slowly growing. 

"Of all the gents that I ever seen, " said Sinclair softly, "I ain'tnever seen none that made me want to tangle with 'em so powerful bad. And of all the poisoned fatheads, all the mean, sneakin'advantage-takin' skunks that ever I run up again', this gent Cartwrightis the worst. If his hide was worth a million an inch, I would have it. If he was to pay me a hundred thousand a day, I wouldn't be his pal fora minute. " He paused. "Them, taking 'em by and large, is my sentimentsabout this here Cartwright. So open up and tell me what you done tohim. "

To his very real surprise the schoolteacher shook his head. "I can't doit. "

"H'm, " said Sinclair, cut to the quick. "Can't you trust me with it, eh?"

"Ah, " murmured Gaspar, "of all the men in the world, you're the one I'dtell it to most easily. But I can't--I can't. "

"I don't care whether you tell me or not. Whatever you done, it musthave been plumb bad if you can't even tell it to a gent that likesCartwright like he likes poison. "

"It was bad, " said Jig slowly. "It was very bad--it was a sin. Until Idie I can never repay him for what I have done. "

Sinclair recovered some of his good nature at this outburst ofself-accusation. 

"I'll be hanged if I believe it, " he declared bluntly. "Not a word ofit! When you come right down to the point you'll find out that youain't been half so bad as you think. The way I figure you is this, Jig. You ain't so bad, except that you ain't got no nerve. Was it a matterof losing your nerve that made Cartwright mad at you?"

"Yes. It was altogether that. "

Sinclair sighed. "Too bad! I don't blame you for not wanting to talkabout it. They's a flaw in everything, Jig, and this is yours. If I wasto be around you much, d'you know what I'd do?"

"What?"

"I'd try to plumb forget about this flaw of yours: That's a fact. Butas far as Cartwright goes, to blazes with him! And that's where he'sapt to wind up pronto if he's as good as his word and comes after mewith a gun. In the meantime you grab your hoss, kid, and slide backinto Sour Creek and show the boys this here confession I've written. You can add one thing. I didn't put it in because I knowed theywouldn't believe me. I killed Quade fair and square. I give him thefirst move for his gun, and then I beat him to the draw and killed himon an even break. That's the straight of it. I know they won't believeit. Matter of fact I'm saying it for you, Jig, more'n I am for them!"

It was an amazing thing to see the sudden light that flooded the faceof the schoolteacher. 

"And I do believe you, Sinclair, " he said. "With all my heart I believeyou and know you couldn't have taken an unfair advantage!"

"H'm, " muttered Riley. "It ain't bad to hear you say that. And now trotalong, son. "

Cold Feet made no move to obey. 

"Not that I wouldn't like to have you along, but where I got to go, you'd be a weight around my neck. Besides, your game is to show thefolks down yonder that you ain't a murderer, and that paper I've giveyou will prove it. We'll drift together along the trail part way, anddown yonder I turn up for the tall timber. "

To all this Jig returned no answer, but in a peculiarly lifeless mannerwent to his horse and climbed in his awkward way into the saddle. Theywent down the trail slowly. 

"Because, " explained the cowpuncher, "if I save my hoss's wind I may besaving my own life. "

Where the trail bent like an elbow and shot sheer down for the plainand Sour Creek, Riley Sinclair pointed his horse's nose up to thetaller mountains, but Jig sat his horse in melancholy silence andlooked mournfully up at his companion. 

"So long, " said Sinclair cheerily. "And when you get down yonder, it'llhappen most likely that pretty soon you'll hear a lot of hard thingsabout Riley Sinclair. "

"If I do--if I hear a syllable against you, " cried the schoolteacherwith a flare of color, "I'll--I'll drive the words back into theirteeth!"

He shook with his emotion; Riley Sinclair shook with controlledlaughter. 

"Would you do all of that, partner? Well, I believe you'd try. What Imean to say is this: No matter what they say, you can lay to it thatSinclair has tried to play square and clean according to his ownlights, which ain't always the best in the world. So long!"

There was no answer. He found himself looking down into the quiveringface of the schoolteacher. 

"Why, kid, you look all busted up!"

"Riley, " gasped Jig very faintly, "I can't go!"

"And why not?"

"Because I can't meet Jude. "

"Cartwright, eh? But you got to, sooner or later. "

"I'll die first. "

"Would your nerve hold you up through that?"

"So easily, " said Jig. There was such a simple gravity and despair inhis expression that Sinclair believed it. He grunted and stared hard. 

"This Cartwright gent is worse'n death to you?"

"A thousand, thousand times!"

"How come?"

"I can't tell you. "

"I kind of wish, " said Sinclair thoughtfully, "that I'd kept my grip amite longer. "

"No, no!"

"You don't wish him dead?"

Jig shuddered. 

"You plumb beat me, partner. And now you want to come along with me?"Sinclair grinned. "An outlaw's life ain't what it's cracked up to be, son. You'd last about a day doing what I have to do. "

"You'll find, " said the schoolteacher eagerly, "that I can stand itamazingly well. I'll--I'll be far, far stronger than you expect!"

"Somehow I kind of believe it. But it's for your own fool sake, son, that I don't want you along. "

"Let me try, " pleaded Jig eagerly. 

The other shook his head and seemed to change his mind in the verymidst of the gesture. 

"Why not?" he asked himself. "You'll get enough of it inside of a day. And then you'll find out that they's some things about as bad asdeath--or Cartwright. Come on, kid!"

16

It was a weary ride that brought them to the end of that day and to acamping place. It seemed to Jig that the world was made up of nothingbut the ups and downs of that mountain trail. Now, as the sun wentdown, they came out on a flat shoulder of the mountain. Far below themlay Sour Creek, long lost in the shadow of premature night which filledthe valley. 

"Here we are, fixed up as comfortable as can be, " said Sinclaircheerily. "There's water, and there's wood aplenty. What could a gentask for more? And here's my country!"

For a moment his expression softened as he looked over the black peaksstepping away to the north. Now he pointed out a grove of trees, and onthe other side of the little plateau was heard the murmur of a feeblespring. 

Riley swung down easily from the saddle, but when Jig dismounted hisknees buckled with weariness, and he slipped down on a rock. He wasunheeded for a moment by the cowpuncher, who was removing from hissaddle the quarters of a deer which he had shot at the foot of themountain. When this task was ended, a stern voice brought Jig to hisfeet. 

"What's all this? How come? Going to let that hoss stand there allnight with his saddle on? Hurry up!"

"All right, " replied the schoolteacher, but his voice quaked withweariness, and the cinch knot, drawn taut by the powerful hand of JerryBent, refused to loosen. He struggled with it until his fingers ached, and his panicky breath came in gasps of nervous excitement. 

Presently he was aware of the tall, dark form of Sinclair behind him, his saddle slung across his arm. 

"By guns, " muttered Sinclair, "it ain't possible! Not enough muscle tountie a knot? It's a good thing that your father can't see the sort ofa son that he turned out. Lemme at that!"

Under his strong fingers the knot gave by magic. 

"Now yank that saddle off and put it yonder with mine. "

Jig pulled back the saddle, but when the full weight jerked down on himhe staggered, and he began to drag the heavy load. 

"Hey, " cut in the voice of the tyrant, "want to spoil that saddle, kid?Lift it, can't you?"

Gaspar obeyed with a start and, having placed it in the requiredposition, turned and waited guiltily. 

"Time you was learning something about camping out, " declared thecowpuncher, "and I'll teach you. Take this ax and gimme some wood, pronto!"

He handed over a short ax, heavy-headed and small of haft. 

"That bush yonder! That's dead, or dead enough for us. "

Plainly Jig was in awe of that ax. He carried it well out from hisside, as if he feared the least touch against his leg might mean a cut. Of all this, Riley Sinclair was aware with a gradually darkeningexpression. He had been partly won to Jig that day, but his betteropinion of the schoolteacher was being fast undermined. 

With a gloomy eye he watched John Gaspar drop on his knees at the baseof the designated shrub and raise the ax slowly--in both hands! Notonly that, but the head remained poised, hung over the schoolteacher'sshoulder. When the blow fell, instead of striking solidly on the trunkof the bush, it crashed futilely through a branch. Riley Sinclair drewcloser to watch. It was excusable, perhaps, for a man to be unable toride or to shoot or to face other men. But it was inconceivable thatany living creature should be so clumsy with a common ax. 

To his consummate disgust the work of Jig became worse and worse. Notwo blows fell on the same spot. The trunk of the little tree becamebruised, but even when the edge of the ax did not strike on a branch, at most it merely sliced into the outer surface of the wood and leftthe heart untouched. It was a process of gnawing, not of chopping. Tocrown the terrible exhibition, Jig now rested from his labors andexamined the palms of his hands, which had become a bright red. 

"Gimme the ax, " said Sinclair shortly. He dared not trust himself tomore speech and, snatching it from the hands of Cold Feet, buried theblade into the very heart of the trunk. Another blow, driven home withequal power and precision on the opposite side, made the tree shudderto its top, and the third blow sent it swishing to the earth. 

This brought a short cry of admiration and wonder from theschoolteacher, for which Sinclair rewarded him with one glance ofcontempt. With sweeping strokes he cleared away the half-dead branches. Presently the trunk was naked. On it Riley now concentrated his attack, making the short ax whistle over his shoulders. The trunk of the shrubwas divided into handy portions as if by magic. 

Still John Gaspar stood by, gaping, apparently finding nothing to do. And this with a camp barely started!

It was easier to do oneself, however, than to give directions to suchstupidity. Sinclair swept up an armful of wood and strode off to thespot he had selected for the campfire, near the place where the springwater ran into a small pool. A couple of big rocks thrown in placefurnished a windbreak. Between them he heaped dead twigs, and in amoment the flame was leaping. 

As soon as the fire was lighted they became aware that the night waswell nigh upon them. Hitherto the day had seemed some distance from itsfinal end, for there was still color in the sky, and the tops of thewestern mountains were still bright. But with the presence of firebrightness, the rest of the world became dim. The western peaks wereghostly; the sky faded to the ashes of its former splendor; and Jigfound himself looking down upon thick night in the lower valleys. Hesaw the eyes of the horses glistening, as they raised their heads towatch. The gaunt form of Sinclair seemed enormous. Stooping about thefire, enormous shadows drifted above and behind him. Sometimes thelight flushed over his lean face and glinted in his eyes. Again hishead was lost in shadow, and perhaps only the active, reaching handswere illuminated brightly. 

He prepared the deer meat with incomprehensible swiftness, at the sametime arranging the fire so that it rapidly burned down to a firm, strong, level bed of coals, and by the time the bed of coals wereready, the meat was prepared in thick steaks to broil over it. 

In a little time the rich brown of the cooking venison streaked acrossto Jig. He had kept at a distance up to this time, realizing that hewas in disgrace. Now he drifted near. He was rewarded by an amiablegrin from Riley Sinclair, whose ugly humor seemed to have vanished atthe odor of the broiling meat. 

"Watch this meat cook, kid, will you? There's something you can do thatdon't take no muscle and don't take no knowledge. All you got to do isto keep listening with your _nose_, and if you smell it burning, yankher off. Understand? And don't let the fire blaze. She's apt to flareup at the corners, you see? And these here twigs is apt to burnthrough--these ones that keep the meat off'n the coals. Watch them, too. And that's all you got to do. Can you manage all them things atonce?"

Jig nodded gravely, as though he failed to see the contempt. 

"I seen a fine patch of grass down the hill a bit. I'm going to takethe hosses down there and hobble 'em out. " Whistling, Sinclair strodeoff down the hill, leading the horses after him. 

The schoolteacher watched him go, and when the forms had vanished, andonly the echo of the whistling blew back, he looked up. The last lifewas gone from the sunset. The last time he glanced up, there had beenonly a few dim stars; now they had come down in multitudes, greatyellow planets and whole rifts of steel-blue stars. 

He took from his pocket the old envelope which Sinclair had given him, examined the scribbled confession, chuckling at the crude labor withwhich the writing had been drawn out, and then deliberately stuffed thepaper into a corner of the fire. It flamed up, singeing the cookingmeat, but John Gaspar paid no heed. He was staring off down the hill tomake sure that Sinclair should not return in time to see that littleact of destruction. An act of self-destruction, too, it well might turnout to be. 

As for Sinclair, having found his pastureland, where the grass grewthick and tall, he was in no hurry to return to his clumsy companion. He listened for a time to the sound of the horses, ripping away thegrass close to the ground, and to the grating as they chewed. Then heturned his attention to the mountains. His spirit was easier in thisplace. He breathed more easily. There was a sense of freedom at onceand companionship. He lingered so long, indeed, that he suddenly becameaware that time had slipped away from him, and that the venison must belong since done. At that he hurried back up the slope. 

He was hungry, ravenously hungry, but the first thing that greeted himwas the scent of burning meat. It stopped him short, and his handsgripped involuntarily. In that first burst of passion he wantedliterally to wring the neck of the schoolteacher. He strode closer. Itwas as he thought. The twigs had burned away from beneath the steak andallowed it to drop into the cinders, and beside the dying fire, barelyilluminated by it, sat Jig, sound asleep, with his head resting on hisknees. 

For a moment Sinclair had to fight with himself for control. All hismurderous evil temper had flared up into his brain and set his teethgritting. At length he could trust himself enough to reach down and sethis heavy grip on the shoulder of the sleeper. 

Even in sleep Jig must have been pursued by a burdened consciousness ofguilt. Now he jerked up his head and stammered up to the shadowy faceof Sinclair. 

"I--I don't know--all at once it happened. You see the fire--"

But the telltale odor of the charring meat struck his nostrils, and hisspeech died away. He was panting with fear of consequences. Now a newturn came to the fear of Cold Feet. It seemed that Riley Sinclair'shand had frozen at the touch of the soft flesh of Jig's shoulder. Heremained for a long moment without stirring. When his hand moved it wasto take Jig under the chin with marvelous firmness and gentleness atonce and lift the face of the schoolteacher. He seemed to find much toread there, much to study and know. Whatever it was, it set Jigtrembling until suddenly he shrank away, cowering against the rockbehind. 

"You don't think--"

But the voice of Sinclair broke in with a note in it that Jig had neverheard before. 

"Guns and glory--a woman!"

It came over him with a rush, that revelation which explained so manythings--everything in fact; all that strange cowardice, and all thatstranger grace; that unmanly shrinking, that more than manly contemptfor death. Now the firelight was too feeble to show more than onething--the haunted eyes of the girl, as she cowered away from him. 

He saw her hand drop from her breast to her holster and close aroundthe butt of her revolver. 

Sinclair grew cold and sick. After all, what reason had she to trusthim? He drew back and began to walk up and down with long, slowstrides. The girl followed him and saw his gaunt figure brush acrossthe stars; she saw the wind furl and unfurl the wide brim of his hat, and she heard the faint stir and clink of his spurs at every step. 

There was a tumult in the brain of the cowpuncher. The stars and thesky and the mountains and wind went out. They were nothing in theelectric presence of this new Jig. His mind flashed back to onepicture--Cold Feet with her hands tied behind her back, praying underthe cottonwood. 

Shame turned the cowpuncher hot and then cold. He allowed his mind todrift back over his thousand insults, his brutal language, his cursing, his mockery, his open contempt. There was a tingle in his ears, and achill running up and down his spine. 

After all that brutality, what mysterious sense had told her to trustto him rather than to Sour Creek and its men?

Other mysteries flocked into his mind. Why had she come to the veryverge of death, with the rope around her neck rather than reveal heridentity, knowing, as she must know, that in the mountain desert menfeel some touch of holiness in every woman?

He remembered Cartwright, tall, handsome, and narrow of eye, and thefear of the girl. Suddenly he wished with all his soul that he hadfought with guns that day, and not with fists. 

17

At length the continued silence of the girl made him turn. Perhaps shehad slipped away. His heart was chilled at the thought; turning, hesighed with relief to find her still there. 

Without a word he went back and rekindled the fire, placed new venisonsteaks over it, and broiled them with silent care. Not a sound fromJig, not a sound from the cowpuncher, while the meat hissed, blackened, and at length was done to a turn. He laid portions of it on broad, white, clean chips which he had already prepared, and served her. Stillin silence she ate. Shame held Sinclair. He dared not look at her, andhe was glad when the fire lost some of its brightness. 

Now and then he looked with wonder across the mountains. All his lifethey had been faces to him, and the wind had been a voice. Now all thiswas nothing but dead stuff. There was no purpose in the march of themountains except that they led to the place where Jig sat. 

He twisted together a cup of bark and brought her water from thespring. She thanked him with words that he did not hear, he was sointent in watching her face, as the firelight played on it. Now that heheld the clue, everything was as plain as day. New light played on thepast. 

Turning away, he put new fuel on the fire, and when he looked to heragain, she had unbelted the revolver and was putting it away, as if sherealized that this would not help her if she were in danger. 

When at length she spoke it was the same voice, and yet how new! Thequality in it made Sinclair sit a little straighter. 

"You have a right to know everything that I can tell you. Do you wishto hear?"

For another moment he smoked in solemn silence. He found that he waswishing for the story not so much because of its strangeness, butbecause he wanted that voice to run on indefinitely. Yet he weighed thequestion pro and con. 

"Here's the point, Jig, " he said at last. "I got a good deal to make upto you. In the first place I pretty near let you get strung up for akilling I done myself. Then I been treating you pretty hard, take itall in all. You got a story, and I don't deny that I'd like to hear it;but it don't seem a story that you're fond of telling, and I ain't gotno right to ask for it. All I ask to know is one thing: When you stoodthere under that cotton wood tree, with a rope around your neck, didyou know that all you had to do was to tell us that you was a woman toget off free?"

"Of course. "

"And you'd sooner have hung than tell us?"

"Yes. "

Sinclair sighed. "Maybe I've said this before, but I got to say itag'in: Jig, you plumb beat me!" He brushed his hand across hisforehead. "S'pose it'd been done! S'pose I had let 'em go ahead andstring you up! They'd have been a terrible bad time ahead for themseven men. We'd all have been grabbed and lynched. A woman!"

He put the word off by itself. Then he was surprised to hear herlaughing softly. Now that he knew, it was all woman, that voice. 

"It wasn't really courage, Riley. After you'd said half a dozen words Iknew you were square, and that you knew I was innocent. So I didn'tworry very much--except just after you'd sentenced me to hang!"

"Don't go back to that! I sure been a plumb fool. But why would youhave gone ahead and let that hanging happen?"

"Because I had rather die than be known, except to you. "

"You leave me out. "

"I'd trust you to the end of everything, Riley. "

"I b'lieve you would, Jig--I honest believe you would! Heaven knowswhy. "

"Because. "

"That ain't a reason. "

"A very good woman's reason. For one thing you've let me come alongwhen you know that I'm a weight, and you're in danger. But you don'tknow what it means if I go back. You can't know. I know it's wrong andcowardly for me to stay and imperil you, but I _am_ a coward, and I'mafraid to go back!"

"Hush up, " murmured Sinclair. "Hush up, girl. Is they anybody askingyou to go back? But you don't really figure on hanging out here with mein the mountains, me having most of the gents in these parts outlooking for my scalp?"

"If you think I won't be such an encumbrance that I'll greatly endangeryou, Riley. "

"H'm, " muttered Sinclair. "I'll take that chance, but they's anotherthing. "

"Well?"

"It ain't exactly nacheral and reasonable for a girl to go around inthe mountains with a man. "

She fired up at that, sitting straight, with the fire flaring suddenlyin her face through the change of position. 

"I've told you that I trust you, Riley. What do I care about theopinion of the world? Haven't they hounded me? Oh, I despise them!"

"H'm, " said the cowpuncher again. 

He was, indeed, so abashed by this outbreak that he merely stole aglance at her face and then studied the fire again. 

"Does this gent Cartwright tie up with your story?"

All the fire left her. "Yes, " she whispered. 

He felt that she was searching his face, as if suddenly in doubt ofhim. 

"Will you let me tell you--everything?"

"Shoot ahead. "

"Some parts will be hard to believe. "

"Lady, they won't be nothing as hard to believe as what I've seen youdo with my own eyes. "

Then she began to tell her story, and she found a vast comfort inseeing the ugly, stern face of Sinclair lighted by the burning end ofhis cigarette. He never looked at her, but always fixed his stare onthe sea of blackness which was the lower valley. 

"All the trouble began with a theory. My father felt that the thing fora girl was to be educated in the East and marry in the West. He wasfull of maxims, you see. 'They turn out knowledge in cities; they turnout men in mountains, ' was one of his maxims. He thought and argued andlived along those lines. So as soon as I was half grown--oh, I was awild tomboy!"

"Eh?" cut in Sinclair. 

"I could really do the things then that you'd like to have a woman do, "she said. "I could ride anything, swim like a fish in snow water, climb, run, and do anything a boy could do. I suppose that's the sortof a woman you admire?"

"Me!" exclaimed Riley with violence. "It ain't so, Jig. I been revisingmy ideas on women lately. Besides, I never give 'em much thoughtbefore. "

He said all this without glancing at her, so that she was able toindulge in a smile before she went on. 

"Just at that point, when I was about to become a true daughter of theWest, Dad snapped me off to school in the East, and then for years andyears there was no West at all for me except a little trip here andthere in vacation time. The rest of it was just study and play, all inthe East. I still liked the West--in theory, you know. "

"H'm, " muttered Riley. 

"And then, I think it was a year ago, I had a letter from Dad withimportant news in it. He had just come back from a hunting trip with ayoung fellow who he thought represented everything fine in the West. Hewas big, good-looking, steady, had a large estate. Dad set his mind onhaving me marry him, and he told me so in the letter. Of course I wasupset at the idea of marrying a man I did not know, but Dad always hada very controlling way with him. I had lost any habit of thinking formyself in important matters. 

"Besides, there was a consolation. Dad sent the picture of his manalong with his letter. The picture was in profile, and it showed me afine-looking fellow, with a glorious carriage, a high head, and oceansof strength and manliness. 

"I really fell in love with that picture. To begin with, I thought thatit was destiny for me, and that I had to love that man whether I wishedto or not. I admitted that picture into my inmost life, dreamed aboutit, kept it near me in my room. 

"And just about that time came news that my father was seriously ill, and then that he had died, and that his last wish was for me to comeWest at once and marry my chosen husband. 

"Of course I came at once. I was too sick and sad for Dad to think muchabout my own future, and when I stepped off the train I met the firstshock. My husband to be was waiting for me. He was enough like thepicture for me to recognize him, and that was all. He was tall andstrong enough and manly enough. But in full face I thought he wasnarrow between the eyes. And--"

"It was Cartwright!"

"Yes, yes. How did you guess that?"

"I dunno, " said Sinclair softly, "but when that gent rode off today, something told me that I was going to tangle with him later on. Go on!"

"He was very kind to me. After the first moment of disappointment--yousee, I had been dreaming about him for a good many weeks--I grew tolike him and accept him again. He did all that he could to make thetrip home agreeable. He didn't press himself on me. He did nothing tomake me feel that he understood Dad's wishes about our marriage andexpected me to live up to them. 

"After the funeral it was the same way. He came to see me only now andthen. He was courteous and attentive, and he seemed to be fond of me. "

"A fox, " snarled Sinclair, growing more and more excited, as thisnarrative continued. "That's the way with one of them kind. They play agame. Never out in the open. Waiting till they win, and then acting thedevil. Go on!"

"Perhaps you're right. His visits became more and more frequent. Finally he asked me to marry him. That brought the truth of my positionhome to me, and I found all at once that, though I had rather liked himas a friend, I had to quake at the idea of him as a husband. "

Sinclair snapped his cigarette into the coals of the fire and set hisjaw. She liked him in his anger. 

"But what could I do? All of the last part of Dad's life had beenpointed toward this one thing. I felt that he would come out of hisgrave and haunt me. I asked for one more day to think it over. He toldme to take a month or a year, as I pleased, and that made me ashamed. Itold him on the spot that I would marry him, but that I didn't lovehim. "

"I'll tell you what he answered--curse him!" exclaimed Sinclair. 

"What?"

"Through the years that was comin', he'd teach you to love him. "

"That was exactly what he said in those very words! How did you guessthat?"

"I'll tell you I got a sort of a second sight for the ways of a snake, or an ornery hoss, or a sneak of a man. Go on!"

"I think you have. At any rate, after I had told him I'd marry him, hepressed me to set the date as early as possible, and I agreed. Therewas only a ten-day interval. 

"Those ten days were filled. I kept myself busy so that I wouldn't havea chance to think about the future, though of course I didn't reallyknow how I dreaded it. I talked to the only girl who was near enough tome to be called a friend. 

"'Find a man you can respect. That's the main thing, ' she always said. 'You'll learn to love him later on. '

"It was a great comfort to me. I kept thinking back to that advice allthe time. "

"They's nothing worse than a talky woman, " declared Sinclair hotly. "Goon!"

"Then, all at once, the day came. I'll never forget how I wakened thatmorning and looked out at the sun. I had a queer feeling that even thesunshine would never seem the same after that day. It was like going toa death. "

"So you went to this gent and told him just how you felt, and he letyour promise slide?"

"No. "

Sinclair groaned. 

"I couldn't go to him. I didn't dare. I don't imagine that I everthought of such a thing. Then there were crowds of people around allday, giving me good wishes. And all the time I felt like death. 

"Somehow I got to the church. Everything was hazy to me, and my heartwas thundering all the time. In the church there was a blur of faces. All at once the blur cleared. I saw Jude Cartwright, and I knew Icouldn't marry him!"

"Brave girl!" cried Sinclair, his relief coming out in almost a shout. "You stopped there at the last minute?"

"Ah, if I had! No, I didn't stop. I went on to the altar and met himthere, and--"

"You weren't married to him?"

"I was!"

"Go on, " Sinclair said huskily. 

"The end of it came somehow. I found a flood of people calling to meand pressing around me, and all the time I was thinking of nothing butthe new ring on my finger and the weight--the horrible weight of it!

"We went back to my father's house. I managed to get away from all themerrymaking and go to my room. The minute the door closed behind me andshut away their voices and singing into the distance, I felt that I hadsaved one last minute of freedom. I went to the window and looked outat the mountains. The stars were coming out. 

"All at once my knees gave way, and I began to weep on the window sill. I heard voices coming, and I knew that I mustn't let them see me withthe tears running down my face. But the tears wouldn't stop coming. 

"I ran to the door and locked it. Then someone tried to open the door, and I heard the voice of my Aunt Jane calling. I gathered all my nerveand made my voice steady. I told her that I couldn't let anyone in, that I was preparing a surprise for them. 

"'Are you happy, dear?' asked Aunt Jane. 

"I made myself laugh. 'So happy!' I called back to her. 

"Then they went away. But as soon as they were gone I knew that I couldnever go out and meet them. Partly because I had no surprise for them, partly because I didn't want them to see the tear stains and my redeyes. Somehow little silly things were as big and as important as themain thing--that I could never be the real wife of Jude Cartwright. Canyou understand?"

"Jig, once when I had a deer under my trigger I let him go because hehad a funny-shaped horn. Sure, it's the little things that run a gent'slife. Go on!"

"I knew that I had to escape. But how could I escape in a place whereeverybody knew me? First I thought of changing my clothes. Then anotherthing--man's clothes! The moment that idea came, I was sure it was thething. I opened the door very softly. There was no one upstairs justthen. I ran into my cousin's room--he's a youngster of fifteen--andsnatched the first boots and clothes that I could find and rushed backto my own room. 

"I jumped into them, hardly knowing what I was doing. For they werebeginning to call to me from downstairs. I opened the door and calledback to them, and I heard Jude Cartwright answer in a big voice. 

"I turned around and saw myself in the mirror in boy's clothes, with myface as white as a sheet, my eyes staring, my hair pouring down over myshoulders. I ran to the bureau and found a scissors. Then I hesitated amoment. You don't dream how hard it was to do. My hair was long, yousee, below my waist. And I had always been proud of it. 

"But I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and cut it off with greatslashes, close to my head. Then I stood with all that mass of hairshining in my hand and a queer, light feeling in my head. 

"But I felt that I was free. I clamped on my cousin's hat--how queer itfelt with all that hair cut off! I bundled the hair into my pocket, because they mustn't dream what I had done. Then someone beat on thedoor. 

"'Coming!' I called to them. 

"I ran to the window. The house was built on a slope, and it was not avery long drop to the ground, I suppose. But to me it seemedneck-breaking, that distance. It was dark, and I climbed out and hungby my hands, but I couldn't find courage to let go. Then I tried toclimb back, but there wasn't any strength in my arms. 

"I cried out for help, but the singing downstairs must have muffled thesound. My fingers grew numb--they slipped on the sill--and then I fell. 

"The fall stunned me, I guess, for a moment. When I opened my eyes, Isaw the stars and knew that I was free. I started up then and struckstraight across country. At first I didn't care where I went, so longas it was away, but when I got over the first hill I made up a plan. That was to go for the railroad and take a train. I did it. 

"There was a long walk ahead of me before I reached the station, andwith my cousin's big boots wobbling on my feet I was very tired when Ireached it. There were some freight cars on the siding, and there washay on the floor of one of them. I crawled into the open door and wentto sleep. 

"After a while I woke up with a great jarring and jolting and noise. Ifound the car pitch dark. The door was closed, and pretty soon, by theroar of the wheels under me and the swing of the floor of the car, Iknew that an engine had picked up the empty cars. 

"It was a terrible time for me. I had heard stories of tramps lockedinto cars and starving there before the door was opened. Before themorning shone through the cracks of the boards, I went through all thepain of a death from thirst. But before noon the train stopped, and thecar was dropped at a siding. I climbed out when they opened the door. 

"The man who saw me only laughed. I suppose he could have arrested me. 

"'All right, kid, but you're hitting the road early in life, eh!'

"Those were the first words that were spoken to me as a man. 

"I didn't know where I should go, but the train had taken me south, andthat made me remember a town where my father had lived for a longtime--Sour Creek. I started to get to this place. 

"The hardest thing I had to do was the very first thing, and that wasto take my ragged head of hair into a barber shop and get it trimmed. Iwas sure that the barber would know I was a girl, but he didn'tsuspect. 

"'Been a long time in the wilds, youngster, eh?' was all he said. 

"And then I knew that I was safe, because people here in the West arenot suspicious. They let a stranger go with one look. By the time Ireached Sour Creek I was nearly over being ashamed of my clothes. Andthen I found this place and work as a schoolteacher. I think you knowthe rest. " She leaned close to Sinclair. "Was I wrong to leave him?"

Sinclair rubbed his chin. "You'd ought to have told him straight off, "he said firmly. "But seeing you went through with the wedding--well, take it all in all, your leaving of him was about the rightest thing Iever heard of. "

Quiet fell between them. 

"But what am I going to do? And where is it all going to end?" a smallvoice inquired of Sinclair at last. 

"Roll up in them blankets and go to sleep, " he advised her curtly. "I'mfiguring steady on this here thing, Jig. "

Jig followed that advice. Sinclair had left the fire and was walking upand down from one end of the little plateau to the other, with astrong, long step. As for the girl, she felt that an incalculableburden had been shifted from her shoulders by the telling of this tale. That burden, she knew, must have fallen on another person, and it wasnot unpleasant to know that Riley Sinclair was the man. 

Gradually the sense of strangeness faded. As she grew drowsy, it seemedthe most natural thing in the world for her to be up here at the top ofthe world with a man she had; known two days. And, before she slept, the last thing of which she was conscious was the head of Sinclair inthe broad sombrero, brushing to and fro across the stars. 

18

With a bang the screen door of Sheriff Kern's office had creaked openand shut four times at intervals, and each man, entering in turn with a"Howdy" to the sheriff, had stamped the dust out of the wrinkles of hisriding boots, hitched up his trousers carefully, and slumped into achair. Not until the last of his handpicked posse had taken his placedid the sheriff begin his speech. 

"Gents, " he said, "how long have I been a sheriff?"

"Eighteen to twenty years, " said Bill Wood. "And it's been twenty yearsof bad times for the safecrackers and gunmen of these parts. "

"Thanks, " said the sheriff hastily. "And how many that I've once put myhands on have got loose?"

Again Bill Wood answered, being the senior member. 

"None. Your score is exactly one hundred percent, sheriff. "

Kern sighed. "Gents, " he said, "the average is plumb spoiled. "

It caused a general lifting of heads and then a respectful silence. Tohave offered sympathy would have been insulting; to ask questions wasbeneath their dignity, but four pairs of eyes burned with curiosity. The least curious was Arizona. He was a fat, oily man from thesouthland, whose past was unknown in the vicinity of Woodville, andArizona happened to be by no means desirous of rescuing that past fromoblivion. He held the southlander's contempt for the men and ways ofthe north. His presence in the office was explained by the fact that hehad long before discovered it to be an excellent thing to stand in withthe sheriff. After this statement from Kern, therefore, he firstglanced at his three companions, and, observing their agitation, hebecame somewhat stirred himself and puckered his fat brows above hiseyes, as he glanced back at Kern. 

"You've heard of the killing of Quade?" asked the sheriff. 

"Yesterday, " said Red Chalmers. 

"And that they got the killer?"

"Nope. "

"It was a gent you'd never have suspected--that skinny littleschoolteacher, Gaspar. "

"I never liked the looks of him, " said Red Chalmers gloomily. "I alwaysgot to have a second thought about a gent that's too smooth with theladies. And that was this here Jig. So he done the shooting?"

"It was a fight over Sally Bent, " explained the sheriff. "Sandersen andsome of the rest in Sour Creek fixed up a posse and went out andgrabbed Gaspar. They gave him a lynch trial and was about to string himup when a stranger named Sinclair, a man who had joined up with theposse, steps out and holds for keeping Gaspar and turning him over tome, to be hung all proper and legal. I heard about all this and wentout to the Bent house, first thing this morning, to get Gaspar, who wasleft there in charge of this Sinclair. Any of you ever heard abouthim?"

A general bowing of heads followed, as the men began to consider, allsave Arizona, who never thought when he could avoid it, and positivelynever used his memory. He habitually allowed the dead past to bury itsdead. 

"It appears to me like I've heard of a Sinclair up to Colma, " murmuredBill Wood. "That was four or five years back, and I b'lieve he wascalled a sure man in a fight. "

"That's him, " muttered the sheriff. He was greatly relieved to knowthat his antagonist had already achieved so comfortable a reputation. "A big, lean, hungry-eyed gent, with a restless pair of hands. He comealong with me while I was bringing Gaspar, but I didn't think nothingabout it, most nacheral. I leave it to you, boys!"

Settling themselves they leaned forward in their chairs. 

"We was talking about hosses and suchlike, which Sinclair talkeduncommon slick. He seemed a knowing gent, and I opened up to him, butin the middle of things he paws out his Colt, as smooth as you eversee, and he shoves it under my nose. "

Sheriff Kern paused. He was wearing gloves in spite of the fact that hewas in his office. These gloves seem to have a peculiarly businesslikemeaning for the others, and now they watched, fascinated, while thesheriff tugged his fingers deeper into the gloves, as if he weregetting ready for action. He cleared his throat and managed to snap outthe rest of the shameful statement. 

"He stuck me up, boys, and he told Jig to beat it up the trail. Then hebacked off, keeping me covered all the time, until he was around thehill. The minute he was out of sight I follered him, but when it comeinto view, him and Gaspar was high-tailing through the hills. I didn'thave no rifle, and it was plumb foolish to chase two killers withnothing but a Colt. Which I leave it to you gents!"

"Would have been crazy, sheriff, " asserted Red Chalmers. 

"I dunno, " sighed Arizona, patting his fat stomach reminiscently. "Idunno. I guess you was right, Kern. "

The others glared at him, and the sheriff became purple. 

"So I come back and figured that I'd best get together the handiestlittle bunch of fighting men I could lay hands on. That's why I sentfor you four. "

Clumsily they made their acknowledgements. 

"Because, " said Kern, "it don't take no senator to see that somethinghas got to be done. Sour Creek is after Gaspar, and now it'll be afterSinclair, too. But they got clear of me, and I'm the sheriff ofWoodville. It's up to Woodville to get 'em back. Am I right?"

Again they nodded, and the sheriff, growing warmer as he talked, snatched off a glove and mopped his forehead. As his arm fell, he notedthat Arizona had seen something which fascinated him. His eyes followedevery gesture of the sheriff's hand. 

"Is that the whole story?" asked Arizona. 

"The whole thing, " declared Kern stoutly, and he glared at the man fromthe southland. 

"Because if it's anything worse, " said Arizona innocently, "we'd oughtto know it. The honor of Woodville is at stake. "

"Oh, it's bad enough this way, " grumbled Joe Stockton, and the sheriff, hastily restoring his glove, grunted assent. 

"Now, boys, let's hear some plans. "

"First thing, " said Red Chalmers, rising, "is for each of us to pickout the best hoss in his string, and then we'll all ride over to theplace where they left and pick up the trail. "

"Not a bad idea, " approved Kern. 

There was a general rising. 

"Sit down, " said Arizona, who alone had not budged in his chair. 

Without obeying, they turned to him. 

"Was that the Morris trail, Kern?" asked Arizona. 

"Sure. "

"Well, you ain't got a chance of picking up the trail of two hosses outof two hundred. "

In silence they received the truth of this assertion. Then Joe Stocktonspoke. He was not exactly a troublemaker, but he took advantage ofevery disturbance that came his way and improved it to the lastscruple. 

"Sinclair comes from Colma, according to Bill, and Colma is north. Ridenorth, Kern, and the north trail will keep us tolerable close toSinclair. We can tend to Gaspar later on--unless he's a pile moredangerous'n he looks. "

"Yes, Sinclair is the main one, " said the sheriff. "He's more'n ahundred Gaspars. Boys, the north trail looks good to me. We can pick upGaspar later on, as Joe Stockton says. Straight for Colma, that's wherewe'll strike. "

"Hold on, " cut in Arizona. 

Patently they regarded him with disfavor. There was something blandlysuperior in Arizona's demeanor. He had a way of putting forth hisopinions as though it were not the slightest effort for him topenetrate truths which were securely veiled from the eyes of ordinarymen. 

Now he looked calmly, almost contemptuously upon the sheriff and therest of the posse. 

"Gents, has any of you ever seen this Jig you talk about ride a hoss?"

"Me, of course, " said the sheriff. 

"Anything about him strike you when he was in a saddle?"

"Sure! Got a funny arm motion. "

"Like he was fanning his ribs with his elbows to keep cool?" went onArizona, grinning. 

The sheriff chuckled. 

"Would you pick him for a good hand on a long trail?"

"Never in a million years, " said the sheriff. "Is he?"

Kern seemed to admit his inferiority by asking this question. He bithis lip and was about to go on and answer himself when Arizona cut inwith: "Never in a million years, sheriff. He couldn't do twenty milesin a day without being laid up. "

"What's the point of all this, Arizona?"

"I'll show you pronto. Let's go back to Sinclair. The other day he wasone of a bunch that pretty near got Gaspar hung, eh?"

"Yep. "

"But at the last minute he saved Jig?"

"Sure. I just been telling you that. "

Their inability to follow Arizona's train of thought irritated theothers. He literally held them in the palm of his hand as he developedhis argument. 

"Why did he save Jig?" he went on. "Because when Gaspar was about toswing, they was something about him that struck Sinclair. What was it?I dunno, except that Jig is tolerable young looking and prettyhelpless, even though you say he killed Quade. "

"Say he killed him?" burst put the sheriff. "It was plumb proved onhim. "

"I'd sure like to see that proof, " said the man from the southland. "The point is that Sinclair took pity on him and kept him from thenoose. Then he stays that night guarding him and gets more and moreinterested. This Jig has got a pile of education. I've heard him talk. Today you come over the hills. Sinclair sees Woodville, figures that'sthe place where Jig'll be hung, and he loses his nerve. He sticks youup and gets Jig free. All right! D'you think he'll stop at that? Don'the know that Jig's plumb helpless on the trail? And knowing that, d'youthink he'll split with Jig and leave the schoolteacher to be picked upthe first thing? No, sir, he'll stick with Jig and see him through. "

"Well, all the better, " snapped the sheriff. "That's going to make ourtrail shorter--if what you say turns out true. "

"It's true, well enough. Sinclair right now is camping somewhere in thehills near Sour Creek, waiting for things to quiet down before he hitsthe out-trail with this Gaspar. "

"He wouldn't be fool enough for that, " grumbled the sheriff. 

"Fool? Has any one of you professional man hunters figured yet onhunting for 'em near Sour Creek? Ain't you-all been talking longtrails--Colma, and what not?"

They were crushed. 

"All you say is true, if Sinclair saddles himself with the tenderfoot. Might as well tie so much lead around his neck. "

"He'll do it, though, " said Arizona carelessly. "I know him. "

It caused a new focusing of attention upon him, and this time Arizonaseemed to regret that he stood in the limelight. 

"You know him?" asked Joe Stockton softly. 

The bright black eyes of the fat man glittered and flickered from faceto face. He seemed to be gauging them and deciding how much he couldsay--or how little. 

"Sure, I drifted up to this country one season and rode there. I hearda pile about this Sinclair and seen him a couple of times. "

"How good a man d'you figure him to be with a gun?" asked the sheriffwithout apparent interest. 

"Good enough, " sighed Arizona. "Good enough, partner!"

Presently the sheriff showed that he was a man capable of taking goodadvice, even though he could not stamp it as his own original device. 

"Boys, " he said, "I figure that what Arizona has said is tolerablesound. Arizona, what d'you advise next?"

"That we go to Sour Creek pronto--and sit down and wait!"

A chorus of exclamations arose. 

Arizona grew impatient with such stupidity. "Sinclair come to SourCreek to do something. I dunno what he wants, but what he wants heain't got yet, and he's the sort that'll stay till he does his work. "

"I've got in touch with the authorities higher up, boys, " declaredKern. "Sinclair and Gaspar is both outlawed, with a price on theirheads. Won't that change Sinclair's mind and make him move on?"

"You don't know Sinclair, " persisted Arizona. "You don't know him atall, sheriff. "

"Grab your hosses, boys. I'm following Arizona's lead. "

Pouring out of the door in silence, the omniscience of Arizona layheavily upon their minds. Inside, the sheriff lingered with the wiseman from the southland. 

"If I was to get in touch with Colma, Fatty, what d'you think they'd beable to tell me about your record up there?"

The olive skin of Arizona became a bleached drab. 

"I dunno, " he said rather thickly, and all the while his little blackeyes were glittering and shifting. "Nothing much, Kern. "

His glance steadied. "By the way, when you had your glove off a whileago I seen something on your wrist that looked like a rope gall, Kern. If I was to tell the boys that, what d'you figure they'd think abouttheir sheriff?"

It was Kern's turn to change color. For a moment he hesitated, and thenhe dropped a hand lightly on Arizona's shoulder. 

"Look here, Arizona, " he muttered in the ear of the fat man, "what youbeen before you hit Woodville I dunno, and I don't care. I figure wecome to a place where we'd both best keep our mouths shut. Eh?"

"Shake, " said Arizona, and they went out the door, almost arm in arm. 

19

For Jude Cartwright the world was gone mad, as he spurred down thehills away from Sinclair and the girl. It was really only the secondtime in his life that he had been thwarted in an important matter. Tobe sure he had been raised roughly among rough men, but among theroughest of them, the repute of his family and the awe of his father'swide authority had served him as a shield in more ways than Judehimself could realize. He had grown very much accustomed to having hisway. 

All things were made smooth for him; and when he reached the age whenhe began to think of marriage, and was tentatively courting half adozen girls of the district, unhoped-for great fortune had fairlydropped into his path. 

The close acquaintance with old Mervin in that hunting trip had beenentirely accidental, and he had been astounded by the marriage contractwhich Mervin shortly after proposed between the two families. Ordinarily even Jude Cartwright, with all his self-esteem, would neverhave aspired to a star so remote as Mervin's daughter. The miracle, however, happened. He saw himself in the way to be the richest man onthe range, the possessor of the most lovely wife. 

That dream was first pricked by the inexplicable disappearance of thegirl on their marriage day. He had laid that disappearance to foulplay. That she could have left him through any personal aversion neverentered his complacent young head. 

He went out on the quest after the neighboring district had been combedfor his wife, and he had spent the intervening months in a ceaselesssearch, which grew more and more disheartening. It was only by chancethat he remembered that Mervin had lived for some time in Sour Creek, and only with the faintest hope of finding a clue that he decided tovisit that place. In his heart he was convinced that the girl was dead, but if she were really hiding it was quite possible that she might haveremembered the town where her father had made his first success withcattle. 

Now the coincidence that had brought him face to face with her, stunnedhim. He was still only gradually recovering from it. It was totallyincredible that she should have fled at all. And it was entirely beyondthe range of credence that modest Elizabeth Mervin should have donnedthe clothes of a man and should be wandering through the hills with amale companion. 

But when his wonder died away, he felt little or no pity for his wife. The pang that he felt was the torture of offended pride. Indeed, thefact that he had lost his wife meant less to him than that his wife hadseen him physically beaten by another man. He writhed in his saddle atthe memory. 

Instantly his mind flashed back to the details of the scene. Herehearsed it with himself in a different role, beating the cowpuncherto a helpless pulp of bruised muscle, snatching away his wife. But evenif he had been able to do that, what would the outcome be? He could notlet the world know the truth--that his wife had fled from him in horroron their marriage day, that she had wondered about in the clothes of aman, that she was the companion of another man. And if he brought herback, certainly all these facts would come to light. The close-croppedhair alone would be damning evidence. 

He framed a wild tale of abduction by villains, of an injury, asickness, a fever that forced a doctor to cut her hair short. He had nosooner framed the story than he threw it away as useless. With all hissoul he began to wish for the only possible solution which would savethe remnants of his ruined self-respect and keep him from the peril ofdiscovery. The girl must indubitably die!

By the time he came to this conclusion, he had struck out of the hills, and, as his horse hit the level going and picked up speed, the heart ofJude Cartwright became lighter. He would get weapons and the finesthorse money could buy in Sour Creek, trail the pair, take them bysurprise, and kill them both. Then back to the homeland and a new life!

Already he saw himself in it, his name surrounded with a glamour ofpathetic romance, as the sad widower with a mystery darkening his pastand future. It was an agreeable gloom into which he fell. Self-pitywarmed him and loosened his fierceness. He sighed with regret for hisown misfortunes. 

In this frame of mind he reached Sour Creek and its hotel. While hewrote his name in the yellowed register he over-heard loud conversationin the farther end of the room. Two men had been outlawed thatday--John Gaspar, the schoolteacher who killed Quade, and RileySinclair, a stranger from the North. 

Paying no further attention to the talk, he passed on into the generalmerchandise store which filled most of the lower story of the hotel. There he found the hardware department, and prominent among thehardware were the gun racks. He went over the Colts and with an experthand took up the guns, while the gray-headed storekeeper advanced aneulogium upon each weapon. His attention was distracted by the entranceof a tall, painfully thin man who seemed in great haste. 

"What's all this about Cold Feet, Whitey?" he asked. "Cold Feet andSinclair?"

"I dunno, Sandersen, except that word come in from Woodville thatSinclair stuck up the sheriff on his way in with Jig, and Sinclair gotclean away. What could have been in his head to grab Jig?"

"I dunno, " said Sandersen, apparently much perturbed. "They outlawed'em both, Whitey?"

There was an eagerness in this question so poorly concealed thatCartwright jerked up his head and regarded Sandersen with interest. 

"Both, " replied Whitey. "You seem sort of pleased, Sandersen?"

"I knowed that Sinclair would come to a bad end, " said Sandersen moresoberly. 

"Why, I thought they said you cottoned to him when the boys wasfiguring he might have had something to do with Quade?"

"Me? Well, yes, for a minute. But out at the necktie party, Whitey, Ikept watching him. Thinks a lot more'n he says, and gents like that isalways dangerous. "

"Always, " replied Whitey. 

"But it's the last time Sinclair'll show his face in SourCreek--alive, " said Sandersen. 

"If he does show his face alive, it'll be a dead face pronto. You canlay to that. "

Sandersen seemed to turn this fact over and over in his mind, withimmense satisfaction. 

"And yet, " pursued the storekeeper, "think of a full-grown man breakingthe law to save such a skinny little shrimp of a gent as Jig? Eh? Morelike a pretty girl than a boy, Jig is. "

Cartwright exclaimed, and both of the others turned toward him. 

"Here's the gun for me, " he said huskily, "and that gunbelt--filled--and this holster. They'll all do. "

"And a handy outfit, " said Whitey. "That gun'll be a friend in need!"

"What makes you think they'll be a need?" asked Cartwright, with suchunnecessary violence that the others both stared. He went on moresmoothly: "What was you saying about a girl-faced gent?"

"The schoolteacher--he plugged a feller named Quade. Sinclair got himclean away from Sheriff Kern. "

"And what sort of a looking gent is Sinclair? Long, brown, and prettyhusky-looking, with a mean eye?"

"You've named him! Where'd you meet up with him?"

"Over in the hills yonder, just where the north trail comes over therise. They was sitting down under a tree resting their hosses when Icome along. I got into an argument with this Sinclair--Long Riley, hecalled himself. "

"Riley's his first name. "

"We passed some words. Pretty soon I give him the lie! He made a reachfor his gun. I told him I wasn't armed and dared him to try his fists. He takes off his belt, and we went at it. A strong man, but he don'tknow nothing about hand fighting. I had him about ready to give up andbegging me to quit when this Jig, this girl-faced man you talkabout--he pulls a gun and slugs me in the back of the head with it. "

Removing his sombrero he showed on the back of his head the great weltwhich had been made when he struck the ground with the weight ofSinclair on top of him. It was examined with intense interest by theother two. 

"Dirty work!" said Sandersen sympathetically. 

The storekeeper said nothing at all, but began to fold up a bolt ofcloth which lay half unrolled on the counter. 

"It knocked me cold, " continued Cartwright, "and when I come to, theywasn't no sign nor trace of 'em. "

Buckling on the belt, he shoved the revolver viciously home in theholster. 

"I'll land that pair before the posse gets to 'em, and when I land 'emI won't do no arguing with fists!"

"Say, I call that nerve, " put in the storekeeper, with patentadmiration in his eyes, while he smoothed a fold of the cloth. "Runningagin' one gent like Sinclair is bad enough--let alone tackling two atonce. But you'd ought to take out a big insurance on your life, friend, before you take that trail. It's liable to be all out-trail and nocoming back. "

A great deal of enthusiasm faded from Cartwright's face. 

"How come?" he asked briefly. 

"Nothing much. But they say this Sinclair is quite a gunfighter, myfriend. Up in his home town they scare the babies by talking aboutSinclair. "

"H'm, " murmured Cartwright. "He can't win always, and maybe I'll be thelucky man. "

But he went out of the store with his head thoughtfully inclined. 

"Think of meeting up with them two all alone and not knowing what theywas!" sighed Sandersen. "He's lucky to be alive, I'll tell a man. "

Whitey grinned. 

"Plenty of nerve in a gent like that, " went on Sandersen, his pale blueeyes becoming dreamy. "Get your gat out, will you, Bill?"

Bill Sandersen obliged. 

"Look at the butt. D'you see any point on it?"

"Nope. "

"Did you look at that welt on the stranger's head?"

"Sure. "

"Did you see a little cut in the middle of the welt?"

"Come to think of it, I sure did. "

"Well, Sandersen, how d'you make out that a gun butt would make a cutlike that?"

"What are you driving at, Whitey?"

"I'm just discounting the stranger, " said Whitey. "I dunno what othertalents he's got, but he's sure a fine nacheral liar. "

20

It was some time before Riley Sinclair interrupted his pacing and, turning, strode over to the dim outlines of the sleeping girl. She didnot speak, and, leaning close above her, he heard her regularbreathing. 

Waiting until he was satisfied that she slept, he began to moverapidly. First, with long, soft steps he went to his saddle, which wasperched on a ridge of rock. This he raised with infinite care, gathering up the stirrups and the cinches so that nothing might drag orstrike. With this bundle secured, he once more went close to the figureof the sleeper and this time dropped on one knee beside her. He couldsee nothing distinctly by the starlight, but her forehead gleamed withone faint highlight, and there was the pale glimmer of one hand abovethe blankets. 

For the moment he almost abandoned the plan on which he had resolved, which was no less than to attempt to ride into Sour Creek and return tothe girl before she wakened in the dawn. But suppose that he failed, and that she wakened to find herself alone in the mountain wilderness?He shuddered at the idea, yet he saw no other issue for her than toattempt the execution of his plan. 

He rose hastily and walked off, letting his weight fall on his toesaltogether, so that the spurs might not jingle. 

Even that brief rest had so far refreshed his mustang that he wasgreeted with flattened ears and flying heels. These efforts Sinclairmet with a smile and terrible whispered curses, whose familiar soundseemed to soothe the horse. He saddled at once, still using care toavoid noise, and swung steeply down the side of the mountain. On thedescending trail, he could cut by one half the miles they had traversedwinding up the slope. 

Recklessly he rode, giving the wise pony its head most of the time, andonly seeing that it did not exceed a certain speed, for when a horsepasses a certain rate of going it becomes as reckless as a drunken man. Once or twice they floundered onto sheer gravel slides which thebroncho took by flinging back on its haunches and going down withstiffly braced forelegs. But on the whole the mustang took care ofitself admirably. 

In an amazingly short time they struck the more placid footing of thevalley, and Sinclair, looking up, could not believe that he had been soshort a time ago at the top of the flat-crested mountain. 

He gave little time to wondering, however, but cut across the valleyfloor at a steady lope. From the top of the mountain the lights of SourCreek were a close-gathered patch, from the level they appeared as ascattering line. Sinclair held straight toward them, keeping away tothe left so as to come onto the well-beaten trail which he knew ran inthat direction. He found it and let the mustang drop back to a steadydogtrot; for, if the journey to Sour Creek was now a short distance, there would be a hard ride back to the flat-topped mountain if hewished to accomplish his business and return before the full dawn. Hemust be there by that time, for who could tell what the girl might dowhen she found herself alone. Therefore he saved the cattle pony asmuch as possible. 

He was fairly close to Sour Creek, the lights fanning out broader andbroader as he approached. Suddenly two figures loomed up before him inthe night. He came near and made out a barelegged boy, riding without asaddle and driving a cow before him. He was a very angry herdsman, thisboy. He kept up a continual monologue directed at the cow and hishorse, and so he did not hear the approach of Riley Sinclair until theoutlaw was close upon him. Then he hitched himself around, with hishand on the hip of his old horse, swaying violently with the jerk ofthe gait. He was glad of the company, it seemed. 

"Evening, mister. You ain't Hi Corson, are you?"

"Nope, I ain't Hi. Kind of late driving that cow, ain't you?"

The boy swore with shrill fluency. 

"We bought old Spot over at the Apwell place, and the darned old foolkeeps breaking down fences and running back every time she gets achance. Ain't nothing so foolish as a cow. "

"Why don't your dad sell her for beef?"

"Beef?" The boy laughed. "Say, mister, I'd as soon try to chew leather. They ain't nothing but bones and skin and meanness to old Spot. Butshe's a good milker. When she comes in fresh she gives pretty nigh ontofour gallons a milking. "

"Is that so!"

"Sure is! Hard to milk, though. Kick the hat right off'n your head ifyou don't watch her. Never see such a fool cow as old Spot! Hey!"

Taking advantage of this diversion in the attention of her guardian, Spot had ambled off to the side of the road. The boy darted his horseafter her and sent her trotting down the trail, with clicking hoofs andlong, sweeping steps that scuffed up a stifling dust. 

"Ain't very good to heat a milker up by running 'em, son, " reprovedSinclair. 

"I know it ain't. But it wouldn't make me sorry if old Spot justnacherally dropped down dead--she gives me that much trouble. Look ather now, doggone her!"

Spot had turned broadside to them and waited for the boy to catch upbefore she would take another forward step. 

"You just coming in to Sour Creek?"

"Yep, I'm strange to this town. "

"Well, you sure couldn't have picked a more fussed-up time. "

"How come?"

"Well, you hear about the killing of Quade, I reckon?"

"Not a word. "

"You ain't? Where you been these days?"

"Oh, yonder in the hills. "

"Chipping rocks, eh? Well, Quade was a gent that lived out the normtrail, and he had a fuss with the schoolteacher over Sally Bent, andthe schoolteacher up and murders Quade, and they raise a posse and goout to hang Gaspar, the teacher, and they're kept from it by a strangercalled Sinclair; when the sheriff comes to get Gaspar and hang himlegal and all, that Sinclair sticks up the sheriff and takes Gasparaway, and now they're both outlawed, I hear tell, and they's a price ontheir heads. "

The lad brought it out in one huge sentence, sputtering over the wordsin his haste. 

"How much of a price?"

"I dunno. It keeps growing. Everybody around Woodville and Sour Creekis chipping in to raise that price. They sure want to get Gaspar andSinclair bad. Gaspar ain't much. He's a kind of sissy, but Sinclair isa killer--and then some. "

Sinclair raised his head to the black, solemn mountains. Then he lookedback to his companion. 

"Why, has he killed anybody lately?"

"He left one for dead right today!"

"You don't mean it! He sure must be bad. "

"Oh, he's bad, right enough. They was a gent named Cartwright come intotown today with his head all banged up. He'd met up with Gaspar andSinclair in the hills, not knowing nothing about them. Got into anargument with Sinclair, and, not being armed, he had it out with fists. He was beating up Sinclair pretty bad--him being a good deal of aman--when Gaspar sneaks up and whangs him on the back of the head withthe butt of his Colt. They rode off and left him for dead. But prettysoon he wakes up. He comes on into Sour Creek, rarin' and tearin' andhuntin' for revenge. Sure will be a bad mess if he meets up withSinclair ag'in!"

"Reckon it had ought to be, " replied Sinclair. "Like to see this gentthat waded into two outlaws with his bare fists. "

"He's a man, right enough. Got a room up in the hotel. Must have a pileof money, because he took the big room onto the north end of the hotel, the room that's as big as a house. Nothin' else suited him at all. Dadtold me. "

"I ain't got nothing particular on hand, " murmured Sinclair. "Maybe Ican get in on this manhunt--if they ain't started already. "

The boy laughed. "Everybody in town has been trying to get in on thatmanhunt, but it ain't any use. Sheriff Kern has got a handpickedposse--every one a fightin' fool, Dad says. Wish you luck, though. Theyain't starting till the morning. Well, here's where I branch off. S'long! Hey, Spot, you old fool, git along, will you?"

Sinclair watched the youngster fade into the gloom behind the amblingcow, then he struck on toward Sour Creek; but, before he reached themain street, he wound off to the left and let his horse drift slowlybeyond the outlying houses. 

His problem had become greatly complicated by the information from theboy. He had a double purpose, which was to see Cartwright in the firstplace, and then Sandersen, for these were the separate stumbling blocksfor Jig and for himself. For Cartwright he saw a solution, throughwhich he could avoid a killing, but Sandersen must die. 

He skirted behind the most northerly outlying shed of the hotel, dismounted there, and threw the reins. Then he slipped back into theshadow of the main building. Directly above him he saw three darkwindows bunched together. This must be Cartwright's room. 

21

It seemed patent to Bill Sandersen, earlier that afternoon, that fatehad stacked the cards against Riley Sinclair. Bill Sandersen indeed, believed in fate. He felt that great hidden forces had alwayscontrolled his life, moving him hither and yon according to theirpleasure. 

To the dreamy mind of the mystic, men are accidents, and all theyperform are the dictates of the power and the brain of the other world. 

Sandersen could tell at what definite moments hunches had seized him. He had looked at the side of the mountain and suddenly felt, withoutany reason or volition on his part, that he was impelled to search thatmountainside for gold-bearing ore. He had never fallen into the habitof using his reason. He was a wonderful gambler, playing with singularabandon, and usually winning. It mattered not what he held in his hand. 

If the urge came to him, and the surety that he was going to bet, hewould wager everything in his wallet, all that he could borrow, on apair of treys. And when such a fit was on him, the overwhelmingconfidence that shone in his face usually overpowered the other mensitting in at the game. More than once a full house had been laid downto his wretched pair. There were other occasions when he had lost thevery boots he wore, but the times of winning naturally overbalanced thelosses in the mind of Bill. It was not he who won, and it was not hewho lost. It was fate which ruled him. And that fate, he felt atpresent, had sided against Riley Sinclair. 

A sort of pity for the big cowpuncher moved him. He knew that he andQuade and Lowrie deserved death in its most terrible form for theirbetrayal of Hal Sinclair in the desert; and nothing but fate, he wassure, could save him from the avenger. Fate, however, had definitelyintervened. What save blind fate could have stepped into the mind ofSinclair and made him keep Cold Feet from the rope, when that hangingwould have removed forever all suspicion that Sinclair himself hadkilled Quade?

Another man would have attributed both of those actions to commondecency in Sinclair, but Sandersen always hunted out more profoundreasons. In order to let the fact of his own salvation from Sinclair'sgun sink more definitely into his brain, he trotted his horse into thehills that afternoon. When he came back he heard that the posse was intown. 

To another it might have seemed odd that the posse was there instead ofon the trail of the outlaws. But Sandersen never thought of sopractical a question. To him it was as clear as day. The posse had beenbrought to Sour Creek by fate in order that he, Sandersen, might enlistin its ranks and help in the great work of running down Sinclair, for, after all, it was work primarily to his own interest. There wassomething ironically absurd about it. He, Sandersen, having committedthe mortal crime of abandoning Hal Sinclair in the desert, was nowgiven the support of legal society to destroy the just avenger of thatoriginal crime. It was hardly any wonder that Sandersen saw in all thisthe hand of fate. 

He went straight to the hotel and up to the room which the sheriff hadengaged. Cartwright was coming out with a black face, as Sandersenentered. The former turned at the door and faced Kern and the fourassistants of the sheriff. 

"I'll tell you what you'll do, you wise gents, " he growled. "You'llmiss him altogether. You hear?"

And then he stamped down the hall. 

Sandersen carefully removed his hat as he went in. He was quite awarethat Cartwright must have been just refused a place on the posse, andhe did not wish to appear too confident. He paid his compliments to thebunch, except Arizona, to whom he was introduced. The sheriffforestalled his request. 

"You've come for a job in the posse, Bill?"

Hastily Sandersen cut in before the other should pronounce a finaljudgment. 

"I don't blame you for turning down Cartwright, " he said. "A gent likethat who don't know the country ain't much use on the trail, eh?"

"The point is, Bill, that I got all the men I need. I don't want awhole gang. "

"But I got a special reason, sheriff. Besides a tolerable fast hossthat might come in handy for a chase, I sling a tolerable fast gun, sheriff. But beyond that all, I got a grudge. "

"A grudge?" asked the sheriff, pricking his ears. 

"So did Cartwright have a grudge, " cut in Arizona dryly. 

Perhaps after all, Sandersen felt, fate might not be with him in thisquest for Sinclair. He said earnestly: "You see, boys, it was me thatraised the posse that run down Cold Feet in the first place. It was methat backed up Sinclair all the way through the trail, and I feel likesome of the blame for what happened is coming to me. I want to squarethings up and get a chance at Sinclair. I want it mighty bad. You knowme, Kern. Gimme a chance, will you?"

"Well, that sounds like reason, " admitted the sheriff. "Eh, boys?"

The posse nodded its general head, with the usual exception of Arizona, who seemed to take a particular pleasure in diverging from thejudgments of the others. 

"Just a minute, gents, " he said. "Don't it strike you that they'ssomething the same with Cartwright and Sandersen? Both of 'em inparticular anxious to cut in on this party; both of 'em has grudges. Cartwright said he didn't want no share of the money if you caughtGaspar and Sinclair. Is that right for you, too, Sandersen?"

"It sure is. I want the fun, not the coin, " said Sandersen. 

"Boys, " resumed Arizona, "it rounds up to this: Sinclair came down hereto Sour Creek for a purpose. "

Sandersen began to listen intently. He even dreaded this fat man fromthe southland. 

"I dunno what this purpose was, " went on Arizona, "but mostly when agent like Sinclair makes a trip they's a man at the far end ofit--because this ain't his range. Now, if it's a man, why shouldn't itbe one of these two, Cartwright or Sandersen, who both pack a grudgeagainst Sinclair? Sinclair is resting somewhere up yonder in themhills. I'm sure of that. He's waiting there to get a chance to finishhis business in Sour Creek, and that business is Cartwright orSandersen, I dunno which. Now, I'm agin' taking in Sandersen. Whenwe're private I'll tell you my reason why. "

There was something of an insult in this speech and the tall man tookinstant offense. 

"Partner, " he drawled, "it looks to me like them reasons could be spokepersonal to me. Suppose you step outside and we talk shop?"

Arizona smiled. It took a man of some courage and standing to refusesuch an invitation without losing caste. But for some reason Arizonawas the last man in the world whom one could accuse of being a coward. 

"Sandersen, " he said coldly, "I don't mean to step on your toes. Youmay be as good a man as the next. The reasons that I got agin' youain't personal whatever, which they're things I got a right to think, me being an officer of the law for the time being. If you hold a grudgeagin' me for what I've said, you and me can talk it over after thishere job's done. Is that square?"

"I s'pose it's got to be, " replied Sandersen. "Gents, does the word ofyour fat friend go here?"

Left to themselves, the posse probably would have refused Arizona'sadvice on general principles, but Arizona did not leave them tothemselves. 

"Sure, my word goes, " he hastened to put in. "The sheriff and all of uswork like a closed hand--all together!"

There was a subtle flattery about this that pleased the sheriff and theothers. 

"Reckoning it all in all, " said sheriff, "I think we better figure youout, Sandersen. Besides they ain't anything to keep you and Cartwrightand the rest from rigging up a little posse of your own. Sinclair is upyonder in the hill waiting--"

Suddenly he stopped. Sandersen was shaken as if by a violent ague, andhis face lost all color, becoming a sickly white. 

"And we're going to find him by ourselves. S'long Sandersen, and thanksfor dropping in. No hard feelings, mind!"

To this friendly dismissal Sandersen returned no answer. He turned awaywith a wide, staring eye, and went through the doorway like a manwalking in a dream. Arizona was instantly on his feet. 

"You see, boys?" he asked exultantly. "I was right. When you saidSinclair was waiting up there in the hills, Sandersen was scared. I wasright. He's one of them that Sinclair is after, and that's why hewanted to throw in with us!"

"And why the devil shouldn't he?" asked the sheriff. 

"For a good reason, sheriff, reason that'll save us a pile of riding. We'll sit tight here in Sour Creek for a while and catch Sinclair righthere. D'you know how? By watching Cartwright and Sandersen. As sure asthey's a sky over us, Sinclair is going to make a try at one of 'em. They both hate him. Well, you can lay to it that he hates 'em back. Anda man that Sinclair hates he's going to get sooner or later--chieflysooner. Sheriff, keep an eye on them two tonight, and you'll haveSinclair playing right into your hands!"

"Looks to me, " muttered Red Chalmers, "like you had a grudge agin'Cartwright and Sandersen, using them for live bait and us for a trap. "

"Why not?" asked Arizona, sitting down and rubbing his fat hands, muchpleased with himself. "Why not, I'd like to know?"

In the meantime Bill Sandersen had gone down to the street, still withthe staring eyes of a sleep walker. It was evening, and from the openstreet he looked out and up to the mountains, growing blue and purpleagainst the sky. He had heard Hal Sinclair talk about Riley and Riley'slove for the higher mountains. They were "his country. " And a greatsurety dropped upon him that the fat man of the posse had been right. Somewhere in those mountains Sinclair was lurking, ready for a descentupon Sour Creek. 

Now Sandersen grew cold. All that was superstitious in his nature tookhim by the throat. The fate, which he had felt to be fighting with him, he now was equally sure was aligned against him. Otherwise, why had theposse refused to accept him as a member? For only one reason: He wasdoomed to die by the hand of Riley Sinclair, and then, no doubt, RileySinclair would fall in turn by the bullets of the posse. 

The shadows were pouring out of the gorges of the western mountains, and night began to invade the hollow of Sour Creek. Every downward stepof those shadows was to the feverish imagination of Sandersen aforecast of the coming of Sinclair--Sinclair coming in spite of theposse, in spite of the price upon his head. 

In the few moments during which Sandersen remained in the streetwatching, the tumult grew in his mind. He was afraid. He was mortallyin terror of something more than physical death, and, like the corneredrat, he felt a sudden urge to go out and meet the danger halfway. Adozen pictures came to him of Sinclair slipping into the town undercover of the night, of the stealthy approach, of the gunplay that wouldfollow. Why not take the desperate chance of going out to find theassailant and take him by surprise instead?

The mountains--that was the country of Sinclair. Instinctively his eyefell and clung on the greatest height he could see, a flat-toppedmountain due west of Sour Creek. Sandersen swung into his saddle anddrove out of Sour Creek toward the goal and into the deepening gloom ofthe evening. 

22

In the darkness beneath the north windows of the hotel, Sinclairconsulted his watch, holding it close until he could make out the dimposition of the hands against the white dial. It was too early forCartwright to be in bed, unless he were a very long sleeper. SoSinclair waited. 

A continual danger lay beside him. The kitchen door constantly bangedopen and shut, as the Chinese cook trotted out and back, carryingscraps to the waste barrel, or bringing his new-washing tins to hang ona rack in the open air, a resource on which he was forced to fall backon account of his cramped quarters. 

But the cook never left the bright shaft of light which fell throughthe doorway behind and above him, and consequently he could not seeinto the thick darkness where Sinclair crouched only a few yards away;and the cowpuncher remained moveless. From time to time he looked up, and still the windows were black. 

After what seemed an eternity, there was a flicker, as when the wick ofa lamp is lighted, and then a steady glow as the chimney was put onagain. That glow brightened, decreased, became an unchanging light. Thewick had been trimmed, and Cartwright was in for the evening. 

However, the cook had not ceased his pilgrimages. At the very momentwhen Sinclair had straightened to attempt the climb up the side of thehouse, the cook came out and crouched on the upper step, humming ajangling tune and sucking audibly a long-stemmed pipe. Thequeer-smelling smoke drifted across to Sinclair; for a moment he was onthe verge of attempting a quick leap and a tying and gagging of theOriental, but he desisted. 

Instead, Sinclair flattened himself against the wall and waited. Providence came to his assistance at that crisis. Someone called fromthe interior of the house. There was an odd-sounding exclamation fromthe cook, and then the latter jumped up and scurried inside, slammingthe screen door behind him with a great racket. 

Sinclair raised his head and surveyed the side of the wall for the lasttime. The sill of the window of the first floor was no higher than hisshoulders. The eaves above that window projected well out, and theywould afford an excellent hold by which he could swing himself up. Buthaving swung up, the great problem was to obtain sufficient purchasefor his knee to keep from sliding off before he had a chance to steadyhimself. Once on the ledge of those eaves, he could stand up and lookthrough any one of the three windows into the room which, according tothe boy, Cartwright occupied. 

He lifted himself onto the sill of the first window, bumping his nosesharply against the pane of the glass. 

Then began the more difficult task. He straightened and fixed hisfingers firmly on the ledge above him, waiting until his palm and thefingertips had sweated into a steady grip. Then he stepped as far aspossible to one side and sprang up with a great heave of the shoulders. 

But the effort was too great. He not only flung himself far enough up, but too far, and his descending knee, striving for a hold, slipped offas if from an oiled surface. He came down with a jar, the full lengthof his arms, a fall that flung him down on his back on the ground. 

With a stifled curse he leaped up again. It seemed that the noise ofthat fall must have resounded for a great distance, but, as he stoodthere listening, no one drew near. Someone came out of the front doorof the hotel, laughing. 

The cowpuncher tried again. He managed the first stage of the ascent, as before, very easily, but, making the second effort he exceeded toomuch in caution and fell short. However, the fall did not include atoppling all the way to the ground. His feet landed softly on the sill, and, at the same time, voices turned the corner of the building besidehim. Sinclair flattened himself against the pane of the lower windowand held his breath. Two men were beneath him. Their heads were levelwith his feet. He could have kicked the hats off their heads, withoutthe slightest trouble. 

It was a mystery that they did not see him, he thought, until herecalled that all men, at night, naturally face outward from a wall. Itis an instinct. They stood close together, talking rather low. The onewas fairly tall, and the other squat. The shorter man lighted acigarette. The match light glinted on an oily, olive skin, and so muchof the profile as he could see was faintly familiar. He sent his memorylurching back into far places and old times, but he had no nerve forreminiscence. He recalled himself to the danger of the moment andlistened to them talking. 

"What's happened?" the taller man was saying. 

"So far, nothing, " grunted the other. 

"And how long do you feel we'd ought to keep it up?"

"I dunno. I'll tell you when I get tired. "

"Speaking personal, Fatty, I'm kind of tired of it right now. I want tohit the hay. "

"Buck up, buck up, partner. We'll get him yet!"

Now it flashed into the mind of Sinclair that it must be a pair ofcrooked gamblers working on some fat purse in the hotel, come out hereto arrange plans because they failed to extract the bank roll asquickly as they desired. Otherwise, there could be no meaning to thistalk of "getting" someone. 

"But between you and me, " grumbled the big man, "it looked from thefirst like a bum game, Fatty. "

"That's the trouble with you, Red. You ain't got any patience. How doesa cat catch a mouse? By sitting down and waiting--maybe three hours. And the hungrier she gets, the longer she'll wait and the stillershe'll sit. A man could take a good lesson out'n that. "

"You always got a pile of fancy words, " protested the big man. 

Sinclair saw Fatty put his hand on the shoulder of his companion. Plainly he was the dominant force of the two, in spite of his lack ofheight. 

"Red, as sure as you're born, they's something going to happen thishere night. My scars is itching, Red, and that means something. "

Again the mind of Sinclair flashed back to something familiar. A manwho prophesied by the itching of his scars. But once more the danger ofthe moment made his mind a blank to all else. 

"What scars?" asked Red. 

"Scratches I got when I was a kid, " flashed the fat man. "That's all. ""Oh, " chuckled Red, plainly unconvinced. "Well, we'll play the game alittle longer. "

"That's the talk, partner. I tell you we got this trap baited, and it's_got_ to catch!"

Presently they drifted around the corner of the building and out ofsight. For a moment Sinclair wondered what that trap could be which thefat man had baited so carefully. His mind reverted to his originalpicture of a card game. Cheap tricksters, sharpers with the cards, hedecided, and with that decision he banished them both from his mind. 

There was no other sign of life around him. All of Sour Creek lived inthe main street, or went to bed at this hour of the early night. Theback of the hotel was safe from observance, except for the horse shed, and the back of the shed was turned to him. He felt safe, and now heturned, settled his fingers into a new grip on the eaves, and made histhird attempt. It succeeded to a nicety, his right knee catchingsolidly on the ledge. 

He got a fingertip hold on the boards and stood up. Straighteninghimself slowly, he looked into the room through a corner of the windowpane. 

Cartwright sat with his back to the window, a lamp beside him on thetable, writing. He had thrown off his heavy outer shirt, and he woreonly a cotton undershirt. His heavy shoulders and big-muscled armsshowed to great advantage, with the light and sharp shadows definingeach ridge. Now and then he lifted his head to think. Then he bent tohis writing again. 

It occurred to Sinclair to fling the window up boldly, and whenCartwright turned, cover him with a gun. But the chances, including hisposition on the ledge, were very much against him. Cartwright wouldprobably snatch at his own gun which lay before him in its holster onthe table, and whirling he would try a snap shot. 

The only other alternative was to raise the window--and that withCartwright four paces away!

First Sinclair took stock of the interior of the room. It was largerthan most parlors he had seen. There was a big double bed on each sideof it. Plainly it was intended to accommodate a whole party, andSinclair smiled at the vanity of the man who had insisted on taking"the best you have. " No wonder Sour Creek knew the room he had rented. 

In the corner was a great fireplace capable of taking a six-foot log, at least. He admired the massive andirons, palpably of home manufacturein Sour Creek's blacksmith shop. It proved the age of the building. Noone would waste money on such a fireplace in these days. A little stovewould do twice the work of that great, hungry chimney. There were twogreat chests of drawers, also, each looking as if it were built up fromthe floor and made immovable, such was its weight. The beds, also, wereof an ancient and solid school of furniture making. 

To be sure, everything was sadly run down. On the floor the thin oldcarpet was worn completely through at the sides of the beds. Bothmirrors above the chest of drawers were sadly cracked, and the table atwhich Cartwright sat, leaned to the right under the weight of the armhe rested on it. 

Having thus taken in the details of the battle ground, Sinclair madeready for the attack. He made sure of his footing on the ledge, gave alast glance over his shoulder to see that no one was in sight, and thenbegan to work at the window, moving it fractions of an inch at a time. 

23

When the window was half raised--the work of a full tenminutes--Sinclair drew his revolver and rested the barrel on the sill. He continued to lift the sash, but now he used his left hand alone, andthereby the noises became louder and more frequent. Cartwrightoccasionally raised his head, but probably he was becoming accustomedto the sounds. 

Now the window was raised to its full height, and Sinclair prepared forthe command which would jerk Cartwright's hands above his head and makehim turn slowly to look into the mouth of the gun. Weight which hecould have handled easily with a lurch, became tenfold heavier with theslowness of the lift; eventually both shoulders were in the room, andhe was kneeling on the sill. 

Cartwright raised his hands slowly, luxuriously, and stretched. It wasa movement so opportune that Sinclair almost laughed aloud. He twistedhis legs over the sill and dropped lightly on the floor. 

"No noise!" he called softly. 

The arms of Cartwright became frozen in their position above his head. He turned slowly, with little jerky movements, as though he had tofight to make himself look. And then he saw Sinclair. 

"Keep 'em up!" commanded the cowpuncher, "and get out of that chair, real soft and slow. That's it!"

Without a word Cartwright obeyed. There was no need of speech, indeed, for a score of expressions flashed into his face. 

"Go over and lock the door. "

He obeyed, keeping his arms above his head, all the way across theroom, while Sinclair jerked the new Colt out of its holster and tossedit on the farthest bed. In the meantime Cartwright lingered at the doorfor a moment with his hand on the key. No doubt he fought, for thesplit part of a second, with a wild temptation to jerk that door openand leap into the safety of the hall. Sinclair read that thought in thetremor of the big man's body. But presently discretion prevailed. Cartwright turned the key and faced about. He was a deadly gray, andhis lips were working. 

"Now, " he began. 

"Wait till I start talking, " urged Sinclair. "Come over here and sitdown. You're too close to the door to suit me, just now. This is a pilebetter. "

Cartwright obeyed quietly. Sitting down, he locked his hands nervouslyabout one knee and looked up with his eyes to Sinclair. 

"I come in for a quiet talk, " said Sinclair, dropping his gun into theholster. 

That movement drew a sudden brightening of the eyes of Cartwright, whonow straightened in his chair, as if he had regained hope. 

"Don't make no mistake, " said Sinclair, following the meaning of thatchange accurately. "I'm pretty handy with this old gun, partner. And onyou, just now, they ain't any reason why I should take my time or anychances, when it comes to shooting. "

Unconsciously Cartwright moistened his white lips, and his eyes grewbig again. 

"Except that the minute you shoot, you're a dead one, Sinclair. "

"Me? Oh, no. When a gun's heard they'll run to the room where theshot's been fired. And when they get the lock open, I'll be gone theway I come from. " Sinclair smiled genially on his enemy. "Don't startraising any crop of delusions, friend. I mean business--a lot. "

"Then talk business. I'll listen. "

"Oh, thanks! I come here about your wife. "

He watched Cartwright wince. In his heart he pitied the man. All thestory of Cartwright's spoiled boyhood and viciously selfish youth werewritten in his face for the reading of such a man as Sinclair. Therancher's son had begun well enough. Lack of discipline had undone him;but whether his faults were fixed or changeable, Sinclair could nottell. It was largely to learn this that he took the chances for theinterview. 

"Go on, " said Cartwright. 

"In the first place, d'you know why she left you?"

An anguish came across Cartwright's face. It taught Sinclair at leastone thing--that the man loved her. 

"You're the reason--maybe. "

"Me? I never seen her till two days ago. That's a tolerable ugly thingto say, Cartwright!"

"Well, I got tolerable ugly reasons for saying it, " answered the other. 

The cowpuncher sighed. "I follow the way you drift. But you're wrong, partner. Fact is, I didn't know Cold Feet was a girl till thisevening. "

Cartwright sneered, and Sinclair stiffened in his chair. 

"Son, " he said gravely, "the worst enemies I got will all tell you thatRiley Sinclair don't handle his own word careless. And I give you mysolemn word of honor that I didn't know she was a girl till thisevening, and that, right away after I found it out, I come down here tostraighten things out with you if I could. Will you believe it?"

It was a strange study to watch the working in the face ofCartwright--of hope, passion, doubt, hatred. He leaned closer toSinclair, his big hands clutched together. 

"Sinclair, I wish I could believe it!"

"Look me in the eye, man! I can stand it. "

"By the Lord, it's true! But, Sinclair, have you come down to find outif I'd take her back?"

"Would you?"

The other grew instantly crafty. "She's done me a pile of wrong, Sinclair. "

"She has, " said the cowpuncher. He went on gently: "She must of cutinto your pride a lot. "

"Oh, if it was known, " said Cartwright, turning pale at the thought, "she'd make me a laughing stock! Me, old Cartwright's son!"

"Yep, that'd be bad. " He wondered at the frank egoism of the youth. 

"I leave it to you, " said Cartwright, settling back in his chair. "Something had ought to be done to punish her. Besides, she's a weighton your hands, and I can see you'd be anxious to get rid of her quick. "

"How d'you aim to punish her?" asked Sinclair. 

"Me?"

"Sure! Kind of a hard thing to do, wouldn't it be?"

Cartwright's eyes grew small. "Ways could be found. " He swallowed hard. "I'd find a heap of ways to make her wish she'd died sooner'n shameme!"

"I s'pose you could, " said Sinclair slowly. He lowered his glance for amoment to keep his scorn from standing up in his eyes. "But I've heardof men, Cartwright, that'd love a woman so hard that they'd forgiveanything. "

"The world's full of fools, " said the rich rancher. He stabbed a sternforefinger into the palm of his other hand. "She's got to do a lot ofexplaining before I'll look at her. She's got to make me an accountingof every day she's spent since I last seen her at--"

"At the wedding?" asked Sinclair cruelly. 

Cartwright writhed in the chair till it groaned beneath his uneasyweight. "She told you that?"

"Look here, " went on Sinclair, assuming a new tone of frank inquiry. "Let's see if we can't find out why she left you?"

"They ain't any reason--just plain fool woman, that's all. "

"But maybe she didn't love you, Cartwright. Did you ever think ofthat?"

The big man stared. "Not love me? Who _would_ she love, then? Was theyanybody in them parts that could bring her as much as I could? Was theyanybody that had as good a house as mine, or as much land, or as muchcattle? Didn't I take her over the ground and show her what it amountedto? Didn't I offer her her pick of my own string of riding horses?"

"Did you do as much as that?"

"Sure I did. She wouldn't have lacked for nothing. "

"You sure must have loved her a lot, " insinuated Sinclair. "Must havebeen plumb foolish about her. "

"Oh, I dunno about that. Love is one thing that ain't bothered me none. I got important interests, Sinclair. I'm a business man. And this heremarriage was a business proposition. Her dad was a business man, and hefixed it all up for us. It was to tie the two biggest bunches of landtogether that could be found in them parts. Anyway"--he grinned--"I gotthe land!"

"And why not let the girl go, then?"

"Why?" asked Cartwright eagerly. "Who wants her? You?"

"Maybe, if you'd let her go. "

"Not in a thousand years! She's mine. They ain't no face but hers thatI can see opposite to me at the table--not one! Besides, she's mine, and I'm going to keep her--after I've taught her a lesson or two!"

Sinclair wiped his forehead hastily. Eagerness to jump at the throat ofthe man consumed him. He forced a smile on his thin lips andpersistently looked down. 

"But think how easy it'd be, Cartwright. Think how easy you could get adivorce on the grounds of desertion. "

"And drag all this shame into the courts?"

"They's ways of hushing these here things up. It'd be easy. Shewouldn't put up no defense, mostlike. You'd win your case. And ifanybody asked questions, they'd simply say she was crazy, and that youwas lucky to get rid of her. They wouldn't blame you none. And itwouldn't be no disgrace to be deserted by a crazy woman, would it?"

Cartwright drew back into a shell of opposition. "You talk pretty hotfor this. "

"Because I'm telling you the way out for both of you. "

"I can't see it. She's coming back to me. Nobody else is going to gether. I've set my mind on it!"

"Partner, don't you see that neither of you could ever be happy?"

"Oh, we'd be happy enough. I'd forgive her--after a while. "

"Yes, but what about her?"

"About her? Why, curse her, what right has she got to be considered?"

"Cartwright, she doesn't love you. "

The bulldog came into the face of Cartwright and contorted it. "Don'tshe belong to me by law? Ain't she sworn to--"

"Don't" said Sinclair, as if the words strangled him. "Don't say that, Cartwright, if you please!"

"Why not? You put up a good slick talk, Sinclair. But you don't win. Iain't going to give her up by no divorce. I'm going to keep her. Idon't love her enough to want her back, I hate her enough. They's onlyone way that I'd stop caring about--stop fearing that she'd shame me. And that's by having her six feet underground. But you, Sinclair, youneed coin. You're footloose. Suppose you was to take her and bring herto--"

"Don't!" cried Sinclair again. "Don't say it, Cartwright. Think it overagain. Have mercy on her, man. She could make some home happy. Are yougoing to destroy that chance?"

"Say, what kind of talk is this?" asked the big man. 

"Now, " said Sinclair, "look to your own rotten soul!"

The strength of Cartwright was cut away at the root. The color wasstruck out of his face as by a mortal blow. "What d'you mean?" hewhispered. 

"You don't deserve a man's chance, but I'm going to give it to you. Goget your gun, Cartwright!"

Cartwright slunk back in his chair. "Do you mean murder, Sinclair?"

"I mean a fair fight. "

"You're a gunman. You been raised and trained for gunfighting. Iwouldn't have no chance!"

Sinclair controlled his scorn. "Then I'll fight left-handed. I'm aright-handed man, Cartwright, and I'll take you with my gun in my lefthand. That evens us up, I guess. "

"No, it don't!"

But with the cry on his lips, the glance of Cartwright flickered pastSinclair. He grew thoughtful, less flabby. He seemed to be calculatinghis chances as his glance rested on the window. 

"All right, " he whispered, a fearful eye on Sinclair, as if he fearedthe latter would change his mind. "Gimme a fair break. "

"I'll do it. "

Sinclair shifted his gun to his left hand and turned to look at thewindow which Cartwright had been watching with such intense interest. He had not half turned, however, when a gun barked at his very ear, itseemed, a tongue of flame spat in from the window, there was a crash ofglass, and the lamp was snuffed. Some accurate shot had cut the burningwick out of the lamp with his bullet, so nicely placed that, though thelamp reeled, it did not fall. 

24

With the spurt of flame, Sinclair leaped back until his shouldersgrazed the wall. He crouched beside the massive chest of drawers. Itmight partially shelter him from fire from the window. 

There fell one of those deadly breathing spaces of silence--silence, except for the chattering of the lamp, as it steadied on the table andfinally was still. There was a light crunching noise from the oppositeside of the room. Cartwright had moved and put his foot on a fragmentof the shattered chimney. 

Sinclair studied the window. It was a rectangle of dim light, butnothing showed in that frame. He who had fired the shot must havecrouched at once, or else have drawn to one side. He waited with hisgun poised. Steps were sounding far away in the building, steps whichapproached rapidly. Voices were calling. Somewhere on the farther sideof the room Cartwright must have found the best shelter he could, andSinclair shrewdly guessed that it would be on the far side of the chestof drawers which faced him. 

In the meantime he studied the blank rectangle of the window. Sooner orlater the man who stood on the ledge would risk a look into the darkinterior; otherwise, he would not be human. And, sure enough, presentlythe faintest shadow of an outline encroached on the solid rectangle offaint light. Sinclair aimed just to the right and fired. At once therewas a splash of red flame and a thundering report from the other sideof the room. Cartwright had fired at the flash of Sinclair's gun, andthe bullet smashed into the chest beside Sinclair. As for Sinclair'sown bullet, it brought only a stifled curse from the window. 

"No good, Riley, " sang out the voice. "This wall's too thick for aColt. "

Sinclair had flung himself softly forward on his stomach, his gun inreadiness and leveled in the direction of Cartwright. There was theprime necessity. Now heavy footfalls rushed down the hall, and a stormof voices broke in upon him. 

At the same time Cartwright's gun spat fire again. The bullet buzzedangrily above Sinclair's head. His own brought a yell of pain, sharp asthe yelp of a coyote. 

"Keep quiet, Cartwright, " ordered the man at the window. "You'll getyourself killed if you keep risking it. Sheriff!"

His voice rose and rang. 

"Blow the lock off'n that door. We got him!"

There was an instant reply in the explosion of a gun, the crash ofbroken metal, the door swung slowly in, admitting a dim twilight intothe room. The light showed Sinclair one thing--the dull outlines ofCartwright. He whipped up his gun and then hesitated. It would bemurder. He had killed before, but never save in fair fight, standing ina clear light before his enemy. He knew that he could not kill this rathe detested. He thought of the wrecked life of the girl and set histeeth. Still he could not fire. 

"Cartwright, " he said softly, "I got you covered. Your right hand's onthe floor with your gun. Don't raise that hand!"

In the shadow against the wall Cartwright moved, but he obeyed. Therevolver still glimmered on the floor. 

A new and desperate thought came to Sinclair--to rush straight for thewindow, shoot down the man on the ledge, and risk the leap to theground. "Scatter back!" called the man on the ledge. 

That settled the last chance of Sinclair. There were guards on theground, scattered about the house. He could never get out that way. 

"Keep out of the light by the door, " commanded the man at the window. "And start shooting for the chest of drawers on the left-hand side ofthe room--and aim low down. It may take time, but we'll get him!"

Obviously the truth of that statement was too clear for Sinclair todeny it. He reviewed his situation with the swift calm of an oldgambler. He had tried his desperate coup and had failed. There wasnothing to do but accept the failure, or else make a still moredesperate effort to rectify his position, risking everything on a finalplay. 

He must get out of the room. The window was hopelessly blocked. Thereremained the open door, but the hall beyond the door was crowded withmen. 

Perhaps their very numbers would work against them. Even now they couldbe heard cautiously maneuvering. They would shoot through the door inhis general direction, unaimed shots, with the hope of a chance hit, and eventually they would strike him down. Suppose he were to stealclose to the door, leap over the bed, and plunge out among them, hisColt spitting lead and fire. 

That unexpected attack would cleave a passage for him. The more hethought of it, the more clearly he saw that the chances of escape tothe street were at least one in three. And yet he hesitated. If he madethat break two or three innocent men would go down before his bullets, as he sprang out, shooting to kill. He shrank from the thought. He wasamazed at himself. Never before had he been so tender of expedients. Hehad always fought to win--cleanly, but to win. Why was he suddenlyremembering that to these men he was an outlaw, fit meat for the firstbullet they could send home? Had he been one of them, he would havetaken up a position in that very hall just as they were doing. 

Slowly, reluctantly, fighting himself as he did it, he shoved hisrevolver back into his holster and determined to take the chance ofthat surprise attack, with his empty hands against their guns. If theydid not drop him the instant he leaped out, he would be among them, tooclose for gunplay unless they took the chance of killing their own men. 

Keeping his gaze fixed on Cartwright across the room--for the moment heshowed his intention, Cartwright would shoot--he maneuvered softlytoward the bed. Cartwright turned his head, but made no move to lifthis gun. There was a reason. The light from the door fell nearer to therancher than it did to Sinclair. To Cartwright he must be no more thana shapeless blur. 

A gun exploded from the doorway, with only a glint of steel, as themuzzle was shoved around the jamb. The bullet crashed harmlessly intothe wall behind him. Another try. The sharp, stifling odor of burnedpowder began to fill the room, stinging the nostrils of Sinclair. Cartwright was coughing in a stifled fashion on the far side of theroom, as if he feared a loud noise would draw a bullet his way. 

All at once there was no sound in the hotel, and, as the wave ofsilence spread, Sinclair was aware that the whole little town waslistening, waiting, watching. Not a whisper in the hall, not a stirfrom Cartwright across the room. The quiet made the drama seem unreal. 

Then that voice outside the window, which seemed to be Sinclair'sNemesis, cried: "Steady, boys. Something's going to happen. He'sgetting ready. Buck up, boys!"

In a moment of madness Sinclair decided to rush that window and disposeof the cool-minded speaker at all costs before he died. There, atleast, was the one man he wished to kill. He followed that impulse longenough to throw himself sidling along the floor, so as not to betrayhis real strategic position to those at the door, and he splashed twobullets into the wall, trimming the side of the window. 

Only clear, deep-throated laughter came in response. 

"I told you, boys. I read his mind, and he's mad at me, eh?"

But Riley Sinclair hardly heard the mocking answer. He had glided backbehind the bed, the instant the shots were fired. As he moved, two gunsappeared for a flickering instant around the edge of the doorway, oneon each side. Their muzzles kicked up rapidly, one, two, three, four, five, six, and each, as he fired, spread the shots carefully from sideto side. Sinclair heard the bullets bite and splinter the woodworkclose to the floor. The chest of drawers staggered with the impact. 

He raised his own gun, watched one of the jumping muzzles for aninstant, and then tried a snap shot. The report of his revolver wasbitten off short by the clang of metal; there was a shouted curse fromthe hallway. He had blown the gun cleanly out of the sharpshooter'shand. 

Before the amazed rumble from the hall died away, Sinclair had acted. He shoved his weapon back in its holster, and cleared the bed with aflying leap. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cartwright snatch uphis gun and take a chance shot that whistled close to his head, andthen Sinclair plunged into the hall. 

One glimmering chance of success remained. On the side of the doortoward which he drove there were only three men in the hall; behind himwere more, far more, but their weapons were neutralized. They could notfire without risking a miss that would be certain to lodge a bullet inthe body of one of the men before Sinclair. 

Those men were kneeling, for they had been reaching out and firing lowaround the door to rake the floor of the room. At the appearance ofSinclair they started up. He saw a gun jerk high for a snap shot, and, swerving as he leaped, he drove out with all his weight behind hisfist. The knuckles bit through flesh to the bone. There was a jarringimpact, and now only two men were before him. One of them dropped hisgun--it was he who had just emptied his weapon into the room--and flunghimself at Sinclair, with outspread arms. The cowpuncher snapped up hisknee, and the blow crumpled the other back and to the side. He sprangon toward the last man who barred his way. And all this in the splitpart of a second. 

Chance took a hand against him. In the very act of striking, his footlodged on the first senseless body, and he catapulted forward on hishands. He struck the legs of the third man as he fell. 

Down they went together, and Sinclair lurched up from under the weightonly to be overtaken by many reaching hands from behind. That instantof delay had lost the battle for him; and, as he strove to whirl andfight himself clear, an arm curled around his neck, shutting off hisbreath. A great weight jarred between his shoulders. And he pitcheddown to the floor. 

He stopped fighting. He felt his gun slipped from the holster. Deft, strong hands jerked his arms behind him and tied the wrists firmlytogether. Then he was drawn to his feet. 

All this without a word spoken, only the pant and struggle ofhard-drawn breaths. Not until he stood on his feet again, with ableeding-faced fellow rising with dazed eyes, and another clambering upunsteadily, with both hands pressed against his head, did the captorsgive voice. And their voice was a yell of triumph that was taken up intwo directions outside the hotel. 

They became suddenly excited, riotously happy. In the overflowing oftheir joy they were good-natured. Some one caught up Sinclair's hat andjammed it on his head. Another slapped him on the shoulder. 

"A fine, game fight!" said the latter. It was the man with the smearedface. He was grinning through his wounds. "Hardest punch I ever got. But I don't blame you, partner!"

Presently he saw Sheriff Kern. The latter was perfectly cool, perfectlygrave. It was his arm that had coiled around the neck of Sinclair andthrottled him into submission. 

"You didn't come out to kill, Sinclair. Why?"

"I ain't used to slaughterhouse work, " said Sinclair with equal calm, although he was panting. "Besides, it wasn't worth it. Murder neveris. "

"Kind of late to come to that idea, son. Now just trot along with me, will you?" He paused. "Where's Arizona?"

Cartwright lurched out of the room with his naked gun in his hand. Reddripped from the shallow wound where Sinclair's bullet had nicked him. He plunged at the captive, yelling. 

"Stop that fool!" snapped the sheriff. 

Half a dozen men put themselves between the outlaw and the avenger. Cartwright straggled vainly. 

"Between you and me, " said Sinclair coldly to the sheriff, "I thinkthat skunk would plug me while I got my hands tied. "

The sheriff flashed a knowing glance up at his tall prisoner's face. 

"I dunno, Sinclair. Kind of looks that way. "

Although Cartwright had been persuaded to restore his gun to its cover, he passed through the crowd until he confronted Sinclair. 

"Now, the tables is turned, eh? I'll take the high hand from now on, Sinclair!"

"It's no good, " said Sinclair dryly. "The gent that shot out the lighthad a chance to see something before he done the shooting. And what heseen must have showed that you're yaller, Cartwright--yaller as ayaller dog!"

Cartwright flung his fist with a curse into the face of the cowpuncher. The weight of the blow jarred him back against the wall, but he met theglare of Cartwright with a steady eye, a thin trickle of crimsonrunning down his cut lips. The sheriff rushed in between and masteredCartwright's arms. 

"One more little trick like that, stranger, and I'll turn you over tothe boys. They got ways of teaching gents manners. How was you raised, anyway?"

Suddenly sobered, Cartwright drew back from dark glances on every side. 

"Fellows, " he said, in a shaken voice, "I forgot his hands was tied. But I'm kind of wrought up. He tried to murder me!"

"It's all right, partner, " drawled Red Chalmers, and he laid a stronghand on the shoulder of Cartwright. "It's all right. We all allow forone break. But don't do something like that twice--not in these parts!"

Sinclair walked beside the sheriff, while the crowd poured past him anddown the hall. When they reached the head of the stairs they found thelighted room below filled with excited, upturned faces; at the sight ofthe sheriff and his prisoner they roared their applause. The faces wereblotted and blurred by a veil of rapidly, widely waving sombreros. 

The sheriff paused halfway down the stairs and held up his hand. Sinclair halted beside him looking disdainfully over the crowd. Instantly noise and movement ceased. It was a spectacular picture, thestubby little sheriff and the tall, lean, wolflike man he had captured. It seemed a vivid illustration of the power of the law over thelawbreaker. Sinclair glanced down in wonder at Kern. It was incharacter for the sheriff to make a speech. A moment later thesheriff's own words had explained his reason for the impromptu address. 

"Boys, " he said, "I figure some of you has got an almighty big wish tosee Sinclair on the end of a rope, eh?"

A deep growl answered him. 

"Speaking personal, " went on the sheriff smoothly, "I don't see howhe's done a thing worth hanging. He took a prisoner away from me, andhe's resisted arrest. That's all. Sinclair has got a name as a killer. Maybe he is. But I know he ain't done no killing around these partsthat's come to light yet. I'll tell you another thing. A minute ago hecould have sent three men to death and maybe come off with a free skin. But he chose to take his chance without shooting to kill. He tried tofight his way out with his hands sooner'n blow the heads off of gentsthat never done him no harm except to get in his way. Well, boys, that's something you don't often see. And I tell you this right now: Ifthey's any lynch talk around this here town, you can lay to it thatyou'll have to shoot your way to Sinclair through me. And I'll be adead one before you reach to him. "

He paused. Someone hissed from the back of the crowd, but the majoritymurmured in appreciation. 

"One more thing, " went on the sheriff. "Some of you may think it wasgreat guns to take Sinclair. It _was_ a pretty good job, but they ain'tno credit coming to me. I'm up here saying that all the praise goes toa fat friend of mine by name Arizona. If you got any free drinks, let'em drift the way of Arizona. Hey, Arizona, step out and make a bow, will you?"

But no Arizona appeared. The crowd cheered him, and then cheered thegenerous sheriff. Kern had won more by his frankness than he couldpossibly have won in half a dozen spectacular exploits with a gun. 

25

The crowd swirled out of the hotel before the sheriff and his prisoner, and then swirled back again. No use following the sheriff if they hopedfor details. They knew his silence of old. Instead they picked off themembers who had taken part in some phase of the fight, and drew themaside. As Sinclair went on down the street, the populace of Sour Creekwas left pooled behind him. Various orators were giving accounts of howthe whole thing had happened. 

Sinclair had neither eye nor ear for them. But he looked back and up tothe western sky, with a flat-topped mountain clearly outlined againstit. There was his country, and in his country he had left Jig alone andhelpless. A feeling of utter desolation and failure came over him. Hehad started with a double-goal--Sandersen or Cartwright, or both. Hehad failed lamentably of reaching either one. He looked back to thesheriff, squat, insignificant, gray-headed. What a man to have blockedhim!

"But who's this Arizona?" he asked. 

"I dunno. Seems to have known you somewhere. Maybe a friend of yours, Sinclair?"

"H'm, " said the cowpuncher. "Maybe! Tell me: Was it him that wasoutside the window and trimmed the light on me?"

"You got him right, Sinclair. That was the gent. Nice play he made, eh?"

"Very pretty, sheriff. I thought I knowed his voice. "

"He seems to have made himself pretty infrequent. Didn't know Arizonawas so darned modest. "

"Maybe he's got other reasons, " said Sinclair. "What's his full name?"

"Ain't that curious! I ain't heard of anybody else that knows it. He'sa cool head, this Arizona. Seemed to read your mind and know jest howyou'd jump, Sinclair. I would have been off combing the trails, but heseemed to know that you'd come into town. "

"I'll sure keep him in mind if I ever meet up with him, " murmuredSinclair. "Is this where I bunk?"

The sheriff had paused before a squat, dumpy building and was workingnoisily at the lock with a big key. Now that his back was necessarilytoward his prisoner, two of the posse stepped up close beside Sinclair. They had none of the sheriff's nonchalance. One of them was the manwhose head had made the acquaintance of Sinclair's knee, and both wereready for instant action of any description. 

"I'm Rhinehart, " said one softly. "Keep me in mind, Sinclair. I'm himthat you smashed with your knee. Dirty work! I'll see you when you getout of the lockup--if that ever happens!"

The voice of Sinclair was not so soft. "I'll meet you in jail or out, "he answered, "on foot or on horseback, with fists or knife or gun. Andyou can lay to this, Rhinehart: I'll remember you a pile better'nyou'll remember me!"

All the repressed savagery of his nature came quivering into his voiceas he spoke, and the other shrank instinctively a pace. In the meantimethe sheriff had succeeded in turning the rusted lock, which squeakedback. The door grumbled on its heavy hinges. Sinclair stepped into themusty, close atmosphere within. 

"Don't look like you had much use for this here outfit, " he said to thesheriff. 

The latter lighted a lantern. 

"Nope, " he said. "It sure beats all how the luck runs, Sinclair. We'dhad a pretty bad time with crooks around these parts, and them that wasnabbed in Sour Creek got away; about two out of three, before they wasbrought to me at Woodville. So the boys got together and ponied up forthis little jail, and it's as neat a pile of mud and steel as ever yousee. Look at them bars. Kind of rusty, they look, but inside they'retoolproof. Oh, it's an up-to-date outfit, this jail. It's been acomfort to me, and it's a credit to Sour Creek. But the trouble is thatsince it was built they ain't been more'n one or two to put in it. Maybe you can make out here for the night. Have you over to Woodvillein a couple of days, Sinclair. "

He brought his prisoner into a cagelike cell, heavily guarded with barson all sides. The adobe walls had been trusted in no direction. Thesteel lining was the strength of the Sour Creek jail. The sheriffhimself set about shaking out the blankets. When this was done, he badehis two companions draw their guns and stand guard at the steel door tothe cell. 

"Not that I don't trust you a good deal, Sinclair, " he said, "but Iknow that a gent sometimes takes big chances. "

So saying, he cut the bonds of his prisoner, but instead of making aplunge at the door, Sinclair merely stretched his long arms luxuriouslyabove his head. The sheriff slipped out of the door and closed it afterhim. A heavy and prolonged clangor followed, as steel jarred homeagainst steel. 

"Don't go sheriff, " said Sinclair. "I need a chat with you. "

"I'm in no hurry. And here's the gent we was talking about. Here'sArizona!"

The sheriff had waved his two companions out of the jail, as soon asthe prisoner was securely lodged, and no sooner was this done, and theyhad departed through the doorway, than the heavy figure of Arizonahimself appeared. He came slowly into the circle of the lantern light, an oddly changed man. 

His swaggering gait, with heels that pounded heavily, was gone. Heslunk forward, soft-footed. His head, usually so buoyantly erect, wasnow sunk lower and forward. His high color had faded to a drab olive. In fact, from a free-swinging, jovial, somewhat overbearing demeanor, Arizona had changed to a mien of malicious and rather frightenedcunning. In this wise he advanced, heedless of the curious andastonished sheriff, until his face was literally pressed against thebars. He peered steadily at Sinclair. 

On the face of the latter there had been at first blank surprise, thena gradually dawning recognition. Finally he walked slowly to the bars. As Sinclair approached, the fat cowpuncher drew back, with lingeringcatlike steps, as if he grudged every inch of his retreat and yet darednot remain to meet Sinclair. 

"By the Eternal, " said Sinclair, "it's Dago!"

Arizona halted, quivering with emotions which the sheriff could notidentify, save for a blind, intense malice. The tall man turned to thesheriff, smiling: "Dago Lansing, eh?"

"Never heard that name, " said the sheriff. 

"Maybe not, " replied Sinclair, "but that's the man I--"

"You lie!" cried Arizona huskily, and his fat, swift hand flutterednervously around the butt of the revolver. "Sheriff, they ain't nothingbut lies stocked up in him. Don't believe nothing he says!"

"Huh!" chuckled Sinclair. "Why, Kern, he's a man about eight years agothat I--"

Pausing, he looked into the convulsed face of Arizona, who wasapparently tortured with apprehension. 

"I won't go on, Dago, " said Sinclair mildly. "But--so you've carriedthis grudge all these days, eh?"

Arizona tossed up his head. For a moment he was the Arizona the sheriffhad known, but his laughter was too strident, and it was easy to seethat he was at a point of hysterically high tension. 

"Well, I'd have carried it eighty years as easy as eight, " declaredArizona. "I been waiting all this time, and now I got you, Sinclair. You'll rot behind the bars the best part of the life that's left toyou. And when you come out--I'll meet you ag'in!"

Sinclair smiled in a singular fashion. "Sorry to disappoint you, Dago. But I'm not coming out. I'm going to stay put. I'm through. " The otherblinked. "How come?"

"It's something you couldn't figure, " said Sinclair calmly, and he eyedthe fat man as if from a great distance. 

Sinclair was remembering the day, eight years ago, in a lumber camp tothe north when a shivering, meager, shifty-eyed youngster had comeamong them asking for work. They had taken pity on him, those biglumberjacks, put him up, given him money, kept him at the bunk house. 

Then articles began to disappear, watches, money. It was Sinclair whohad caught the friendless stripling in the act of sleight of hand inthe middle of the night when the laborers, tired out, slept as ifstunned. And when the others would have let the cringing, weeping youthgo with a lecture and the return of his illicit spoils, it was thestern Sinclair who had insisted on driving home the lesson. He forcedthem to strip Dago to the waist. Two stalwarts held his hands, andSinclair laid on the whip. And Dago, the moment the lash fell, ceasedhis wailing and begging, and stood quivering, with his head bent, histeeth set and gritting, until the punishment was ended. 

It was Sinclair, also, when the thing was ended, and the others wouldhave thrust the boy out penniless, who split the contents of his walletwith Dago. He remembered the words he had spoken to the stripling thatday eight years before. 

"You ain't had much luck out here in the West, kid, but stay around. Gosouth. Learn to ride a hoss. They's nothing that puts heart and honestyin a man like a good hoss. Don't go back to your city. You'll turn intoa snake there. Stay out here and practice being a man, will you? Getthe feel of a Colt. Fight your way. Keep your mouth shut and work withyour hands. And don't brag about what you know or what you've done. That's the way to get on. You got the markings in you, son. You gotgrit. I seen it when you was under the whip, and I wish I had the doingof that over again. I made a mistake with you, kid. But do what I'vetold you to do, and one of these days you'll meet up with me and beatme to the draw and take everything you got as a grudge out on me. Butyou can't do it unless you turn into a man. "

Dago had listened in the most profound silence, accepted the moneywithout thanks, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. In thesleek-faced man before him, Sinclair could hardly recognize thatslender fellow of the lumber camp. Only the bright and agile eyes werethe same; that, and a certain telltale nervousness of hand. The colorwas coming back into his face. 

"I guess I've done it, " Arizona was saying. "I guess we're squared up, Sinclair. "

"Yep, and a balance on your side. "

"Maybe, maybe not. But I've followed your advice, Long Riley. I'venever forgot a word of it. It was printed into me!"

He made a significant, short gesture, as if he were snapping a whip, and a snarl of undying malice curled his lips. 

"As long as you live, Sinclair, " he added. "As long as you live, I'llremember. "

Even the sheriff shuddered at that glimpse into the black soul of aman; Sinclair alone was unmoved. 

"I reckon you've barked enough, Arizona, " he suggested. "S'pose youtrot along. I got to have words with my friend, the sheriff. "

Arizona waved his fat hand. He was recovering his ordinary poise, andwith a smiling good night to the sheriff, he turned away through thedoor. 

"Nice, friendly sort, eh?" remarked Sinclair the moment he was alonewith Kern. 

"I still got the chills, " said the sheriff. "Sure has got a wicked pairof eyes, that Arizona. "

Kern cast an apprehensive glance at the closed door, yet, in spite ofthe fact that it was closed, he lowered his voice. 

"What in thunder have you done to him, Sinclair?"

"About eight years ago--" began Sinclair and then stopped short. 

"Let it go, " he went on. "No matter what Arizona is today, he's sureimproved on the gent I used to know. What's done is done. Besides, Imade a mistake that time. I went too far with him, and a mistake islike borrowed money, sheriff. It lays up interest and keepscompounding. When you have to pay back what you done a long time ago, you find it's a terrible pile. That's all I got to say about Arizona. "

Sheriff Kern nodded. "That's straight talk, Sinclair, " he said softly. "But what was it you wanted to see me about?"

"Cold Feet, " said Sinclair. 

At once the sheriff brightened. "That's right, " he said hurriedly. "Yougot the right idea now, partner. Glad to see you're using hoss sense. And if you gimme an idea of the trail that'll lead to Cold Feet, I cansee to it that you get out of this mess pretty pronto. After all, youain't done no real harm except for nicking Cartwright in the arm, and Ifigure that he needs a little punishment. It'll cool his temper down. "

"You think I ought to tell you where Cold Feet is?" asked Sinclairwithout emotion. 

"Why not?"

"Him and me sat around the same campfire, sheriff, and ate off'n thesame deer. "

At this the sheriff winced. "I know, " he murmured. "It's hard--mightyhard!" He continued more smoothly: "But listen to me, partner. There'stwenty-five-hundred dollars on the head of Cold Feet. Why not come in?Why not split on it? Plenty for both of us; and, speaking personal, Icould use half that money, and maybe you could use the other half justas well!"

"I'll tell you what I'll do, " said Sinclair, "I'll give you the layoutfor finding Cold Feet. Ride west out of Sour Creek and head for aflat-topped mountain. On the shoulder just under the head of the peakyou'll find Cold Feet. Go get him!"

The sheriff caught his breath, then whirled on his heel. The sharpvoice of Sinclair called him back. 

"Wait a minute. I ain't through. When you catch Cold Feet you go afterhim without guns. "

"How come?"

"Because you might hurt him, and he can't fight, sheriff. Even if hewas to pull a gun, he couldn't hit nothing with it. He couldn't hit theground he's standing on with a gun. "

Sheriff Kern scratched his head. 

"And when you get him, " went on Sinclair, "tell him to go back and takeup his life where he left off, because they's no harm coming to him. "

"Great guns, man! No harm coming to him with a murder to his count anda price on his head?"

"I mean what I say. Break it to him real gentle. "

"And who pays for the killing of Quade?"

Sinclair smiled. He was finding it far easier to do it than he had everimagined. The moment he made the resolve, his way was smoothed for him. 

"I pay for Quade, " he said quietly. 

"What d'you mean?"

"Because I killed him, sheriff. Now go tell Cold Feet that his score isclean!"

26

Toward the flat-topped mountain, with the feeling of his fate upon him, Bill Sandersen pushed his mustang through the late evening, while thedarkness fell. He had long since stopped thinking, reasoning. There wasonly the strong, blind feeling that he must meet Sinclair face to faceand decide his destiny in one brief struggle. 

So he kept on until his shadow fell faintly on his path before him, long, shapeless, grotesque. He turned and saw the moon coming up abovethe eastern mountains, a wan, sickly moon hardly out of her firstquarter, and even in the pure mountain air her light was dim. 

But it gave thought and pause to Sandersen. First there was theoutcropping of a singular superstition which he had heard long beforeand never remembered until this moment: that a moon seen over the leftshoulder meant the worst of bad luck. It boded very ill for the end ofthis adventure. 

Suppose he were able only partially to surprise the big cowpuncher fromthe north, and that there was a call for fighting. What chance would hehave in the dim and bewildering light of that moon against the suretyof Sinclair who shot, he knew, as other men point the finger--instinctively hitting the target? It would be a mere butchery, not a battle. 

Sending his mustang into a copse of young trees, he dismounted. Hismind was made up not to attempt the blow until the first light of dawn. He would try to reach the top of the flat-crested mountain well beforesunup, when there would be a real light instead of this ghostly andpartial illumination from the moon. 

Among the trees he sat down and took up the dreadful watches of thenight. Sleep never came near him. He was turning the back pages of hismemory, reviewing his past with the singular clearness of a man aboutto die. For Sandersen had this mortal certainty resting upon his mindthat he must try to strike down Sinclair, and that he would fail. Andfailure meant only one alternative--death. He was perfectly confidentthat this was the truth. He knew with prophetic surety that he wouldnever again see the kind light of the sun, that in a half-light, in thecold of the dawn, a bullet would end his life. 

What he saw in the past was not comforting. A long train of vividmemories came up in his mind. He had accomplished nothing. In the totalcourse of his life he had not made a man his friend, or won the love ofa woman. In all his attempts to succeed in life there had been nothingbut disastrous failures, and wherever he moved he involved others inhis fall. Certainly the prospecting trip with the three other men hadbeen worse than all the rest, but it had been typical. It had been hewho first suggested the trip, and he had rounded the party together andsustained it with enthusiasm. 

It had been he who led it into the mountains and across the desert. Andon the terrible return trip he knew, with an abiding sense of guilt, that he alone could have checked the murderous and cowardly impulse ofQuade. He alone could have overruled Quade and Lowrie; or, failing tooverrule them he should at least have stayed with the cripple andhelped him on, with the chance of death for them both. 

When he thought of that noble opportunity lost, he writhed. It wouldhave gained the deathless affection of Hal Sinclair and saved thatyoung, strong life. It would have won him more. It would have madeRiley Sinclair his ally so long as he lived. And how easy to have doneit, he thought, looking back. 

Instead, he had given way; and already the result had been the death ofthree men. The tale was not yet told, he was sure. Another death wasdue. A curse lay on that entire party, and it would not be ended untilhe, Sandersen, the soul of the enterprise, fell. 

The moon grew old in the west. Then he took the saddle again and rode, brooding, up the trail, his horse stumbling over the stones as theanimal grew wearier in the climb. 

And then, keeping his gaze fastened above him, he saw the outline ofthe crests grow more and more distinct. He looked behind. In the eastthe light was growing. The whole horizon was rimmed with a pale glow. 

Now his spirits rose. Even this gray dawn was far better than thetreacherous moonlight. A daylight calm came over him. He was stronger, surer of himself. Impatiently he drew out his Colt and looked to itsaction. The familiar weight added to his self-belief. It becamepossible for him to fight, and being possible to fight, it was alsopossible to conquer. 

Presently he reached a bald upland. The fresh wind of the morningstruck his face, and he breathed deep of it. Why could he not return toSour Creek as a hero, and why could he not collect the price on thehead of Riley Sinclair?

The thought made him alert, savage. A moment later, his head pushing upto the level of the shoulder of the mountain, he saw his quarry. In thedimness of that early dawn he made out the form of a sleeper huddled inblankets, but it was enough. That must be Riley Sinclair. It could notbe another, and all his premonitions were correct. 

Suddenly he became aware that he could not fail. It was impossible! Asgloomy as he had been before, his spirits now leaped to the heights. Heswung down from the saddle, softly, slowly, and went up the hillwithout once drawing his eyes from that motionless form in theblankets. 

Once something stirred to the right and far below him. He flashed aglance in that direction and saw that it was a hobbled horse, thoughnot the horse of Sinclair; but that mattered nothing. The second horsemight be among the trees. 

Easing his step and tightening the grip on his revolver, he drewcloser. Should he shoot without warning? No, he would lean over thesleeper, call his name, and let him waken and see his death before itcame to him. Otherwise the triumph would be robbed of half of itssweetness. 

Now he had come sufficiently near to make out distinctly that there wasonly one sleeper. Had Sinclair and Cold Feet separated? If so, thismust be Sinclair. The latter might have the boldness to linger so closeto danger, but certainly never Cold Feet, even if he had once workedhis courage to the point of killing a man. He stepped closer, leaned, and then by the half-light made out the pale, delicate features of theschoolteacher. 

For the moment Sandersen was stunned with disappointment, and yet hisspirits rose again almost at once. If Sinclair had fled, all thebetter. He would not return, at least for a long time, and in themeantime, he, Sandersen, would collect the money on the head of ColdFeet!

With the Colt close to the breast of Jig, he said: "Wake up, ColdFeet!"

The girl opened her eyes, struggled to sit up, and was thrust back bythe muzzle of the gun, held with rocklike firmness in the hand ofSandersen. 

"Riley--what--" she muttered sleepily and then she made out the face ofSandersen distinctly. 

Instantly she was wide awake, whiter than ever, staring. Better to takethe desperado alive than dead--far better. Cold Feet would make a showin Sour Creek for the glorification of Sandersen, as he rode downthrough the main street, and the men would come out to see the prizewhich even Sheriff Kern and his posse had not yet been able to take. 

"Roll over on your face. "

Cold Feet obeyed without a murmur. There was a coiled rope by thecinders of the fire. Sandersen cut off a convenient length and boundthe slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher. Then he jerkedhis quarry to a sitting posture. 

"Where's Sinclair gone?"

To his astonishment, Cold Feet's face brightened wonderfully. 

"Oh, then you haven't found him? You haven't found him? Thankgoodness!"

Sandersen studied the schoolteacher closely. It was impossible tomistake the frankness of the latter's face. 

"By guns, " he said at last, "I see it all now. The skunk sneaked off inthe middle of the night and left you alone here to face the music?"

Jig flushed, as she exclaimed: "That's not true. He's never run away inhis life. "

"Maybe not, " muttered Sandersen apprehensively. "Maybe he'll come backag'in. Maybe he's just rode off after something and will be back. "

At once the old fear swept over him. His apprehensive glance flickeredover the rocks and trees around him--a thousand secure hiding places. He faced the schoolteacher again. 

"Look here, Jig: You're charged with a murder, you see? I can take youdead or alive; and the shot that bumped you off might bring Sinclairrunning to find out what'd happened, and he'd go the same way. But willyou promise to keep your mouth shut and give no warning when Sinclairheaves in sight? Take your pick. It don't make no difference to me, oneway or the other; but I can't have the two of you on my hands. "

To his surprise Jig did not answer at once. 

"Ain't I made myself clear? Speak out!"

"I won't promise, " said Cold Feet, raising the colorless face. 

"Then, by thunder, I'll--"

In the sudden contorting of his face she saw her death, but as sheclosed her eyes and waited for the report and the tear of the bullet, she heard him muttering: "No, they's a better way. "

A moment later her mouth was wrenched open, and a huge wadded bandannawas stuffed into it. Sandersen pushed her back to the ground and tossedthe blanket over her again. 

"You ain't much of a man, Jig, but as a bait for my trap you'll dotolerable well. You're right: Sinclair's coming back, and when hecomes, I'll be waiting for him out of sight behind the rock. But listento this, Jig. If you wrastle around and try to get that gag out of yourmouth, I ain't going to take no chances. Whether Sinclair's in sight ornot, I'm going to drill you clean. Now lie still and keep thinking onwhat I told you. I mean it all!"

With a final scowl he left her and hurried to the rock. It made anideal shelter for his purposes. On three sides, the rock made a thickand effectual parapet. A thousand bullets might splash harmlesslyagainst that stone; and through crevices he commanded the whole sweepof the mountainside beneath them. The courage which had been growing inSandersen, now reached a climax. Below him lay the helpless body of oneprize--from a distance apparently a sound and quiet sleeper, thoughSandersen could see the terrified glint of Jig's eyes. 

But he forgot that a moment later, when he saw the form of a horsemanbreak out of covert from the trees farther down the mountain andimmediately disappear again. Sinclair? He studied the barrel of therevolver, but the horseman appeared no more in the brightening andmisty dawn. It was only after a long pause that there issued from thetrees, not Riley Sinclair, but the squat, thick form of Arizona!

27

Behind the sheriff's apprehensive glance there had been reason. Truethe door had closed upon Arizona, and the door was thick. But themoment Arizona had passed through the door, he clapped his ear to thekeyhole and listened, holding his breath, for he was certain that themoment his back was turned the shameful story of his exploits in thelumber camp eight years before would come out for the edification ofKern. If so, it meant ruin for him. Arizona was closed to him; all thisdistrict would be closed by the story of his early light-fingeredness. He felt as if he were being driven to the wall. Consequently helistened with set teeth to the early questions of the sheriff; then hebreathed easier, still incredulous, when he heard Sinclair refuse totell the tale. 

Still he lingered, dreading that the truth might out, and so heard thetalk turn to a new channel--Cold Feet. Cold Feet meant many things toSour Creek; to Arizona, the schoolteacher meant only onething--twenty-five-hundred dollars. And Arizona was broke. 

To his hungry ear came the tidings: "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'llgive you the layout for finding Cold Feet. Ride west out of Sour Creekand head for a flat-topped mountain. On the shoulder just under thehead you'll find Cold Feet. Go get him!"

To Arizona it seemed as if this last injunction were personal advice. He waited to hear no more; if he had paused for a moment he might havelearned that the hope of twenty-five hundred was an illusion and asnare. He saw the bright vision of a small fortune placed in his handsas the result of a single gunplay. He had seen the schoolteacher. Heknew by instinct that there was no fighting quality in Jig. And themoment he heard the location it was as good as cash in his pocket, hewas sure. 

There was only one difficulty. He must beat out the sheriff. To thatend he hurried to the stable behind the hotel, broke all records forspeed in getting the saddle on his roan mare, and then jogged herquietly out of town so as to rouse no suspicions. But hardly was hepast the outskirts, hardly crediting his good luck that the sheriffhimself was not yet on the way, than he touched the flanks with hisspurs and sent the mare flying west. 

In the west the moon was dropping behind the upper ranges, as he rodethrough the foothills; when he began to climb the side of the mountain, the dawn began to grow. So much the better for Arizona. But, knowingthat he had only Cold Feet to deal with, he did not adopt all thecaution of Sandersen on the same trail. Instead he cut boldly straightfor the shoulder of the mountain, knowing what he would find there onhis arrival. In the nearest grove he left his horse and then walkedswiftly up to the level. There the first thing that caught his eyes wasthe form wrapped in the blanket. But the next thing he saw was the paleglimmer of the dawn on the barrel of a revolver. He reached for his owngun, only to see, over the rock above him, the grinning face ofSandersen arise. 

"Too late, Arizona, " called the tall man. "Too late for one job, partner, but just in time for the next!"

Arizona cursed softly, steadily, through snarling lips. 

"What job?"

"Sinclair! He's gone, but he'll be back any minute. And it'll need usboth to down him, Arizona. We'll split on Sinclair's reward. "

Disgust and wrath consumed Arizona. Without other answer he strode tothe prostrate form, slashed the rope and tore the handkerchief frombetween the teeth of Cold Feet. The schoolteacher sat up, gasping forbreath, purple of face. 

"Leave him be!" cried Sandersen, his voice shrill with anger. "Leavehim be! He's the bait, Arizona, and we're the trap that'll catchSinclair. "

But Arizona cursed again bitterly. "Leave that bait lie till the sunburns it up. You'll never catch Sinclair with it. "

"How come?"

From around the rock Sandersen appeared and walked down to the fat man. 

"Because Sinclair's already caught. "

If he had expected the tall man to groan with disappointment, there wasa surprise in store for him. Sandersen exclaimed shrilly for joy. 

"Sinclair took! Took dead, then!"

"Dead? Why?"

"You don't mean he was taken alive?"

"Yes, I sure do! And I done the figuring that led up to him beingcaught. "

The slender form of Jig rose before them, trembling. 

"It isn't true! It isn't true! There aren't enough of you in Sour Creekto take Riley Sinclair!"

"Ain't it true?" asked Arizona. "All right, son, you'll meet him prontoin the Sour Creek jail, unless the boys finish their party of the otherday and string you up before you get inside the jail. "

This brought a peculiar, low-pitched moan from Cold Feet. 

"Cheer up, " said Sandersen. "You ain't swinging yet awhile. "

"But he's hurt! If he's alive, he's terribly wounded?"

Arizona beat down the appealing hand with a brutal gesture. 

"No, he ain't particular hurt. Just his neck squashed a bit where thesheriff throttled him. He didn't fight enough to get hurt, curse him!"

Frowning, Sandersen shook his head. "He's a fighting man, Arizona, ifthey ever was one. "

It seemed that everything infuriated the fat man. 

"What d'you know about it, Lanky?" he demanded of Sandersen. "Didn't Irun the affair? Wasn't it me that planted the whole trap? Wasn't it methat knowed he'd come into town for you or Cartwright?"

"Cartwright!" gasped Jig. 

"Sure! We nailed him in Cartwright's room, just the way I said wewould. And they laughed at me, the fools!"

He might have gathered singular inferences from the lowered head of Jigand the soft murmur: "I might have known--I might have known he'd tryfor me. "

"And I might have had the pleasure of drilling him clean, " saidArizona, harking back to it with savage pleasure, "but I shot out thelight. I wanted him to die slow, and before the end I wanted to pry hiseyes open and make him see my face and know that it was me that donefor him! That was what I wanted. But he turned yaller and wouldn'tfight. "

"He wouldn't kill, " said Jig coldly. "But for courage--I laugh at you, Arizona!"

"Easy, " scowled the cowpuncher. "Easy, Jig. You ain't behind the barsyet. You're in reach of my fist, and I'd think nothing of busting youin the face. Shut up till I talk to you. "

The misty eyes of Sandersen brightened a little and grew hard. Therewas a great deal of fighting spirit in the man, and his easy victory ofthat morning had roused him to a battling pitch. 

"Looks to me like you ain't running this here party, Arizona, " he saiddryly. "If there are any directions to give Cold Feet, I'll give 'em. It was me that took him!"

No direct answer could Arizona find to this true statement, and, asalways when a man is at a loss for words, his temper rose, and hisfists clenched. For the first time he looked at Sandersen with an eyeof savage calculation. He had come to hope of a tidy little fortune. Hehad found it snatched out of his hand, and, as he measured Sandersen, his heart rose. Twenty-five-hundred dollars would fairly well equip himin life. The anger faded out of his eyes, and in its place came thecold gleam of the man who thinks and calculates. All at once he beganto smile, a mirthless smile that was of the lips only. 

"Maybe you're right, Sandersen, but I'm thinking you'd have to provethat you took Cold Feet. '

"Prove it?"

"Sure! The boys wouldn't be apt to believe that sleepy Sandersen wokeup and took Cold Feet alive. "

Instantly the gorge of Sandersen rose, and he began to see red. 

"Are you out to find trouble, Fatty?"

The adjective found no comfortable lodging place in the mind ofArizona. 

"Me? Sure I ain't. I'm just stating facts the way I know 'em. "

"Well, the facts you know ain't worth a damn. "

"No?"

It was growing clearer and clearer to the fat man that between him andtwenty-five-hundred dollars there stood only the unamiable figure ofthe long, lean cowpuncher. He steadied his eye till a fixed glittercame in it. He hated lean men by instinct and distrusted them. 

"Sure they ain't. How you going to get around the fact that I did takeCold Feet?"

"Well, Sandersen, you see that they's twenty-five-hundred dollarshanging on the head of this Cold Feet?"

"Certainly! And I see ten ways of spending just that amount. "

"So do I, " said Arizona. 

"You do?"

"Partner, you've heard me talk!"

"Arizona, you're talking mighty queer. What d'ye mean?"

"Now, suppose it was me that brought in Cold Feet, who'd get themoney?"

"Why, you that brought him in?"

"Yep, me. And suppose I brought him in with two murders charged to himinstead of one. "

"I don't foller you. What's the second murder, Fatty?"

"You!"

Sandersen blinked and gave back a little. Plainly he was beginning tofear that the reason of Arizona was unbalanced. 

He shook his head. 

"I'll show you how it'll be charged to Cold Feet, " said the fat man. 

Taking the cartridge belt of Jig he shook the revolver out of theholster and pumped a shot into the ground. The sharp crack of theexplosion roused no echo for a perceptible space. Then it struck backat them from a solid wall of rock, almost as loud as it had been infact. Off among the hills the echo was repeated to a faint whisper. Arizona dropped the revolver carelessly on the ground. 

"Fatty, you've gone nutty, " said Sandersen. 

"I'll tell you a yarn, " said Arizona. 

Sandersen looked past him to the east. The light was growing rapidlyabout the mountains. In another moment or so that sunrise which he hadbeen looking forward to with such solemn dread, would occur. He wassafe, of course, and still that sense of impending danger would notleave him. He noted Jig, erect, very pale, watching them with intenseand frightened interest. 

"Here's the story, " went on the fat man. "I come out of Sour Creekhunting for Cold Feet. I came straight to this here mountain. Halfwayup the side I hear a shot. I hurry along and soft-foot on to thisshoulder. I see Cold Feet standing, over the dead body of Sandersen. Then I stick up Cold Feet and take him back to Sour Creek and get thereward. Won't that be two murders on his head?"

The thin Swede rubbed his chin. "For a grown man, Fatty, you're doing alot of supposing. "

"I'm going to turn it into fact, " said Arizona. 

"How?"

"With a chunk of lead! Pull your gun, you lanky fool!"

It seemed to Jig, watching with terrible interest, that Sandersenstared not at Arizona, as he went for his gun, but beyond the stubbycowpuncher--far behind and into the east, where the dawn was growingbrighter, losing its color, as sunrises do, just before the rising ofthe sun. His long arm jerked back, the revolver whipped into his hand, and he stiffened his forearm for the shot. 

All that Jig saw, with eyes sharpened, so that each movement seemed tobe taking whole seconds, was a sneering Arizona, waiting till the lastsecond. When he moved, however, it was with an almost leisurely flip ofthe wrist. The heavy Colt was conjured into his hand. With gracefulease the big weapon slipped out and exploded before Sandersen'sforefinger had curled around the trigger. 

Out of the hand of the Swede slipped the gun and clanged unheeded onthe ground at his feet. She saw a patch of red spring up on his breast, while he lurched forward with long, stiff strides, threw up his handsto the east, and pitched on his face. She turned from the dead thing ather feet. 

The white rim of the sun had just slid over the top of a mountain. 

28

She dropped to her knees, and with a sudden, hysterical strength shewas able to turn him on his back. He was dead. The first glimpse of hisface told her that. She looked up into the eyes of the murderer. 

Arizona was methodically cleaning his gun. His color had not changed. There was a singular placidity about all his movements. 

"I just hurried up what was coming to him, " said Arizona coolly, as hefinished reloading his Colt. "Sinclair was after him, and that meant hewas done for. "

Oddly enough, she found that she was neither very much afraid of thefat man, nor did she loathe him for his crime. He seemed outside of thejurisdiction of the laws which govern most men. 

"You said Sinclair is in jail. "

"Sure, and he is. But they don't make jails strong enough in theseparts to hold Sinclair. He'd have come out and landed Sandersen, justas he's going to come out and land Cartwright. What has he got agin'Cartwright, d'you know?"

Oh, it was incredible that he could talk so calmly with the dead manbefore him. 

"I don't know, " she murmured and drew back. 

"Well, take it all in all, " pursued Arizona, "this deal of mine ispretty rotten, but you'd swing just the same for one murder as for two. They won't hang you no deader, eh? And when they come to look at it, this is pretty neat. Sandersen wasn't no good. Everybody knowed that. But he had one thing I wanted--which was you and the twenty-fivehundred that goes with the gent that brings you into Sour Creek. So, atthe price of one bullet, I get the coin. Pretty neat, I say ag'in. "

Dropping the revolver back into the holster he patted it with acaressing hand. 

"There's your gun, " went on Arizona, chuckling. "It's got a bulletfired out of it. There's Sandersen's gun with no bullet fired, showingthat, while he was stalking you, you shot and drilled him. Here's mygun with no sign of a shot fired. Which proves that I just slid in hereand stuck you up from behind, while you were looking over the gentyou'd just killed. "

He rubbed his hands together, and bracing himself firmly on his stubbylegs, looked almost benevolently on Jig. 

Not only did she lose her horror of him, but she gained an impersonal, detached interest in the workings of his mind. She looked on him not asa man but as a monster in the guise of a man. 

"Two deaths, " she said quietly, "for your money. You work cheaply, Arizona. "

Jig's criticism seemed to pique him. 

"How come?"

"Sandersen's death by your bullet, and mine when I die in the law. Bothto your account, Arizona, because you know I'm innocent. "

"I know it, but a hunch ain't proof in the eyes of the law. Besides, Idon't work so cheap. Sandersen was no good. He ain't worth thinkingabout. And as for you, Jig, though I don't like to throw it in yourface, as a schoolteacher you may be all right, but as a man you ain'tworth a damn. Nope. I won't give neither of you a thought--except forSinclair. "

"Ah?"

"Him and you have been bunkies, if he ever should find out what I done, he'd go on my trail. Maybe he will anyway. And he's a bad one to haveon a gent's trail. "

"You fear him?" she asked curiously, for it had seemed impossible thatthis cold-blooded gunman feared any living thing. 

He rolled a cigarette meditatively before he answered. 

"Sure, " he said, "I fear him. I ain't a fool. It was him that startedme, and him that gave me the first main lessons. But I ain't got thenacheral talent with a gun that Sinclair has got. "

Nodding his head in confirmation, his expression softened, as with theadmiration of one artist for a greater kindred spirit. 

"The proof is that they's a long list of gunfights in Sinclair's past, but not more deaths than you can count on the fingers of one hand. Andthem that he killed was plumb no good. The rest he winged and let 'emgo. That's his way, and it takes an artist with a gun to work likethat. Yep, he's a great man, curse him! Only one weak thing I ever hearof him doing. He buckled to the sheriff and told him where to findyou!"

Scratching a match on his trousers, the cowpuncher was amazed to hearJig cry: "You lie!"

He gaped at her until the match singed his fingers. "That's a tolerableloud word for a kid to use!"

Apparently he meditated punishment, but then he shrugged his shouldersand lighted his cigarette. 

"Wild horses couldn't have dragged it out of him!" Jig was repeating. 

"Say, " said the fat man, grinning, "how d'you know _I_ knew where youwas?"

Like a blow in the face it silenced her. She looked miserably down tothe ground. Was it possible that Sinclair had betrayed her? Not for themurder of Quade. He would be more apt to confess that himself, andindeed she dreaded the confession. But if he let her be dragged back, if her identity became known, she faced what was more horrible to herthan hanging, and that was life with Cartwright. 

"Which reminds me, " said Arizona, "that the old sheriff may not waitfor morning before he starts after you. Just slope down the hill andsaddle your hoss, will you?"

Automatically she obeyed, wild thoughts running through her mind. To goback to Sour Creek meant a return to Cartwright, and then nothing couldsave her from him. Halfway to her saddle her foot struck metal, her owngun, which Arizona had dropped after firing the bullet. Was there not apossibility of escape? She heard Arizona humming idly behind her. Plainly he was entirely off guard. 

Bending with the speed of a bird in picking up a seed, she scooped upthe gun, whirling with the heavy weapon extended, her forefingercurling on the trigger. But, as she turned, the humming of Arizonachanged to a low snarl. She saw him coming like a bolt. The gunexploded of its own volition, it seemed to her, but Arizona had swervedin his course, and the shot went wild. 

The next instant he struck her. The gun was wrenched from her hand, anda powerful arm caught her and whirled her up, only to hurl her to theground; Arizona's snarling, panting face bent over her. In the verymidst of that fury she felt Arizona stiffen and freeze; the snarlingstopped; his nerveless arm fell away, and she was allowed to stagger toher feet. She found him staring at her with a peculiar horror. 

"Murdering guns!" whispered Arizona. 

Now she understood that he knew. She saw him changed, humbled, disarmedbefore her. But even then she did not understand the profound meaningof that moment in the life of Arizona. 

But to have understood, she would have had to know how that life beganin a city slum. She would have had to see the career of the sneak thiefwhich culminated in the episode of the lumber camp eight years before. She would have had to understand how the lesson from the hand of bigSinclair had begun the change which transformed the sneak into thedangerous man of action. And now the second change had come. ForArizona had made the unique discovery that he could be ashamed!

He would have laughed had another told him. Virtue was a name and nomore to the fat man. But in spite of himself those eight years underfree skies had altered him. He had been growing when he thought he wasstanding still. When the eye plunges forty miles from mountain tomountain, through crystal-clear air, the mind is enlarged. He had livedexclusively among hard-handed men, rejoicing in a strength greater thantheir own. He suddenly found that the feeble hand from which he had soeasily torn the weapon a moment before, had in an instant acquiredstrength to make or break him. 

All that Jig could discern of this was that her life was no longer indanger, and that her enemy had been disarmed. But she was not preparedfor what followed. 

Dragging off his hat, as if he acted reluctantly, his eyes sank untilthey rested on the ground at her feet. 

"Lady, " he said, "I didn't know. I didn't even dream what you was. "

29

Gradually she found her breath and greater self-possession. 

"You mean I'm free?" she asked him. "You won't make me go into SourCreek?"

His face twisted as if in pain. "Make you?" he asked violently. "I'dblow the head off the first one that tried to make you take a step. "

Suddenly it seemed to her that all this was ordered and arranged, thatsome mysterious Providence had sent this man here to save her fromSandersen and all the horror that the future promised, just as Sinclairhad saved her once before from a danger which he himself had halfcreated. 

"I got this to say, " went on Arizona, struggling for the words. "Looksto me like you might have need of a friend to help you along, whereveryou're going. " He shook his thick shoulders. "Sure gives me a jolt tothink of what you must have gone through, wandering around here all byyourself! I sure don't see how you done it!"

And all this time the man whom Arizona had killed, was lying face up tothe morning, hardly a pace behind him! But she dared not try to analyzethis man. She could only feel vaguely that an ally had been given her, an ally of strength. He, too, must have sensed what was in her mind. 

"You'll be wanting this, I reckon. "

Returning the Colt to her, he slowly dragged his glance from the groundand let it cross her face for a fleeting instant. She slipped the gunback into its holster. 

"And now suppose we go down the hill and get your hoss?"

Evidently he was painfully eager to get the dead man out of sight. Yethe paused while he picked up her saddle. 

"They'll be along pretty pronto--the sheriff and his men. They'll takecare of--him. "

Leading the way down to her hobbled horse he saddled it swiftly, whileshe stood aside and watched. When he was done he turned to her. 

"Maybe we better be starting. It wouldn't come in very handy for Kernto find us here, eh?"

Obediently she came. With one hand he held the stirrup, while the othersteadied her weight by the elbow, as she raised her foot. In spite ofherself she shivered at his touch. A moment later, from the saddle, shewas looking down into a darkly crimsoned face. Plainly he hadunderstood that impulse of aversion, but he said nothing. 

There was a low neigh from the other side of the hill in answer to hissoft whistle, and then out of the trees came a beautifully formed roanmare, with high head and pricking ears. With mincing steps she wentstraight to her master, and Jig saw the face of the other brighten. Buthe was gloomy again by the time he had swung into the saddle. 

"Now, " he said, "where away?"

"You're coming with me?" she asked, with a new touch of alarm. Sheregretted her tone the moment she had spoken. She saw Arizona wince. 

"Lady, " he said, "suppose I come clean to you? I been in my time abouteverything that's bad. I ain't done a killing except squarely. Sinclairtaught me that. And you got to allow that what I done to Sandersen wasafter I give him all the advantage in the draw. I took even chances, and I give him better than an even break. Ain't that correct?"

She nodded, fascinated by the struggle in his face between pride andshame and anger. 

"Worse'n that, " he went on, forcing out the bitter truth. "I beeneverything down to a sharp with the cards, which is tolerable low. ButI got this to say: I'm playing clean with you. I'll prove it before I'mdone. If you want me to break loose and leave you alone, say the word, and I'm gone. If you want me to stay and help where I can help, say theword, and I stay and take orders. Come out with it!"

Gathering his reins, he sat very straight and looked her fairly andsquarely in the eye, for the first time since he had discovered thetruth about Cold Feet. In spite of herself Jig found that she was drawnto trust the fat man. She let a smile grow, let her glance become aslevel and as straight as his own. She reined her horse beside his andstretched out her hand. 

"I know you mean what you say, " said Jig. "And I don't care what youhave been in the past. I _do_ need a friend--desperately. RileySinclair says that a friend is the most sacred thing in the world. Idon't ask that much, but of all the men I know you are the only one whocan help me as I need to be helped. Will you shake hands for a newstart between us?"

"Lady, " said the cowpuncher huskily, "this sure means a lot to me. Andthe--other things--you'll forget?"

"I never knew you, " said the girl, smiling at him again, "until thismoment. "

"Oh, it's a go!" cried Arizona. "Now try me out!"

Jig saw his self-respect come back to him, saw his eye grow bright andclear. Arizona was like a man with a new "good resolution. " He wantedto test his strength and astonish someone with his change. 

"There is one great thing in which I need help, " she said. 

"Good! And what's that?"

"Riley Sinclair is in jail. "

"H'm, " muttered Arizona. "He ain't in on a serious charge. Let him staya while. " Stiffening in the saddle he stared at her. "Does Sinclairknow?"

"What?" asked the girl, but she flushed in spite of herself. 

"That you ain't a man?"

"Yes. "

For a moment he considered her crimson face gloomily. "You and Sinclairwas sort of pals, I guess, " he said at length. 

Faintly she replied in the affirmative, and her secret was written asclearly as sunlight on her face. Yet she kept her eyes raised bravely. 

As for Arizona, the newborn hope died in him, and then flickered backto an evil life. If Sinclair was in his way, why give up? Why notremove this obstacle as he had removed others in his time. The hurryingvoice of the girl broke in on his somber thoughts. 

"He went to Sour Creek to help me as soon as he found out that I wasnot a man. He put himself in terrible danger there on my account. "

"Did Cartwright have something to do with you and him?"

"Yes. "

But Arizona made no effort to read her riddle. 

She went on: "Now that he has been taken, I know what has happened. Tokeep me out of danger he told--"

"That you're a woman?"

"No, he wouldn't do that, because he knows that is the last thing inthe world that I want revealed. But he's told them that he killedQuade, and now he's in danger of his life. "

"Let's ride on, " said Arizona. "I got to think a pile. "

She did not speak, while the horses wound down the steep side of themountain. Mile after mile rose behind them. The sun increased in power, flashing on the leaves of the trees and beginning to burn the face withits slanting heat. Now and then she ventured a side-glance at Arizona, and always she found him in a brown study. Vaguely she knew that he wasfighting the old battle of good and evil in the silence of the morning. Finally he stopped his horse and turned to her again. 

They were in the foothills by this time, and they had drawn out fromthe trees to a little level space on the top of a rise. The morningmist was thinning rapidly in the heart of the hollow beneath them. Faroff, they heard the lowing of cows being driven into the pasture landafter the morning milking, and they could make out tiny figures in thefields. 

"Lady, " Arizona was saying to her, "they's one gent in the world thatI've got an eight-year-old grudge agin'. I've swore to get him sooneror later, and that gent is Riley Sinclair. Make it something else, andI'll work for you till the skin's off my hands. But Sinclair--" Hestopped, studying her intently. "Will you tell me one thing? How muchdoes Sinclair mean to you. "

"A great deal, " said the girl gently. "But if you hate him, I can't askyou. "

"He's a hard man, " said Arizona, "and he's got a mean name, lady. Youknow that. But when you say that he means a lot to you, maybe it'sbecause he's taken a big chance for you in Sour Creek and--"

She shook her head. "It's more than that--much more. "

"Well, I guess I understand, " said Arizona. 

Burying the last of his hopes, Arizona looked straight into the sun. 

"Eight years ago he was a better man than I am, " said he at length. "And he's a better man still. Lady, I'm going to get Riley Sinclairfree!"

30

As Arizona had predicted, Sheriff Kern was greatly tempted not to starton the hard ride for the mountains before morning, and finally hefollowed his impulse. With the first break of the dawn he was up, and afew minutes later he had taken the trail alone. There was no need ofnumbers, for that matter, to tell a single man that he no longer needdread the law. But it was only common decency to inform him of thecharge, and Kern was a decent sort. 

He was thoughtful on the trail. A great many things had happened toupset the sheriff. The capture of Sinclair, take it all in all, was animportant event. To be sure, the chief glory was attributable to thecunning of Arizona; nevertheless, the community was sure to pay homageto the skill of the sheriff who had led the party and managed thecapture. 

But now the sheriff found himself regretting the capture and all itsattendant glory. Not even a personal grudge against the man who hadtaken his first prisoner from him, could give an edge to the sheriff'ssatisfaction, for, during the late hours of the preceding night he hadheard from Sinclair the true story of the killing of Quade; not amurder, but a fair fight. And he had heard more--the whole unhappy talewhich began with the death of Hal Sinclair in the desert, a story whichnow included, so far as the sheriff knew, three deaths, with a promiseof another in the future. 

It was little wonder that he was disturbed. His philosophy was of thekind that is built up in a country of horses, hard riding, hard work, hard fighting. According to the precepts of that philosophy, Sinclairwould have shirked a vital moral duty had he failed to avenge thepitiful death of his brother. 

The sheriff put himself into the boots of the man who was now hisprisoner and facing a sentence of death. In that man's place he knewthat he would have taken the same course. It was a matter of necessaryprinciple; and the sheriff also knew that no jury in the country couldallow Sinclair to go free. It might not be the death sentence, but itwould certainly be a prison term as bad as death. 

These thoughts consumed the time for the sheriff until his horse hadlabored up the height, and he came to the little plateau where so muchhad happened outside of his ken. And there he saw Bill Sandersen, withthe all-seeing sun on his dead eyes. 

For a moment the sheriff could not believe what he saw. Sandersen was, in the phrase of the land, "Sinclair's meat. " It suddenly seemed to himthat Sinclair must have broken from jail and done this killing duringthe night. But a moment's reflection assured him that this could notbe. The mind of the sheriff whirled. Not Sinclair, certainly. The manhad been dead for some hours. In the sky, far above and to the north, there were certain black specks, moving in great circles that driftedgradually south. The buzzards were already coming to the dead. Hewatched them for a moment, with the sinking of the heart which alwayscomes to the man of the mountain desert when he sees those grim birds. 

It was not Sinclair. But who, then?

He examined the body and the wound. It was a center shot, nicelyplaced. Certainly not the sort of shot that Cold Feet, according to thedescription which Sinclair had given of the latter's marksmanship, would be apt to make. But there was no other conclusion to come to. Cold Feet had certainly been here according to Sinclair's confession, and it was certainly reasonable to suppose that Cold Feet had committedthis crime. The sheriff placed the hat of Sinclair over his face andswung back into his saddle; he must hurry back to Sour Creek and sendup a burial party, for no one would have an interest in interring thebody in the town. 

But once in the saddle he paused again. The thought of theschoolteacher having killed so formidable a fighter as Sandersen stuckin his mind as a thing too contrary to probability. Moreover thesheriff had grown extremely cautious. He had made one great failurevery recently--the escape of this same Cold Feet. He would have failedagain had it not been for Arizona. He shuddered at the thought of howhis reputation would have been ruined had he gone on the trail andallowed Sinclair to double back to Sour Creek and take the town bysurprise. 

Dismounting, he threw his reins and went back to review the scene ofthe killing. There were plenty of tracks around the place. The gravelobscured a great part of the marks, and still other prints were blurredby the dead grass. But there were pockets of rich, loamy soil, moistenough and firm enough to take an impression as clearly as paper takesink. The sheriff removed the right shoe from the foot of Sandersen andmade a series of fresh prints. 

They were quite distinctive. The heel was turned out to such an extentthat the track was always a narrow indentation, where the heel fell onthe soft soil. He identified the same tracks in many places, and, dismissing the other tracks, the sheriff proceeded to make up a trailhistory for Sandersen. 

Here he came up the hill, on foot. Here he paused beside the embers ofthe fire and remained standing for a long time, for the marks wereworked in deeply. After a time the trail went--he followed it withdifficulty over the hard-packed gravel--up the side of the hill to asemicircular arrangement of rocks, and there, distinct in the soil, wasthe impression of the body, where the cowpuncher had lain down. Thesheriff lay down in turn, and at once he was sure why Sandersen hadchosen this spot. He was defended perfectly on three sides frombullets, and in the meantime, through crevices in the rock, hemaintained a clear outlook over the whole side of the hill. 

Obviously Sandersen had lain down to keep watch. For what? For ColdFeet, of course, on whose head a price rested. Or, at least, soSinclair must have believed at the time. The news had not yet beenpublished abroad that Cold Feet had been exculpated by the confessionof Sinclair to the killing of Quade. 

So much was clear. But presently Sandersen had risen and gone down thehill again, leaving from the other side of the rock. Had he coveredCold Feet when the latter returned to his camp, having been absent whenSandersen first arrived? No, the tracks down the hill were leisurely, not the long strides which a man would make to get close to one whom hehad covered with a revolver from a distance. 

Reaching the shoulder of the mountain, Kern puzzled anew. He began afresh study of the tracks. Those of Cold Feet were instantly known bythe tiny size of the marks of the soles. The sheriff remembered that hehad often wondered at the smallness of the schoolteacher's feet. ColdFeet was there, and Sandersen was dead. Again it seemed certain thatCold Feet had been guilty of the crime, but the sheriff kept onsystematically hunting for new evidence. He found no third set oftracks for some time, but when he did find them, they were veryclear--a short, broad foot, the imprint of a heavy man. A fat man, then, no doubt. From the length of the footprint it was very doubtfulif the man were tall, and certainly by the clearness of theindentation, the man was heavy. The sheriff could tell by making atrack beside that of the quarry. 

A second possibility, therefore, had entered, and the sheriff felt areasonable conviction that this must be the guilty man. 

Now he combed the whole area for some means of identifying the thirdman who had been on the mountainside. But nothing had been droppedexcept a brilliant bandanna, wadded compactly together, which thesheriff recognized as belonging to Sandersen. There was only onedefinite means of recognizing the third man. Very faint in the centerof the impression made by his sole, were two crossed arrows, the signof the bootmaker. 

The sheriff shook his head. Could he examine the soles of the boots ofevery man in the vicinity of Sour Creek, even if he limited his inquiryto those who were short and stocky? And might there not be many a manwho wore the same type of boots?

He flung himself gloomily into his saddle again, and this time heheaded straight down the trail for Sour Creek. 

At the hotel he was surrounded by an excited knot of people who wishedto know how he had extracted the amazing confession from RileySinclair. The sheriff tore himself away from a dozen hands who wishedto buttonhole him in close conversation. 

"I'll tell you gents this, " he said. "Quade was killed because heneeded killing, and Sinclair confessed because he's straight. "

With that, casting an ugly glance at the lot of them, he went back intothe kitchen and demanded a cup of coffee. The Chinese cook obeyed theorder in a hurry, highly flattered and not a little nervous at thepresence of the great man in the kitchen. 

While Kern was there, Arizona entered. The sheriff greeted himcheerfully, with his coffee cup balanced in one hand. 

"Arizona, " he said, "or Dago, or whatever you like to be called--"

"Cut the Dago part, will you?" demanded Arizona. "I ain't no wayswishing to be reminded of that name. Nobody calls me that. "

Kern grinned covertly. 

"I s'pose, " said Arizona slowly, "that you and Sinclair had a long yarnabout when he knew me some time back?"

The sheriff shook his head. 

"Between you and me, " he said frankly, "it sounded to me like Sinclairknew something you mightn't want to have noised around. Is thatstraight?"

"I'll tell you, " answered the other. "When I was a kid I was a foolkid. That's all it amounts to. "

Sheriff Kern grunted. "All right, Arizona, I ain't asking. But you canlay to it that Sinclair won't talk. He's as straight as ever I seen!"

"Maybe, " said Arizona, "but he's slippery. And I got this to say: Lemmehave the watch over Sinclair while he's in Sour Creek, or are youtaking him back to Woodville today?"

"I'm held over, " said the sheriff. 

He paused. Twice the little olive-skinned man from the south haddemonstrated his superiority in working out criminal puzzles. Thesheriff was prone to unravel the new mystery by himself, if he might. 

"By what?"

"Oh, by something I'll tell you about later on, " said the sheriff. "Itdon't amount to much, but I want to look into it. "

Purposely he had delayed sending the party to bury Sandersen. It wouldbe simply warning the murderer if that man were in Sour Creek. 

"About you and Sinclair, " went on the sheriff, "there ain't much goodfeeling between you, eh?"

"I won't shoot him in the back if I guard him, " declared Arizona. "Butif you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead. Put Red onit. "

"He's too young. Sinclair's get him off guard by talking. "

"Then try Wood. "

"Wood ain't at his best off the trail. Come to think about it, I'drather trust Sinclair to you--that is, if you make up your mind totreat him square. "

"Sheriff, I'll give him a squarer deal than you think. "

Kern nodded. 

"More coffee, Li!" he called. 

Li obeyed with such haste that he overbrimmed the cup, and some of theliquid washed out of the saucer onto the floor. 

"Coming back to shop talk, " went on the sheriff, as Li mopped up thespilled coffee, mumbling excuses, "I ain't had a real chance to tellyou what a fine job you done for us last night, Arizona. "

Arizona, with due modesty, waved the praise away and stepped to thecontainer of matches hanging beside the stove. He came back lighting acigarette and contentedly puffed out a great cloud. 

"Forget all that, sheriff, will you?"

"Not if I live to be a hundred, " answered the sheriff with frankadmiration. 

So saying, his eye dropped to the floor and remained there, riveted. The foot of Arizona had rested on the spot where the coffee had fallen. The print was clearly marked with dust, except that in the center, where the sole had lain, there was a sharply defined pair of crossedarrows!

A short, fat, heavy man. 

The sheriff raised his glance and examined the bulky shoulders of theman. Then he hastily swallowed the rest of his coffee. 

Yet there might be a dozen other short, stocky men in town, whose bootshad the same impression. He looked thoughtfully out the kitchen window, striving to remember some clue. But, as far as he could make out, theonly time Arizona and Sandersen had crossed had been when the latterapplied for a place on the posse. Surely a small thing to make a mancommit a murder!

"If you gimme the job of guarding Sinclair, " said Arizona, "I'd sure--"

"Wait a minute, " cut in the sheriff. "I'll be back right away. I thinkthat was MacKenzie who went into the stable. Don't leave till I comeback, Arizona. "

Hurriedly he went out. There was no MacKenzie in the stable, and thesheriff did not look for one. He went straight to Arizona's horse. Theroan was perfectly dry, but examining the hide, the sheriff saw thatthe horse had been recently groomed, and a thorough grooming would soondry the hair and remove all traces of a long ride. 

Stepping back to the peg from which the saddle hung, he raised thestirrup leather. On the inside, where the leather had chafed the sideof the horse, there was a dirty gray coating, the accumulation of thedust and sweat of many a ride. But it was soft with recent sweat, andalong the edges of the leather there was a barely dried line of foamthat rubbed away readily under the touch of his fingertip. 

Next he examined the bridle. There, also, were similar evidences ofrecent riding. The sheriff returned calmly to the kitchen of the hotel. 

"And your mind's made up?" asked Arizona. 

"Yes, " said the sheriff. "You go in with Sinclair. "

"Go _in_ with him?" asked Arizona, baffled. 

"For murder, " said the sheriff. "Stick up your hands, Arizona!"

31

Even though he was taken utterly by surprise, habit made Arizona go forhis own gun, as the sheriff whipped out his weapon. But under thoseconditions he was beaten badly to the draw. Before his weapon was halfout of the holster, the sheriff had the drop. 

Arizona paused, but, for a moment, his eyes fought Kern, figuringchances. It was only the hesitation of an instant. The battle was lostbefore it had begun, and Arizona was clever enough to know it. Swiftlyhe turned on a new tack. He shoved his revolver back into the holsterand smiled benevolently on the sheriff. 

"What's the new game, Kern?"

"It ain't new, " said the sheriff joylessly. "It's about the oldest gamein the world. Arizona, you sure killed Sandersen. "

"Sandersen?" Arizona laughed. "Why, man, I ain't hardly seen him morethan once. How come that I would kill him?"

"Get your hands up, Arizona. "

"Oh, sure. " He obeyed with apparent willingness. "But don't let anybodysee you making this fool play, sheriff. "

"Maybe not so foolish. I'll tell you why you killed him. You're broke, Arizona. Ten days ago Mississippi Slim cleaned you out at dice. Well, when Sinclair told me where Cold Feet was, you listened through thedoor, but you didn't stay to find out that Jig wasn't wanted no more. You beat it up to the mountain, and there you found Sandersen was aheadof your time. You drilled Sandersen, hoping to throw the blame on ColdFeet. Then you come down, but on the way Cold Feet gives you the slipand gets away. And that's why you're here. "

Arizona blinked. So much of this tale was true that it shook even hisiron nerve. He managed to smile. 

"That's a wild yarn, sheriff. D'you think it'll go down with a jury?"

"It'll go down with any jury around these parts. What's more, Arizona, I ain't going to rest on what I think. I'm going to find out. And, if Isend down to the south inquiring about you, I got an idea that I'llfind out enough to hang ten like you, eh?"

Once more Arizona received a vital blow, and he winced under theimpact. Moreover, he was bewildered. His own superior intelligence hadinclined him to despise the sheriff, whom he put down as a fellow ofmore bulldog power than mental agility. All in a moment it was beingborne in upon him that he had underrated his man. He could not answer. His smooth tongue was chained. 

"Not that I got any personal grudge agin' you, " went on the sheriff, "but it's gents like you that I'm after, Arizona, and not one likeSinclair. You ain't clean, Arizona. You're slick, and they ain'telbowroom enough in the West for slick gents. Besides, you got a badway with your gun. I can tell you this, speaking private andconfidential, I'm going to hang you, Arizona, if there's any waypossible!"

He said all this quietly, but the revolver remained poised withrocklike firmness. He drew out a pair of manacles. 

"Stand up, Arizona. "

Listlessly the fat man got up. He had been changing singularly duringthe last speech of the sheriff. Now he dropped a hand on the edge ofthe table, as if to support himself. The sheriff saw that hand grip thewood until the knuckles went white. Arizona moistened his colorlesslips. 

"Not the irons, sheriff, " he said softly. "Not them!"

If it had been any other man, Kern would have imagined that he waslosing his nerve; but he knew Arizona, had seen him in action, and hewas certain that his courage was above question. Consequently he wasamazed. As certainly as he had ever seen them exposed, these were thehorrible symptoms of cowardice that make a brave man shudder to see. 

"Can't trust you, " he said wonderingly. "Wouldn't trust you a minute, Arizona, without the irons on you. You're a bad actor, son, and I'veseen you acting up. Don't forget that. "

"Sheriff, I give you my word that I'll go quiet as a lamb. "

A moment elapsed before Kern could answer, for the voice of Arizona hadtrembled as he spoke. The sheriff could not believe his ears. 

"Well, I'm sorry, Arizona, " he said more gently, because he wasstriving to banish this disgusting suspicion from his own mind. "Ican't take no chances. Just turn around, will you. And keep them handsup!"

He barked the last words, for the arms of Arizona had crooked suddenly. They stiffened at the sharp command of the sheriff. Slowly, trembling, as if they possessed a volition of their own hardly controlled by thefat man, those hands fought their way back to their former position, and then Arizona gradually turned his back on the sheriff. A convulsiveshudder ran through him as Kern removed his gun and then seized one ofthe raised hands, drew it down, and fastened one part of the iron onit. The other hand followed, and, as the sheriff snapped the lock, hesaw a singular transformation in the figure of his captive. Theshoulders of Arizona slouched forward, his head sank. From the erect, powerful figure of the moment before, he became, in comparison, aflabby pile of flesh, animated by no will. 

"What's the matter?" asked the sheriff. "You ain't lost your nerve, have you, Fatty?"

Arizona did not answer. Kern stepped to one side and glanced at theface of his captive. It was strangely altered. The mouth had becometrembling, loose, uncertain. The head had fallen, and the bright, keeneyes were dull. The man looked up with darting side-glances. 

The sheriff stood back and wiped a sudden perspiration from hisforehead. Under his very eyes the spirit of this gunfighter wasdisintegrating. The sheriff felt a cold shame pour through him. Hewanted to hide this man from the eyes of the others. It was not rightthat he should be seen. His weakness was written too patently. 

Kern was no psychologist, but he knew that some men out of theirpeculiar element are like fish out of water. He shook his head. 

"Walk out that back door, will you?" he asked softly. 

"We ain't going down the street?" demanded Arizona. 

"No. "

"Thanks, sheriff. "

Again Kern shuddered, swallowed, and then commanded: "Start along, Arizona. "

Slinking through the door, the fat man hesitated on the little porchand cast a quick glance up and down. 

"No one near!" he said. "Hurry up, sheriff. "

Quickly they skirted down behind the houses--not unseen, however. Asmall boy playing behind his father's house raised his head to watchthe hurrying pair, and when he saw the glitter of the irons, they heardhim gasp. He was old enough to know the meaning of that. Irons onArizona, who had been a town hero the night before! They saw theyoungster dart around the house. 

"Blast him!" groaned Arizona. "He'll spread it everywhere. Hurry!"

He was right. The sheriff hurried with a will, but, as they crossed thestreet for the door of the jail, voices blew down to them. Lookingtoward the hotel, they saw men pouring out into the street, pointing, shouting to one another. Then they swept down on the pair. 

But the sheriff and his prisoner gained the door of the jail first, andKern locked it behind him. His deputy on guard rose with a start, andat the same time there was a hurried knocking on the door and a clamorof voices without. Arizona shrank away from that sound, scowling overhis shoulder, but the sheriff nodded good-humoredly. 

"Take it easy, Arizona. I ain't going to make a show of you!"

"Sure, that's like you, sheriff, " said a hurried, half-whining voice. "You're square. I'll sure show you one of these days now I appreciatethe way you treat me!"

Kern was staggered. It seemed to him that a new personality had takenpossession of the body of the fat man. He led the way past his gapingdeputy. The jail was not constructed for a crowd. It was merely atemporary abiding place before prisoners were taken to the largerinstitution at Woodville. Consequently there was only one big cell. Thesheriff unlocked the door, slipped the manacles from the wrists ofArizona, and jabbed the muzzle of a revolver into his back!

The last act was decidedly necessary, for the moment his wrists werereleased from the grip of the steel, Arizona twitched halfway roundtoward the sheriff. The scrape of the gunmuzzle against his ribs, however, convinced him. Over his shoulder he cast one murderous glanceat the sheriff and then slouched forward into the cell. 

"Company for you, Riley, " said the sheriff, as the tall cowpuncherrose. 

The other's back was turned, and thereby the sheriff was enabled topass a significant gesture and look to Sinclair. With that he leftthem. In the outer room he found his deputy much alarmed. 

"You ain't turned them two in together?" he asked. "Why, Sinclair'llkill that gent in about a minute. Ain't it Arizona that nailed him?"

"Sinclair will play square, " Kern insisted, "and Arizona won't fight!"

Leaving the other to digest these mysterious tidings, the sheriff wentout to disperse the crowd. 

In the meantime Sinclair had received the newcomer in perfect silence, his head raised high, his thin mouth set in an Ugly line--very much asan eagle might receive an owl which floundered by mistake onto the samecrag, far above his element. The eagle hesitated between scorn of thevisitor and a faint desire to pounce on him and rend him to pieces. That glittering eye, however, was soon dull with wonder, when hewatched the actions of Arizona. 

The fat man paused in the center of the cell, regarded Sinclair with asingle flash of the eyes, and then glanced uneasily from side to side. That done, he slipped away to a corner and slouched down on a stool, his head bent down on his breast. 

Apparently he had fallen into a profound reverie, but Sinclair foundthat the eyes of Arizona continually whipped up and across to him. Oncethe newcomer shifted his position a little, and Sinclair saw him testthe weight of the stool beneath him with his hand. Even in the cellArizona had found a weapon. 

Gradually Sinclair understood the meaning of that glance and thegesture of the sheriff, as the latter left; he read other things in thegray pallor of Arizona, and in the fallen head. The man was unnerved. Sinclair's reaction was very much what that of the sheriff had been--asinking of the heart and a momentary doubt of himself. But he wassomething more of a philosopher than Kern. He had seen more of life andmen and put two and two together. 

One thing stared him plainly in the face. The Arizona who skulked inthe corner had relapsed eight years. He was the same sneak thief whomSinclair had first met in the lumber camp, and he knew instinctivelythat this was the first time since that unpleasant episode that Arizonahad been cornered. The loathing left Sinclair, and in its place camepity. He had no fondness of Arizona, but he had seen him in the role ofa strong man, which made the contrast more awful. It reminded Sinclairof the wild horse which loses its spirit when it is broken. Such wasArizona. Free to come and go, he had been a danger. Shut up helplesslyin a cell, he was as feeble as a child, and his only strength was asort of cunning malice. Sinclair turned quietly to the fat man. 

"Arizona, " he said, "you look sort of underfed today. Bring your stoola bit nearer and let's talk. I been hungry for a chat with someone. "

In reply Arizona rolled back his head and for a moment glaredthoughtfully at Sinclair. He made no answer. Presently his glance fell, like that of a dog. Sinclair shivered. He tried brutality. 

"Looks to me, Arizona, as though you'd lost your nerve. "

The other moistened his lips, but said nothing. 

"But the point is, " said the tall cowpuncher, "that you've given upbefore you're beaten. "

Riley Sinclair's words brought a flash from Arizona, a sudden liftingof the head, as if he had not before thought of hoping. Then he beganto slump back into his former position, without a reply. Sinclairfollowed his opening advantage at once. 

"What you in for?"

"Murder!"

"Great guns! Of whom?"

"Sandersen. "

It brought Sinclair stiffly to his feet. Sandersen! His trail wasended; Hal was avenged at last!

"And you done it? Fatty, you took that job out of my hands. I'mthanking you. Besides, it ain't nothing to be downhearted about. Sandersen was a skunk. Can they prove it on you?"

The need to talk overwhelmed Arizona. It burst out of him, not toSinclair, but rather at him. His shifting eyes made sure that no onewas near. 

"Kern is going to send south for the dope. I'm done for. They can hangme three times on what they'll learn, and--"

"Shut up, " snapped Sinclair. "Don't talk foolish. The south is atolerable big place to send to. They don't know where you come from. Take 'em a month to find out, and by that time, you won't be at hand. "

"Eh?"

"Because you and me are going to bust out of this paper jail they got!"

He had not the slightest hope of escape. But he tried the experiment ofthat suggestion merely to see what the fat man's reaction would be. Theresult was more than he could have dreamed. Arizona whirled on him witheyes ablaze. 

"What d'you mean, Sinclair?"

"Just what I say. D'you think they can keep two like us in here? No, not if you come to your old self. "

The need to confide again fell on Arizona. He dragged his stool nearer. His voice was a whisper. 

"Sinclair, something's busted in me. When them irons grabbed my armsthey took everything out of me. I got no chance. They got me cornered. "

"And you'll fight like a wildcat to the end of things. Sure you will!Buck up, man! You think you've turned yaller. You ain't. You're justout of place. Take a gent that's used to a forty-foot rope and a pony, give him sixty feet on a sixteen-hand hoss, and ain't he out of place?Sure! He looks like a clumsy fool. And the other way around it worksthe same way. A trout may be a flash of light in water, but on dry landhe ain't worth a damn. Same way with you, Fatty. While you got a freefoot you're all right, but when they put you behind a wall and saythey're going to keep you there, you darned near bust down. Why?Because it looks to you like you ain't got a chance to fight back. Soyou quit altogether. But you'll come back to yourself, Arizona. You--"

Arizona raised his hand. He was sitting erect now, drinking in thewords of Sinclair, as if they were air to a stifling man. His faceworked. 

"Why are you doing this for me, Sinclair--after I landed you here?"

"Because I made a man out of you once, " answered the tall man evenly, "and I ain't going to see you backslide. Why, Arizona, you're one ofthe fastest-thinkin', quickest-handed gents that ever buckled on a gun, and here you are lying down like a kid that ain't never faced troublebefore. Come alive, man. You and me are going to bust this ol' jail tosmithereens, and when we get outside I'll blow your head off if I can!"

Riley's words had carried Arizona with him. Suddenly an olive-skinnedhand shot out and clutched his own bony, strong fingers. The hand wasfat and cold, but it gripped that of Riley Sinclair with a desperateenergy. 

"Sinclair, you mean it? You'll play in with me?"

"I will--sure!"

He had to drag the words out, but after he had spoken he was glad. Newlife shone in the face of Arizona. 

"A man with you for a partner ain't done, Sinclair--not if he had arope around his neck. Listen! D'you know why I come in town?"

"Well?"

"To get you out. "

"I believe you, Arizona, " lied Sinclair. 

"Not for your sake--but hers. "

Sinclair's face suddenly went white. 

"Who?"

"The girl!" whispered Arizona. "I cached her away outside of town towait for--us! Sinclair, she loves you. "

Riley Sinclair sat as one stunned and dragged the hat from his head. 

32

Through the branches of the copse in which she was hidden, the girl sawthe sun descend in the west, a streak of slowly dropping fire. And nowshe became excited. 

"As soon as it's dark, " Arizona had promised, "I'll make my start. Haveyour hoss ready. Be in the saddle, and the minute you see us come downthat trail out of Sour Creek, be ready to feed your hoss the spur andjoin us, because when we come, we'll come fast. Don't make no mistake. If you ride too slow we'll have to ride slow, too, and slow ridin'means gunplay on both sides, and gunplay means dead men, because theevenin' is a pile worse nor the dark for fooling a man's aim. You'llsee me and Sinclair scoot along that there road, with the gang yellin'behind us!"

Having made this farewell speech, he waved his hand and, with a smileof confidence, jogged away from her. It was the beginning of a dull dayof waiting for her, yet a day in which she dared not altogether relaxher vigilance, because at any time the break might come, and Arizonamight appear flying down the trail with the familiar tall form ofSinclair beside him. Wearily she waited until sundown. 

With the coming of dusk she wakened suddenly and became tinglinglyalert. The night spread rapidly down out of the mountains. The colorfaded, and the sudden chill of the high altitude settled about her. Herhands and her feet were cold with the fear of excitement. 

Into the gathering gloom she strained her eyes; toward Sour Creek shestrained her ears, starting at every faint sound of a man's shout orthe barking of a dog, as if this might be the beginning of the uproarthat would announce the escape. 

Something swung on to the road out of the end of the main street. Shewas instantly in the saddle, but, by the time she reached the edge ofthe copse, she found it to be only a wagon filled with singing mengoing back to some nearby ranch. Then quiet dropped over the valley, and she became aware that it was the utter dark. 

Arizona had failed! That knowledge grew more surely upon her with everymoment. His intention must have been guessed, for she could not imaginethat slippery and cold-minded fellow being thwarted, if he were leftfree to work as he pleased toward an object he desired. She could notstay in the grove all night. Besides, this was the critical time forRiley Sinclair. Tomorrow he would be taken to the security of theWoodville jail, and the end would be close. If anything were done forhim, it must be before morning. 

With this thought in mind she rode boldly out of the trees and took theroad into town, where the lights of the early evening had turned fromwhite to yellow, as the night deepened. Sour Creek was hardly a mileaway when a rattling in the dark announced the approach of a buckboard. She drew rein at the side of the trail. Suddenly the wagon loomed outat her, with two down-headed horses jogging along and the loose reinsswinging above their backs. 

"Halloo!" called Jig. 

The brakes ground against the wheels, squeaking in protest. The horsescame to a halt so willing and sudden that the collars shoved halfway uptheir necks, and the tongue of the wagon lurched beyond their noses. 

"Whoa! Evening, there! You gimme a kind of a start, stranger. "

Parodying the dialect as well as she was able, Jig said: "Sorry, stranger. Might that be Sour Creek?"

"It sure might be, " said the driver, leaning through the dark to makeout Jig. "New in these parts?"

"Yep, I'm over from Whiteacre way, and I'm aiming for Woodville. "

"Whiteacre? Doggone me if it ain't good to meet a Whiteacre boy. I wasraised there, son! Joe Lunids is my name. "

"I'm Texas Lou, " said the girl. 

There was a subdued chuckle from the darkness. 

"You sound kind of young for a name like that, kid. Leastwise, yourvoice is tolerable young. "

"I'm old enough, " said Jig aggressively. 

"Sure, sure, " placated the other. "Sure you are. "

"Besides, " she went on, "I wanted a name that I could grow up to. "

It brought a hearty burst of laughter from the wagon. 

"That's a good one, Texas. Have a drink?"

She set her teeth over the refusal that had come to her lips and, reining near, reached out for the flask. The driver passed over thebottle and at the same time lighted a match for the apparent purpose ofstarting his cigarette. But Jig nodded her head in time to obscure herface with the flopping brim of her sombrero. The other coughed hisdisappointment. She raised the bottle after uncorking it, firmlysecuring the neck with her thumb. After a moment she lowered it andsighed with satisfaction, as she had heard men do. 

"Thanks, " said Jig, handing back the flask. "Hot stuff, partner. "

"You got a tough throat, " observed the rancher. "First I ever see thatdidn't choke on a swig of that. But you youngsters has the advantage ofa sound lining for your innards. "

He helped himself from the flask, coughed heavily, and then poundedhome the cork. 

"How's things up Whiteacre way?"

"Fair to middlin', " said Jig. "They ain't hollering for rain so much asthey was. "

"I reckon not, " agreed the rancher. 

"And how's things down Sour Creek way?" asked Jig. 

"Trouble busting every minute, " said the other. "Murder, gun scrapes, brawls in the hotel--to beat anything I ever see. The town is suregoing plumb to the dogs at this rate!"

"You don't say! Well, I heard something about a gent named Quade beingplugged. "

"Him? He was just the beginning--just the start! Since then we had aman took away from old Kern, which don't happen once in a coon's age. Then we had a fine fresh murder right this morning, and the presentminute they's two in jail on murder charges, and both are sure toswing!"

Jig gasped. "Two!" she exclaimed. 

"Yep. They was a skinny schoolteacher named--I forget what. Mostgeneral he was called Cold Feet, which fitted. They thought he killedQuade account of a girl. But a gent named Sinclair up and confessed, and he is waiting for the rope. And then a sheriff all by himselfgrabbed Arizona for the murder of Sandersen. Oh, times is picking upconsiderable in Sour Creek. Reminds me of twenty years back before Kerncome on the job and cleaned up the gunfighters!"

"Two murders!" repeated the girl faintly. "And has Arizona confessed, too?"

"Not him! But the sheriff has enough to give him a hard run. I got tobe drifting on, son. Take my advice and head straight for Woodville. You lack five years of being old enough for Sour Creek these days!" Hecalled his farewell, threw off the brake and cursed the span of horsesinto their former trot. 

As for Jig, she waited until the scent of alkali dust died away, andthe rattle of the buckboard was faint in the distance. Then she turnedher horse back toward Sour Creek and urged it to a steady gallop, bouncing in the saddle. 

There seemed a fatality about her. On her account Sinclair had thrownhis life in peril, and now Arizona was caught and held in the samedanger. Enough of sacrifices for her; her mind was firm to repay someof these services at any cost, and she had thought of a way. 

With that gloomy purpose before her, her ordinary timidity disappeared. It was strange to ride into Sour Creek, and she passed in review amongthe rough men of the town, constantly fearful that they might pierceher disguise. She had trained herself to a long stride and a swaggeringdemeanor, and by constant practice she had been able to lower the pitchof her voice and roughen its quality. Yet, in spite of the constantpractice, she never had been able to gain absolute self-confidence. Tonight, however, there was no fear in her. 

She went straight to the hotel, threw the reins, and walked boldlythrough the door into a cluster of men. They yelled at the sight ofher. 

"Jig, by guns! He's come in! Say, kid, the sheriff's been looking foryou. "

They swerved around her, grinning good-naturedly. When a person hasbeen almost lynched for a crime another has committed, he gains acertain standing, no matter what may be the public opinion of hiscourage. The schoolteacher had become a personage. But Jig met theirsmiles with a level eye. 

"If the sheriff's looking for me, " she said, "tell him I have a room inthe hotel. He can find me here. "

Pop shook hands before he shoved the register toward her. "My kids willsure be glad to see you safe back, " he said. "And I'm glad, too, Jig. "

Nodding, she turned to sign her name in the bold, free hand which shehad cultivated. She could feel the crowd staring behind her, and shecould hear their murmurs. But she was not nervous. It seemed that allapprehension had left her. 

"Where's Cartwright?" she asked. 

"Sitting in a game of poker. "

"Hello, buddy!" she called to a redheaded youngster. "Go in and tellCartwright that I'm waiting for him in my room, will you?"

"Ain't no use, " said Pop, staring at this new and more masculine Jig. "Cartwright is all heated up about the game. And he's lost enough toget anybody excited. He won't come. Better go in there if you want tosee him. "

"I'll try my luck this way, " said Jig coldly. "Run along, buddy. "

Buddy obeyed, and Jig went up the stairs to her room. 

"What come over him?" asked the crowd, the moment Cold Feet was out ofsight. "Looks like he's growed up in a day!"

"He's gone through enough to make a man of him, " answered Pop. "Nevercan tell how a kid will turn out. "

But in her room Jig had sunk into a chair, dropped her elbows on thetable, and buried her face in her hands, trying to steady her thoughts. She heard the heavy pounding of feet on the stairs, a strong tread inthe hall that made the flooring of the old building quiver, and thenthe door was flung open, slammed shut, and the key turned in the lock. Cartwright set his shoulders against the door, as though he feared shewould try to rush past him. He stared at her, with a queer admixture offear, rage, and astonishment. 

"So I've got you at last, eh? I've got you, after all this?"

Curiously she stared at him. She had dreaded the interview, but nowthat he was before her she was surprised to find that she felt no fear. She examined him as if from a distance. 

"Yes, " she admitted, "you have me. Will you sit down?"

"I need room to talk, " he said, swaggering to the table. He struck hisfist on it. "Now, to start with, what in thunder did you mean byrunning away?"

"We're leaving the past to bury the past, " she said. "That's the firstconcession you have to make. "

He laughed, his laughter ending with a choked sound. "And why should_I_ make concessions?"

Jig watched the veins of fury swell in his forehead, watched calmly, and then threw her sombrero on the bed and smoothed back her hair, still watching without a change of expression. It seemed as if her calmacted to sober him, and the passing of her hand across the bright, silken hair all at once softened him. He sank into the opposite chair, leaning far across the table toward her. 

"Honey, take you all in all, you're prettier right here in this man'soutfit that I ever see you--a pile prettier!"

For a moment she closed her eyes. The sacrifice which she intended wasbecoming harder, desperately hard to make. 

"I'm going to take you back and forgive you, " said Cartwright, apparently blind to what was going on in her mind. "I ain't one tocarry malice. You keep to the line from now on, and we'll get alongfine. But you step crooked just once more, and I'll learn you a pile ofthings you never even dreamed could happen!"

To her it seemed that he stood in a shaft of consuming light thatexposed every shadowy nook and cranny of his nature, and thenarrow-minded meanness that she saw, startled her. 

"What you do afterward with me is your own affair, " she said. "It'sabout the present that I've come to bargain. "

"Bargain?"

"Exactly! Do what I ask, and I go back and act as your wife. If yourefuse, I walk out of your life forever. "

He could not speak for a moment. Then he exploded. 

"It's funny. I could almost laugh hearing you chatter crazy like this. Don't you think I got a right to make my own wife come home with me, now that I've found her? Wouldn't the law stand behind me?"

"You can force me to come, " she admitted quietly, "but if you do, I'lllet the whole truth be known that I ran away from you. Can your pridestand that, Jude?"

He writhed. "And how'll you get around that, even if I don't make you, and you come back of your own free will?"

"Somehow I'll manage. I'll find a story of how I was carried away byhalf a dozen men who had come to loot the upper rooms of the house, while the wedding party was downstairs. I'll find a story that willwash. "

"Yes, I think you will, " said Cartwright, breathing heavily. "I surethink you will. You was always a clever little devil, I know! But abargain! I'd ought to--" He checked himself. "But I'm through with theblack talk. When I get you back on the ranch I'll show you that you canbe happy up there. And when you get over your fool notions, you'll be awife to be proud of. Now, honey, tell me what you want?"

"I want you to save the lives of two men. They're both in jail--on myaccount. And they're both charged with murder. You know whom I mean. "

Cartwright rose out of his chair. 

"Sinclair!" he groaned. "Curse him! Sinclair, ag'in, eh? What's theybetween you two?"

Her answer smothered his fury again. It was pain that was giving herstrength. 

"Jude, if you really want me to go back with you, don't ask thatquestion. He has treated me as an honorable man always treats awoman--he tried to serve me. "

"Serve you? By coming here trying to kill me?"

"He may have thought I wished to be free. He didn't tell me what he wasgoing to do. "

"That's a lie. " He stopped, watching her white face. "I don't meanthat, you know. But you ain't actually asking me to get Sinclair out ofjail? Besides, I couldn't do it!"

"You could easily. Moreover, it's to your interest. It will take astrong jail to hold him, and if he breaks away, you know that he's adangerous man. He hates you, Jude, and he might try to find you. If hedid--"

She waved her hand, and Cartwright followed the gesture with great, fascinated eyes, as if he saw himself dissolving into thin air. 

"I know; he's a desperado, right enough, this Sinclair. Ain't I seenhim work?" He shuddered at the memory. 

"But get him out of the jail, Jude, and that will be ended. He'll beyour friend. "

"Could I trust him?"

"Don't you think Riley Sinclair is a man to be trusted?"

"I dunno. " He lowered his eyes. "Maybe he is. "

"As for Arizona, " she went on, "the same thing holds for him. "

"Yes; if I could get one out, I could get two. But how can I do it?This Sheriff Kern is a fighting idiot, and loves a gunplay. I ain't noman-killer, honey. "

"But you're rich, Jude. "

"Tolerable. They may be one or two has more than me, around theseparts. "

"And money buys men!"

"Don't it, though?" said Jude, expanding. "Why, when they found that Iwas a spender they started in hounding me. One gent wanted me to helphim on a mortgage--only fifty bucks to meet a payment. And they's halfa dozen would mortgage their souls if I'd stake 'em to enoughdownstairs to get them into a crap game, or something. "

"Then let them have the money they need. Why, it wouldn't be more thana hundred dollars altogether. "

"A hundred is a hundred. Why should I throw it away on them bums?"

"Because after you've done it, you'll have a dozen men who'll followyou. You'll have a mob. "

"Sure! But what of that? Expect me to lead an attack on a jail, eh?Throw my life away? By guns, I think you'd like that!"

"You don't have to lead. Just give them the money they need and thenspread the word around that Riley Sinclair is really an honorable manwho killed Quade in a fair fight. I know what they thought of Quade. Hewas a bully. No one liked him. Tell them it's a shame that a man likeSinclair should die because he killed a big, hulking cur such as Quade. They'll listen--particularly if they have your money. I know these men, Jude. If they think an injustice is being done, they'll risk theirnecks to right it! And if you work on them in the right way, you canhave twenty men who'll risk everything to get Riley out. But therewon't be a risk. If twenty men rush the jail, the guards will simplythrow down their guns and give up. "

"Well, I wonder!" muttered Cartwright. 

"I'm sure of it, Jude. Do you think a deputy will let himself be killedsimply to keep a prisoner safely? They won't do it!"

"You don't know this Kern!"

"I _do_ know him, and I know that he's human. I've seen him beaten oncealready. "

"By Sinclair! You keep coming back to him!"

"Jude, if you do this thing for me, " she said steadily, "I'll go backwith you. I don't love you, but if I go back I'll keep you from a greatdeal of shameful talk. I'm sorry, truly, that I left. I couldn't helpit. It was an impulse that--took me by the throat. And if I go backI'll honestly try to make you a good wife. "

She faltered a little before that last word, and her voice fell. ButJude Cartwright was wholly fascinated by the color in her face, and thesoftness of her voice he mistook for a sudden rise of tenderness. 

"They's only one thing I got to ask--you and Sinclair--have you ever--Imean--have you ever told him you're pretty fond of him--that you lovehim?" He blurted it out, stammering. 

Certainly she knew that her answer was a lie, though it was true in theletter. 

"I have never told him so, " she said firmly. "But I owe him a greatdebt--he must not die because he's a gentleman, Jude. "

All the time she was speaking, he watched her with ferret sharpness, thinking busily. Before she ended he had reached his decision. 

"I'm going to raise that mob. "

"Jude!"

What a ring in her voice! If he had been in doubt he would have knownthen. No matter what she said, she loved Riley Sinclair. He smiledsourly down on her. 

"Keep your thanks. You'll hear news of Sinclair before morning. " And hestalked out of the room. 

33

Cartwright went downstairs in the highest good humor. He had beenconvinced of two things in the interview with his wife: The first wasthat she could be induced to return to him; the second was that sheloved Riley Sinclair. He did not hate her for such fickleness. Hemerely despised her for her lack of brains. No thinking woman couldhesitate a moment between the ranches and the lumber tracts ofCartwright and the empty purse of Riley Sinclair. 

As for hatred, that he concentrated on the head of Sinclair himself. Hehad already excellent reasons for hating the rangy cowpuncher. Thosereasons were now intensified and given weight by what he had recentlylearned. He determined to raise a mob, but not to accomplish his wife'sdesires. What she had said about the weakness of jails, the strength ofSinclair, and the probability that once out he would take the trail ofthe rancher, appealed vigorously to his imagination. He did not dreamthat such a man as Sinclair would hesitate at a killing. And, lovingthe girl, the first thing Sinclair would do would be to remove theobstacle through the simple expedient of a well-placed bullet. 

But the girl had not only convinced him in this direction, she hadtaught him where his strength lay, and she had pointed a novel use forthat strength. He went to work instantly when he entered the big backroom of the hotel which was used for cards and surreptitious drinking. A little, patient-faced man in a corner, who had been sucking a pipeall evening and watching the crap game hungrily, was the first objectof his charity. Ten dollars slipped into the pocket of the littlecowpuncher brought him out of his chair, with a grin of gratitude andbewilderment. A moment later he was on his knees calling to the dice ina cackling voice. 

Crossing the room, Cartwright picked out two more obviously stalledgamblers and gave them a new start. Returning to the table, he foundthat the game was lagging. In the first place he had from the startsupplied most of the sinews of war to that game. Also, two disgruntledmembers had gone broke in his absence, through trying to plunge for thespoils of the evening. They sat back, with black faces, and watched himcome. 

"We're getting down to a small game, " said the gray-headed man who wasdealing. 

But Cartwright had other ideas. "A friend's a friend, " he saidjovially. "And a gent that's been playing beside me all evening Ifigure for a friend. Sit in, boys. I'll stake you to a couple ofrounds, eh?"

Gladly they came, astonished and exchanging glances. 

Cartwright had made a sour loser all the game. This sudden generositytook them off balance. It let in a merciful light upon the cruelcriticism which they had been leveling at him in private. The pale man, with the blond eyelashes and the faded blue eyes, who had beendexterously stacking the cards all through the game, decided at thatmoment that he would not only stop cheating, but he would even losesome of his ill-gotten gains back into the game; only a sudden rush ofunbelievable luck kept him from executing his generous and silentpromise. 

This pale-faced man was named Whitey, from the excessive blondness ofhis hair and his pallor. He was not popular in Sour Creek, but he wasmuch respected. A proof of his ingenuity was that he had cheated atcards in that community for five years, and still he had never beencaught at his work. He was not a bold-talking man. In fact he neverstarted arguments or trouble of any kind; but he was a most dexterousand thoroughgoing fighter when he was cornered. In fact he was what iswidely known as a "finisher. " And it was Whitey whom Cartwright hadchosen as the leader of the mob which he intended raising. He waiteduntil the first shuffle was in progress after the hand, then he beganhis theme. 

"Understand the sheriff is pretty strong for this Sinclair thatmurdered Quade, " he said carelessly. 

"'Murder' is a tolerable strong word, " came back the unfriendly answer. "Maybe it was a fair fight. "

Cartwright laughed. "Maybe it was, " he said. 

Whitey interrupted himself in the act of shoving the pack across to becut. He raised his pale eyes to the face of the rancher. "What makesyou laugh, Cartwright?"

"Nothing, " said Jude hastily. "Nothing at all. If you gents don't knowSinclair, it ain't up to me to give you light. Let him go. "

Nothing more was said during that hand which Whitey won. Jude, apparently bluffing shamelessly, bucked him up to fifty dollars, andthen he allowed himself to be called with a pair of tens against a fullhouse. Not only did he lose, but he started a laugh against himself, and he joined in cheerfully. He was aware of Whitey frowning curiouslyat him and smiling faintly, which was the nearest that Whitey ever cameto laughter. And, indeed, the laugh cost Cartwright more than money, but it was a price--the price he was paying for the adherence ofWhitey. 

"What about this Sinclair?" asked the man with the great, red, blotchyfreckles across his face and the back of his neck, so that the skinbetween looked red and raw. "You come from up north, which is hisdirection, too. Know anything about him? He looks like pretty much of aman to me, and the sheriff says he's a square shooter from the wordgo. "

"Maybe he is, " said Cartwright. "But I don't want to go around diggingthe ground away from nobody's reputation. "

"Whatever he's got, he won't last long, " said Whitey definitely. "He'llswing sure. "

It was Cartwright's opening. He took advantage of it dexterously, without too much haste. He even yawned to show his lack of interest. 

"Well, I got a hundred that says he don't hang, " he observed quietlyand looked full at Whitey across the table. It was a challenge whichthe gambling spirit of the latter could not afford to overlook. 

"Money talks, " began Whitey, then he checked himself. "Do you _know_anything, Cartwright?"

"Sure I don't, " said Jude in the manner of one who has abundantknowledge in reserve. "But they say that the sheriff and Sinclair havebecome regular bunkies. Don't do nothing hardly but sit and chin witheach other over in the jail. Ever know Kern to do that before?"

They shook their heads. 

"Which is a sign that Sinclair may be all right, " said the soberWhitey. 

"Which is a sign that he might have something on the sheriff, " saidJude Cartwright. "I don't say that he _has_, mind you, but it lookskind of queer. He yanked a prisoner away from the sheriff one day, andthe next day he's took for murder. Did the sheriff have much to do withhis taking? No, he didn't. By all accounts it was Arizona that done thetaking, planning and everything. And after Sinclair is took, what doesthe sheriff do? He gets on the trail of Arizona and has him checked infor murder of another gent. Maybe Arizona is guilty, maybe he ain't. But it kind of looks as if they was something between Sinclair andKern, don't it?"

At this bold exposition of possibilities they paused. 

"Kern is figured tolerable straight, " declared Whitey. 

"Sure he is. That's because he don't talk none and does his work. Besides, he's a killer. That's his job. So is Sinclair a killer. Maybehe did fight Quade square, but Quade ain't the only one. Why, boys, this Sinclair has got a record as long as my arm. "

In silence they sat around the table, each man thinking hard. Theprofessional gunman gets scant sympathy from ordinary cowpunchers. 

"Now I dropped in at the jail, " said the man of the great freckles, "and come to think about it, I heard Sinclair singing, and I seen himpolishing his spurs. "

"Sure, he's getting ready for a ride, " put in Cartwright. 

There was a growl from the others. They were slowly turning theirinterest from the game to Cartwright. 

"What d'you mean a ride?"

"Got another hundred, " said Cartwright calmly, "that when the morningcomes it won't find Sinclair in the jail. "

At once they were absolutely silenced, for money talks in an eloquentvoice. Deliberately Cartwright counted out the two stacks of shimmeringtwenty-dollar gold pieces, five to a stack. 

"One hundred that he don't hang; another hundred that he ain't in thejail when the morning comes. Any takers, boys? It had ought to be easymoney--if everything's square. "

Whitey made a move, but finally merely raised his hand and rubbed hischin. He was watching that gold on the table with catlike interest. Aman _must_ know something to be so sure. 

"I'd like to know, " murmured the man of the freckles disconnectedly. 

"Well, " said Cartwright, "they ain't much of a mystery about it. Forone thing, if the sheriff was plumb set on keeping them two, why didn'the take 'em over to Woodville today, where they's a jail they couldn'tbust out of, eh?"

Again they were silenced, and in an argument, when a man falls silent, it simply means that he is thinking hard on the other side. 

"But as far as I'm concerned, " went on Cartwright, yawning again, "itdon't make no difference one way or another. Sour Creek ain't my town, and I don't care if it gets the ha-ha for having its jail busted open. Of course, after the birds have flown, the sheriff will ride hard after'em--on the wrong trail!"

Whitey raised his slender, agile, efficient hand. 

"Gents, " he said, "something has got to be done. This man Cartwright isgiving us the truth! He's got his hunch, and hunches is mostly alwaysright. "

"Speak out, Whitey, " said the man with the freckles encouragingly. "Ilike your style of thinking. "

Nodding his acknowledgments, Whitey said:

"The main thing seems to be that Sinclair and Arizona is old hands atkilling. And they had ought to be hung. Well, if the sheriff ain't gotthe rope, maybe we could help him out, eh?"

34

The moment her husband was gone, Jig dropped back in her chair andburied her face in her arms, weeping. But there is a sort of sadhappiness in making sacrifices for those we love, and presently Jig waslaughing through her tears and trembling as she wiped the tears away. After a time she was able to make herself ready for another appearancein the street of Sour Creek. She practiced back and forth in her roomthat exaggerated swagger, jerked her sombrero rakishly over one eye, cocked up her cartridge belt at one side, and swung down the stairs. 

She went straight to the jail and met the sheriff at the door, where hesat, smoking a stub of a pipe. He gaped widely at the sight of her, smoke streaming up past his eyes. Then he rose and shook handsviolently. 

"All I got to say, Jig, " he remarked, "is that the others was the onesthat made the big mistake. When I went and arrested you, I was justfollowing in line. But I'm sorry, and I'm mighty glad that you beenfound to be O. K. "

Wanly she smiled and thanked him fox his good wishes. 

"I'd like to see Sinclair, " she said. 

Kern's amiability increased. 

"The best thing I know about you, Jig, is that you ain't turningSinclair down, now that he's in trouble. Go right back in the jail. Himand Arizona is chinning. Wait a minute. I guess I got to keep an eye onyou to see you don't pass nothing through the bars. Keep clean backfrom them bars, Jig, and then you can talk all you want. I'll stay herewhere I can watch you but can't hear. Is that square?"

"Nothing squarer in the world, " said Jig and went in. 

She left the sheriff grinning vacantly into the dark. There was apeculiar something in Jig's smile that softened men. 

But when she stepped into the sphere of the lantern light that spreadfaintly through the cell, she was astonished to see Arizona andSinclair kneeling opposite each other, shooting dice with abandon andsnapping of the fingers. They rose, laughing at the sight of her, andcame to the bars. 

"But you aren't worried?" asked Jig. "You aren't upset by all this?"

It was Arizona who answered, a strangely changed Arizona since hisentrance into the jail. 

"Look here, " he said gaily, "why should we be worryin'? Ain't we got agood sound roof over our heads, with a set of blankets to sleep in?"

He smiled at tall Sinclair, then changed his voice. 

"Things fell through, " he said softly, glancing at the far-off shadowyfigure of the sheriff. "Sorry, but we'll work this out yet. "

"I know, " she answered. She lowered her voice to caution. "I'm onlygoing to stay a moment to keep away suspicions. Listen! Something isgoing to happen tonight that will set you both free. Don't ask me whatit is. But, among those cottonwoods behind the blacksmith shop, I'mgoing to have two good horses saddled and ready for you. One will beyour roan, Arizona. And I'll have a good horse for you, Riley. And whenyou're free start for those horses. "

Sinclair laid hold on the bars with his big hands and pressed his faceclose to the iron, staring at her. 

"You ain't coming along with us?" he asked. 

"I--no. "

"Are you going to stay here?"

"Perhaps! I don't know--I haven't made up my mind. "

"Has Cartwright--"

She broke away from those entangling questions. "I must go. "

"But you'll be at the place with the horses?"

"Yes. "

"Then so long till the time comes. And--you're a brick, Jig!"

Once outside the jail, she set to work at once. As for getting theroan, it was the simplest thing in the world. There was no one in thestable behind the hotel, and no one to ask questions. She calmlysaddled the roan, mounted him, and rode by a wider detour to thecottonwoods behind the blacksmith shop. 

Her own horse was to be for Sinclair. But before she took him, she wentinto the hotel, and the first man she found on the veranda wasCartwright. He came to her at once, shifting away from the others. 

"How are things?"

"Good, " said Cartwright. "Ain't you heard 'em talking?"

Here and there about the hotel, men stood in knots of three and four, talking in low voices. 

"Are they talking about _that_?"

"Sure they are, " said Cartwright, relieved. "You ain't heard nothing?"

"Not a word. "

"Then the thing for you to do is to keep under cover. You don't want toget mixed up in this thing, eh?"

"I suppose not. "

"Keep out of sight, honey. The crowd will start pretty soon and tearthings loose. " He could not resist one savage thrust. "A rope, or apair of ropes, will do the work. "

"Ropes?"

"One to tie Kern, and one to tie his deputy, " he explained smoothly. "Where you going now?"

"Getting their retreat ready, " she whispered excitedly. "I've alreadywarned them where to go to get the horses. "

She waved to him and stepped back into the night, convinced that allwas well. As for Cartwright, he hesitated, staring after her. Afterall, if his plan developed, it would be wise for him to allow theothers to do the work of mischief. He had no wish to be actively mixedup with a lynching party. Sometimes there were after results. And if hehad done no more than talk, there would be small hold upon him by thelaw. 

Moreover, things were going smoothly under the guidance of Whitey. Thepale-faced man had thrown himself body and soul into the movement. Itwas a rare thing to see Whitey excited. Other men were readilyimpressed. After a time, when anger had reached a certain point wheremen melt into hot action, these fixed figures of men would sweep intofluid action. And then the fates of Arizona and Sinclair would bedetermined. 

It pleased Cartwright more than any action of his life to feel that hehad stirred up this movement. It pleased him still more to know that hecould now step back and watch the work of ruin go on. It was likedisturbing the one small stone which starts the avalanche, whicheventually smashes the far-off forest. 

So much was done, then. And now why not make sure that the very lastmeans of retreat for the pair was blocked? The girl went to get thehorses. And if, by the one chance in twenty, the two should actuallybreak out of the jail, it would remain to Cartwright to kill the horsesor the men. He did not care which. 

He slipped behind the hotel and presently saw the girl come out of thestable with her horse. He followed, skulking softly behind her until hereached the appointed place among the cottonwoods. The trees grew talland thick of trunk, and about their bases was a growth of denseshrubbery. It was a simple thing to conceal two saddled horses in ahollow which sank into the edge of the shrubbery. 

Cartwright's first desire was to couch himself in shooting distance. Then he remembered that shooting with a revolver by moonlight wasuncertain work. He slipped away to the hotel and got a rifle readyenough. Men were milling through the lower rooms of the hotel. Thepoint of discussion had long since been passed. The ringleaders hadmade up their minds. They went about with faces so black that those whowere asked to join, hardly had the courage to question. There wasbroad-voiced rumor growing swiftly. Something was wrong--something wasvery wrong. It was like that mysterious whisper which goes through theforest before the heavy storm strikes. Something was terribly wrong andmust be righted. 

How the ringleaders had reasoned, nobody paused to ask. It wassufficient that a score of men were saying: "The sheriff figures onletting Sinclair and Arizona go. "

A typical scene between two men. They meet casually, one man whistling, the other thoughtful. 

"What's the bad luck?" asks the whistler. 

"No time for whistling, " says the other. 

"Say, what you mean?"

"I ask you just this, " said the gloomy man, with a mystery of muchknowledge in his face: "Are gents around here going to be murdered, andthe murderers go free?"

"Well?"

"Sinclair and Arizona--that's what's up! They're going to bust loose. "

"I dunno about Arizona, but Sinclair, they say, is a square shooter. "

"Who told you that? Sinclair himself? He's got a rep as long as my arm. He's a bad one, son!"

"You don't say!"

"I do say. And something has got to be done, or Sour Creek won't be adecent man's town no more. "

"Let me in. " Off they went arm in arm. 

Cartwright saw half a dozen little interviews of this nature, as heentered the hotel. Men were excited, they hardly knew why. There is noneed for reason in a mob. One has only to cry, "Kill!" and the mob willstart of its own volition to find something that may be slain. Also, amob has no conscience and no remorse. It is the nearest thing to adevil that exists, and it is also the nearest thing to the divine mercyand courage. It is braver than the bravest man; it is more timorousthan the most fearful; it is fiercer than a lion, gentler than a lamb. All these things by turns, and each one to the exclusion of all theothers. 

Now the thunderclouds were piling on the horizon, and Cartwright couldfeel the electricity in the air. He went to Pop. 

"I got to have a rifle. "

"What for?"

"You know, " said Cartwright significantly. 

The hotelkeeper nodded. He brought out an old Winchester, still mobileof action and deadly. With that weapon under his arm, Cartwrightstarted back, but then he remembered that there were excellent chancesof missing even with a rifle, when he was shooting through the shadowsand by the treacherous moonlight. It would be better, far better, tohave his horse with him. Then, if he actually succeeded in wounding oneor both of them, he could run his victim down, or, perhaps, keep up asteady fire of rifle shots from the rear, that would bring half thetown pouring out to join in the chase. 

So he swung back to the stables, saddled his horse, trotted it aroundin a comfortably wide detour, and, coming within sound distance of thecottonwoods behind the blacksmith shop, he dismounted and led his horseinto a dense growth of shrubbery. That close approach would have beenimpossible without alarming the girl, had it not been for a stiff windblowing across into his face, completely muffling the noise of hiscoming. In the bushes he ensconced himself safely. Only a few yardsaway he kept his eye on the opening among the cottonwoods, behind whichthe girl and the two horses moved from time to time, growing more andmore visible, as the moon climbed above the horizon mist. 

He tightened his grip on the rifle and amused himself with drawingbeads on stumps and bright bits of foliage, from time to time. He mustbe ready for any sort of action if the two should ever appear. 

While he waited, sounds reached his ear from the town, sounds eloquentof purpose. He listened to them as to beautiful music. It was a low, distinct, and continuous humming sound. Voices of men went into it, lowas the growl of an angered dog, and there was a background of slammingdoors, and footsteps on verandas. Sour Creek was mustering for theassault. 

35

Now that sound had entered the jail, and it had a peculiar effect. Itwas like that distant murmuring of the storm which walks over thetreetops far away. It made the sheriff and his two prisoners lift theirheads and look at one another in silence, for the sheriff was mostunprofessionally tilted back in a chair, with his feet braced againstthe bars of the cell, while he chatted with his bad men about men, women, and events. The sheriff had a distinct curiosity to learn howArizona had recovered so suddenly from his "blue funk. "

Unquestionably the fat man had recovered. His voice was as steady nowas any man's, and the old, insolent glitter was in his eyes. He squaredhis shoulders and blew his smoke straight at the face of the sheriff, as he talked. What caused it, the sheriff could not tell, thisrehabilitation of a fighting man, but he connected the influence ofSinclair with the change. 

By this time Sinclair himself was the more restless of the two. WhileArizona sat at ease on the bunk, the tall man ranged up and down thecell, with long, noiseless steps, turning quickly back and forth besidethe bars. He had spent his nervous energy cheering up Arizona, untilthe latter was filled with a reckless, careless courage. What wouldhappen Arizona could not guess, but Sinclair had assured him thatsomething _would_ happen, and he trusted implicitly to the word of histall companion. Sooner or later he would learn that they were hopeless, and Sinclair dreaded the breakdown which he knew would follow thatdiscovery. 

In his heart Sinclair knew that there would be no hope, no chance. Thegirl, he felt, had been swept off her feet with some absurd dream offreeing them. For his own part he had implicit faith in the strength ofthe toolproof steel of the bars on the one hand, and the gun of thesheriff on the other. As long as they held, they would keep theirprisoners. The key to freedom was the key to the sheriff's heart, andSinclair was too much of a man to whine. 

He had come to the end of his trail, and that was evident in therestlessness of his walking to and fro. The love of the one thing onearth that he cared for was his, according to Arizona, and there wasnothing to make the fat man lie. It seemed to Riley Sinclair that, atthe very moment he had set his hands upon priceless gold, the treasurewas crumbling to dead sand. He had lost her by the very thing that wonher. 

In the midst of his pacing he stopped and lifted his head, just as thesheriff and Arizona did the same thing. The far-off murmur hummed andmoaned toward them, gathering strength. Then the sheriff pushed backhis chair and went to the front of the jail. They heard him givedirections to his deputy to find out what the murmuring meant. WhenKern returned he was patently worried. 

"Gents, " he said, "I've heard that same sort of a sound twice before, and it means business. " None of the three spoke again until the doorof the jail was burst open, and the deputy came on them, running. 

"Kern, " he gasped, as he reached the sheriff, "they're coming. "

"Who?"

"Every man in Sour Creek. They tried to get me with 'em. I told 'em I'dstay and then slipped off. They want both of these. They want 'em bad. They're going to fight to get 'em!"

"Do they want to grab Arizona and Sinclair?" asked the sheriff, withsurprising lack of emotion. "Don't think they're guilty?"

"You're wrong. They think they're sure guilty, and they're going tolynch 'em. "

He whispered this, but his panting made the words louder than hethought. Sinclair heard; and by the shudder of Arizona, he knew thathis companion had heard as well. 

Now came the low-pitched voice of the sheriff: "Are you with me, Pat?"

The deputy receded. "Why, man, you ain't going to fight the wholetown?"

"I'd fight the whole town, " said the sheriff smoothly, "but I don'tneed you with me. You're through, partner. Close the door soft when yougo out!"

Pat made no argument, offered no sentimental protest of devotion. Hewas glad of any excuse, and he retreated at once. After him went thesheriff, and Sinclair heard the heavy door of the jail locked. Kerncame back, carrying a bundle. Outside, the murmuring had increased at asingle leap to a roar. The rush for the jail was beginning. 

Arizona shrank back against the wall, his little eyes glaringdesperately at Sinclair, his last hope in the emergency. But Sinclairlooked to the sheriff. The bundle in the arms of the latter unrolledand showed two cartridge belts, with guns appended. Next, still insilence, the sheriff unlocked the door to the cell. 

"Sinclair!"

The tall cowpuncher leaped beside him. Arizona skirted away to one sidestealthily. 

"None of that!" commanded Kern. "No crooked work, Arizona. I'm givingyou a fighting chance for your lives. "

Here he tossed a gun and belt to Sinclair. The latter without a wordbuckled it on. 

"Now, quick work, boys, " said the sheriff. "It's going to be the secondtime in my life that prisoners have got away and tied me up. Understand? They ain't going to be no massacre if I can help it. Gentslike Sinclair don't come in pairs, and he's going to have a fightingchance. Boys, tie me up fast and throw me in the corner. I'll tell 'emthat you slugged me through the bars and got the keys away. You hear?"

As he spoke he threw Arizona a gun and belt, and the latter imitatedSinclair in buckling it on. But the fat man then made for the door ofthe cell. Outside the rush reached the entrance to the jail and spliton it. The voices leaped into a tumult. 

"By thunder, " demanded Arizona, "are you going to wait for _that_?"

"You want Kern to get into trouble?" asked Sinclair. "Grab this end andtie his ankles, while I fix his hands. "

Frantically they worked together. 

"Are you comfortable, sheriff?"

He lay securely trussed in a corner of the passageway. 

"Dead easy, boys. Now what's your plan?"

"Is there a back way out?"

"No way in or out but the front door. You got to wait till they smashit. There they start now! Then dive out, as they rush. They won't beexpecting nothing like that. But gag me first. "

Hastily Sinclair obeyed. The door of the jail was shaking and groaningunder the attack from without, and the shouts were a steady roar. Thenhe hurried to the front of the little building. Arizona was alreadythere, gun in hand, watching the door bulge under the impact. Evidentlythey had caught up a heavy timber, and a dozen men were pounding itagainst the massive door. Sinclair caught the gun arm of his companion. 

"Fatty, " he said hastily, "gunplay will spoil everything. We got totake 'em by surprise. Fast running will save us, maybe. Fast shootingain't any good when it's one man agin' fifty, and these boys meanbusiness. "

Arizona reluctantly let his gun drop back in its holster. He nodded toSinclair. The latter gave his directions swiftly, speaking loudly tomake his voice carry over the roar of the crowd. 

"When the door goes down, which it'll do pretty pronto, I'll dive outfrom this side, and you run from the other side, straight into thecrowd. I'll turn to the right, and you turn to the left. The minuteyou're around the corner of the building shoot back over your shoulder, or straight into the air. It'll make 'em think that you've stopped andare going to fight 'em off from the corner. They'll take it slow, youcan bet. Then beat it straight on for the cottonwoods behind theblacksmith shop. "

"They'll drop us the minute we show. "

"Sure, we got the long chance, and nothing more. Is that good enoughfor you?"

He was rewarded in the dimness by a glint in the eyes of Arizona, andthen the fat man gripped his hand. 

"You and me agin' the world. "

In the meantime the door was bulging in the center under blows ofincreasing weight. A second battering ram was now brought into play, and the rain of blows was unceasing. Still between shocks, the doorsprang back, but there was a telltale rattle at every blow. Finally, asa yell sprang up from the crowd at the sight, the upper hinge snappedloudly, and the door sagged in. Both timbers were now apparently swungat the same moment. Under the joint impact the door was literallylifted from its last hinge and hurled inward. And with it lunged thetwo battering rams and the men who had wielded them. They tumbledheadlong, carried away by the very weight of their successful blow. 

"Now!" called Sinclair, and he sprang with an Indian yell over theheads of the sprawling men in the doorway and into the thick of thecrowd. 

Half a dozen of the drawn guns whipped up at the sight, but no onecould make sure in the half-light of the identity of the man who haddashed out. Their imaginations placed the two prisoners safely behindthe bars inside. Before they could think twice, a second figure leapedthrough the doorway and passed them in the opposite direction. 

Then they awakened to the fact, but they awakened in confusion. A dozenshots blazed in either direction, but they were wild, snapshots of mentaken off balance. 

Two leaps took Sinclair through the thick of the astonished men beforehim. He came to the scattering edges and saw a man dive at him. Thecowpuncher beat the butt of his gun into the latter's face and sped on, whipping around the corner of the little jail, with bullets whistlingafter him. 

His own gun, as he leaped out of sight, he fired into the ground, andhe heard a similar shot from the far side of the building. Those twoshots, as he had predicted, checked the pursuers one vital second andkept them milling in front of the jail. Then they spilled out aroundthe corners, each man running low, his gun ready. 

But Sinclair, deep in the darkness of the tree shadows behind the jail, was already out of sight. He caught a glimpse of Arizona sprintingahead of him for dear life. They reached the cottonwoods together andwere greeted by a low shout from the girl; she was running out from theshelter, dragging the horses after her. 

Arizona went into his saddle with a single leap. Sinclair paused totake the jump, with his hand on the pommel, and as he lifted himself upwith a jump, a gun blazed in point-blank range from the nearestshrubbery. 

There was a yell from Arizona, not of pain, but of rage. They saw hisgun glistening in his hand, and, swerving his horse to disturb the aimof the marksman, his weapon's first report blended with the second shotfrom the bushes, a tongue of darting flame. Straight at the flash of atarget Arizona had fired, and there was an answering yell. Out of thedark of the shrubbery a great form leaped, with a grotesque shadowbeneath it on the moon-whitened ground. 

"Cartwright!" cried Sinclair, as the big man collapsed and became ashapeless, inanimate black heap. 

Straight ahead Arizona was already spurring, and Sinclair waved once tothe white face of Jig, then shot after his companion, while the treesand shrubbery to their left emitted a sudden swarm of men and barkingguns. 

But to strike a rapidly moving object with a revolver is never easy, and to strike by the moonlight is difficult indeed. A dangerous flightof slugs bored the air around the fugitives for the first hundred yardsof their flight, but after that the firing ceased, as the men of SourCreek ran for their horses. 

Straight on into the night rode the pair. 

 * * * * *

One year had made Arizona a little plumper, and one year had drawnRiley Sinclair more lean and somber, when they rode out on the shoulderof a flat-topped mountain and looked down into the hollow, where thelate afternoon sun was already sending broad shadows out from everyrise of ground. Sour Creek was a blur and a twinkle of glass in thedistance. 

"Come to think of it, " said Arizona, "it's just one year today. Riley, was it that that brung you back here, and me, unknowing?"

The tall man made no answer, but shaded his eyes to peer down into thevalley, and Arizona made no attempt to pursue the conversation. He waslong since accustomed to the silences of his traveling mate. Seeingthat Sinclair showed no disposition either to speak or move, he leftthe big cowpuncher to himself and started off through the trees insearch of game. The sign of a deer caught his eye and hurried him oninto a futile chase, from which he returned in the early dark of theevening. He was guided by the fire which Sinclair had kindled on theshoulder, but to his surprise, as he drew nearer, the fire dwindled, very much as if Riley had entirely forgotten to replenish it with drywood. 

A year of wild life had sharpened the caution of Arizona. That neglectof his fire was by no means in keeping with the usual methods ofSinclair. Before he came to the last spur of the hill, Arizonadismounted and stole up on foot. He listened intently. There was not asound of anyone moving about. There was only an occasional crackle ofthe dying fire. When he came to the edge of the shoulder, Arizonaraised his head cautiously to peer over. 

He saw a faintly illumined picture of Riley Sinclair, sitting with hishat off, his face raised, and such a light in his face that thereneeded no play of the fire to tell its meaning. Beside him sat a girl, more distinct, for she was dressed in white, and the fire gleamed andcurled and modeled her hair and cast a highlight on her chin, herthroat, and her hand in the brown hand of Sinclair. 

Arizona winced down out of sight and stole back under the trees. 

"Doggone me, " he said to his horse, "they both remembered the day. "