"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 Sinclair
free!"
30
As Arizona had predicted, Sheriff Kern was greatly tempted not to start
on the hard ride for the mountains before morning, and finally he
followed his impulse. With the first break of the dawn he was up, and a
few minutes later he had taken the trail alone. There was no need of
numbers, for that matter, to tell a single man that he no longer need
dread the law. But it was only common decency to inform him of the
charge, and Kern was a decent sort.
He was thoughtful on the trail. A great many things had happened to
upset the sheriff. The capture of Sinclair, take it all in all, was an
important event. To be sure, the chief glory was attributable to the
cunning of Arizona; nevertheless, the community was sure to pay homage
to the skill of the sheriff who had led the party and managed the
capture.
But now the sheriff found himself regretting the capture and all its
attendant glory. Not even a personal grudge against the man who had
taken his first prisoner from him, could give an edge to the sheriff's
satisfaction, for, during the late hours of the preceding night he had
heard from Sinclair the true story of the killing of Quade; not a
murder, but a fair fight. And he had heard more--the whole unhappy tale
which began with the death of Hal Sinclair in the desert, a story which
now included, so far as the sheriff knew, three deaths, with a promise
of another in the future.
It was little wonder that he was disturbed. His philosophy was of the
kind that is built up in a country of horses, hard riding, hard work,
hard fighting. According to the precepts of that philosophy, Sinclair
would have shirked a vital moral duty had he failed to avenge the
pitiful death of his brother.
The sheriff put himself into the boots of the man who was now his
prisoner and facing a sentence of death. In that man's place he knew
that he would have taken the same course. It was a matter of necessary
principle; and the sheriff also knew that no jury in the country could
allow Sinclair to go free. It might not be the death sentence, but it
would certainly be a prison term as bad as death.
These thoughts consumed the time for the sheriff until his horse had
labored up the height, and he came to the little plateau where so much
had happened outside of his ken. And there he saw Bill Sandersen, with
the 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 him
that Sinclair must have broken from jail and done this killing during
the night. But a moment's reflection assured him that this could not
be. The mind of the sheriff whirled. Not Sinclair, certainly. The man
had been dead for some hours. In the sky, far above and to the north,
there were certain black specks, moving in great circles that drifted
gradually south. The buzzards were already coming to the dead. He
watched them for a moment, with the sinking of the heart which always
comes 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, nicely
placed. Certainly not the sort of shot that Cold Feet, according to the
description 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 committed
this crime. The sheriff placed the hat of Sinclair over his face and
swung back into his saddle; he must hurry back to Sour Creek and send
up a burial party, for no one would have an interest in interring the
body in the town.
But once in the saddle he paused again. The thought of the
schoolteacher having killed so formidable a fighter as Sandersen stuck
in his mind as a thing too contrary to probability. Moreover the
sheriff had grown extremely cautious. He had made one great failure
very recently--the escape of this same Cold Feet. He would have failed
again had it not been for Arizona. He shuddered at the thought of how
his reputation would have been ruined had he gone on the trail and
allowed Sinclair to double back to Sour Creek and take the town by
surprise.
Dismounting, he threw his reins and went back to review the scene of
the killing. There were plenty of tracks around the place. The gravel
obscured a great part of the marks, and still other prints were blurred
by the dead grass. But there were pockets of rich, loamy soil, moist
enough and firm enough to take an impression as clearly as paper takes
ink. The sheriff removed the right shoe from the foot of Sandersen and
made a series of fresh prints.
They were quite distinctive. The heel was turned out to such an extent
that the track was always a narrow indentation, where the heel fell on
the soft soil. He identified the same tracks in many places, and,
dismissing the other tracks, the sheriff proceeded to make up a trail
history for Sandersen.
Here he came up the hill, on foot. Here he paused beside the embers of
the fire and remained standing for a long time, for the marks were
worked in deeply. After a time the trail went--he followed it with
difficulty over the hard-packed gravel--up the side of the hill to a
semicircular arrangement of rocks, and there, distinct in the soil, was
the impression of the body, where the cowpuncher had lain down. The
sheriff lay down in turn, and at once he was sure why Sandersen had
chosen this spot. He was defended perfectly on three sides from
bullets, and in the meantime, through crevices in the rock, he
maintained a clear outlook over the whole side of the hill.
Obviously Sandersen had lain down to keep watch. For what? For Cold
Feet, of course, on whose head a price rested. Or, at least, so
Sinclair must have believed at the time. The news had not yet been
published abroad that Cold Feet had been exculpated by the confession
of Sinclair to the killing of Quade.
So much was clear. But presently Sandersen had risen and gone down the
hill again, leaving from the other side of the rock. Had he covered
Cold Feet when the latter returned to his camp, having been absent when
Sandersen 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 he
had covered with a revolver from a distance.
Reaching the shoulder of the mountain, Kern puzzled anew. He began a
fresh study of the tracks. Those of Cold Feet were instantly known by
the tiny size of the marks of the soles. The sheriff remembered that he
had often wondered at the smallness of the schoolteacher's feet. Cold
Feet was there, and Sandersen was dead. Again it seemed certain that
Cold Feet had been guilty of the crime, but the sheriff kept on
systematically hunting for new evidence. He found no third set of
tracks for some time, but when he did find them, they were very
clear--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 doubtful
if the man were tall, and certainly by the clearness of the
indentation, the man was heavy. The sheriff could tell by making a
track beside that of the quarry.
A second possibility, therefore, had entered, and the sheriff felt a
reasonable conviction that this must be the guilty man.
Now he combed the whole area for some means of identifying the third
man who had been on the mountainside. But nothing had been dropped
except a brilliant bandanna, wadded compactly together, which the
sheriff recognized as belonging to Sandersen. There was only one
definite means of recognizing the third man. Very faint in the center
of the impression made by his sole, were two crossed arrows, the sign
of the bootmaker.
The sheriff shook his head. Could he examine the soles of the boots of
every man in the vicinity of Sour Creek, even if he limited his inquiry
to those who were short and stocky? And might there not be many a man
who wore the same type of boots?
He flung himself gloomily into his saddle again, and this time he
headed straight down the trail for Sour Creek.
At the hotel he was surrounded by an excited knot of people who wished
to know how he had extracted the amazing confession from Riley
Sinclair. The sheriff tore himself away from a dozen hands who wished
to buttonhole him in close conversation.
"I'll tell you gents this," he said. "Quade was killed because he
needed killing, and Sinclair confessed because he's straight."
With that, casting an ugly glance at the lot of them, he went back into
the kitchen and demanded a cup of coffee. The Chinese cook obeyed the
order in a hurry, highly flattered and not a little nervous at the
presence of the great man in the kitchen.
While Kern was there, Arizona entered. The sheriff greeted him
cheerfully, 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 ways
wishing 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 yarn
about when he knew me some time back?"
The sheriff shook his head.
"Between you and me," he said frankly, "it sounded to me like Sinclair
knew something you mightn't want to have noised around. Is that
straight?"
"I'll tell you," answered the other. "When I was a kid I was a fool
kid. That's all it amounts to."
Sheriff Kern grunted. "All right, Arizona, I ain't asking. But you can
lay 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: Lemme
have the watch over Sinclair while he's in Sour Creek, or are you
taking him back to Woodville today?"
"I'm held over," said the sheriff.
He paused. Twice the little olive-skinned man from the south had
demonstrated his superiority in working out criminal puzzles. The
sheriff 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. "It
don't amount to much, but I want to look into it."
Purposely he had delayed sending the party to bury Sandersen. It would
be simply warning the murderer if that man were in Sour Creek.
"About you and Sinclair," went on the sheriff, "there ain't much good
feeling between you, eh?"
"I won't shoot him in the back if I guard him," declared Arizona. "But
if you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead. Put Red on
it."
"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'd
rather trust Sinclair to you--that is, if you make up your mind to
treat 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 the
liquid washed out of the saucer onto the floor.
"Coming back to shop talk," went on the sheriff, as Li mopped up the
spilled coffee, mumbling excuses, "I ain't had a real chance to tell
you what a fine job you done for us last night, Arizona."
Arizona, with due modesty, waved the praise away and stepped to the
container of matches hanging beside the stove. He came back lighting a
cigarette 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 frank
admiration.
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 crossed
arrows!
A short, fat, heavy man.
The sheriff raised his glance and examined the bulky shoulders of the
man. Then he hastily swallowed the rest of his coffee.
Yet there might be a dozen other short, stocky men in town, whose boots
had the same impression. He looked thoughtfully out the kitchen window,
striving to remember some clue. But, as far as he could make out, the
only time Arizona and Sandersen had crossed had been when the latter
applied for a place on the posse. Surely a small thing to make a man
commit 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 think
that was MacKenzie who went into the stable. Don't leave till I come
back, Arizona."
Hurriedly he went out. There was no MacKenzie in the stable, and the
sheriff did not look for one. He went straight to Arizona's horse. The
roan was perfectly dry, but examining the hide, the sheriff saw that
the horse had been recently groomed, and a thorough grooming would soon
dry the hair and remove all traces of a long ride.
Stepping back to the peg from which the saddle hung, he raised the
stirrup leather. On the inside, where the leather had chafed the side
of the horse, there was a dirty gray coating, the accumulation of the
dust and sweat of many a ride. But it was soft with recent sweat, and
along the edges of the leather there was a barely dried line of foam
that rubbed away readily under the touch of his fingertip.
Next he examined the bridle. There, also, were similar evidences of
recent 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 for
his own gun, as the sheriff whipped out his weapon. But under those
conditions he was beaten badly to the draw. Before his weapon was half
out of the holster, the sheriff had the drop.
Arizona paused, but, for a moment, his eyes fought Kern, figuring
chances. It was only the hesitation of an instant. The battle was lost
before it had begun, and Arizona was clever enough to know it. Swiftly
he turned on a new tack. He shoved his revolver back into the holster
and smiled benevolently on the sheriff.
"What's the new game, Kern?"
"It ain't new," said the sheriff joylessly. "It's about the oldest game
in the world. Arizona, you sure killed Sandersen."
"Sandersen?" Arizona laughed. "Why, man, I ain't hardly seen him more
than once. How come that I would kill him?"
"Get your hands up, Arizona."
"Oh, sure." He obeyed with apparent willingness. "But don't let anybody
see 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 the
door, 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 ahead
of your time. You drilled Sandersen, hoping to throw the blame on Cold
Feet. Then you come down, but on the way Cold Feet gives you the slip
and gets away. And that's why you're here."
Arizona blinked. So much of this tale was true that it shook even his
iron 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 I
send down to the south inquiring about you, I got an idea that I'll
find out enough to hang ten like you, eh?"
Once more Arizona received a vital blow, and he winced under the
impact. Moreover, he was bewildered. His own superior intelligence had
inclined him to despise the sheriff, whom he put down as a fellow of
more bulldog power than mental agility. All in a moment it was being
borne 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 like
Sinclair. You ain't clean, Arizona. You're slick, and they ain't
elbowroom enough in the West for slick gents. Besides, you got a bad
way with your gun. I can tell you this, speaking private and
confidential, I'm going to hang you, Arizona, if there's any way
possible!"
He said all this quietly, but the revolver remained poised with
rocklike firmness. He drew out a pair of manacles.
"Stand up, Arizona."
Listlessly the fat man got up. He had been changing singularly during
the last speech of the sheriff. Now he dropped a hand on the edge of
the table, as if to support himself. The sheriff saw that hand grip the
wood until the knuckles went white. Arizona moistened his colorless
lips.
"Not the irons, sheriff," he said softly. "Not them!"
If it had been any other man, Kern would have imagined that he was
losing his nerve; but he knew Arizona, had seen him in action, and he
was certain that his courage was above question. Consequently he was
amazed. As certainly as he had ever seen them exposed, these were the
horrible 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've
seen 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 had
trembled as he spoke. The sheriff could not believe his ears.
"Well, I'm sorry, Arizona," he said more gently, because he was
striving to banish this disgusting suspicion from his own mind. "I
can't take no chances. Just turn around, will you. And keep them hands
up!"
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 the
fat man, those hands fought their way back to their former position,
and then Arizona gradually turned his back on the sheriff. A convulsive
shudder ran through him as Kern removed his gun and then seized one of
the raised hands, drew it down, and fastened one part of the iron on
it. The other hand followed, and, as the sheriff snapped the lock, he
saw a singular transformation in the figure of his captive. The
shoulders of Arizona slouched forward, his head sank. From the erect,
powerful figure of the moment before, he became, in comparison, a
flabby 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 the
face of his captive. It was strangely altered. The mouth had become
trembling, loose, uncertain. The head had fallen, and the bright, keen
eyes were dull. The man looked up with darting side-glances.
The sheriff stood back and wiped a sudden perspiration from his
forehead. Under his very eyes the spirit of this gunfighter was
disintegrating. The sheriff felt a cold shame pour through him. He
wanted to hide this man from the eyes of the others. It was not right
that he should be seen. His weakness was written too patently.
Kern was no psychologist, but he knew that some men out of their
peculiar 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 porch
and 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. A
small boy playing behind his father's house raised his head to watch
the hurrying pair, and when he saw the glitter of the irons, they heard
him gasp. He was old enough to know the meaning of that. Irons on
Arizona, who had been a town hero the night before! They saw the
youngster 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 the
street for the door of the jail, voices blew down to them. Looking
toward 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, and
Kern locked it behind him. His deputy on guard rose with a start, and
at the same time there was a hurried knocking on the door and a clamor
of voices without. Arizona shrank away from that sound, scowling over
his 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 appreciate
the way you treat me!"
Kern was staggered. It seemed to him that a new personality had taken
possession of the body of the fat man. He led the way past his gaping
deputy. The jail was not constructed for a crowd. It was merely a
temporary abiding place before prisoners were taken to the larger
institution at Woodville. Consequently there was only one big cell. The
sheriff unlocked the door, slipped the manacles from the wrists of
Arizona, and jabbed the muzzle of a revolver into his back!
The last act was decidedly necessary, for the moment his wrists were
released from the grip of the steel, Arizona twitched halfway round
toward the sheriff. The scrape of the gunmuzzle against his ribs,
however, convinced him. Over his shoulder he cast one murderous glance
at the sheriff and then slouched forward into the cell.
"Company for you, Riley," said the sheriff, as the tall cowpuncher
rose.
The other's back was turned, and thereby the sheriff was enabled to
pass a significant gesture and look to Sinclair. With that he left
them. In the outer room he found his deputy much alarmed.
"You ain't turned them two in together?" he asked. "Why, Sinclair'll
kill 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 went
out 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 as
an eagle might receive an owl which floundered by mistake onto the same
crag, far above his element. The eagle hesitated between scorn of the
visitor and a faint desire to pounce on him and rend him to pieces.
That glittering eye, however, was soon dull with wonder, when he
watched the actions of Arizona.
The fat man paused in the center of the cell, regarded Sinclair with a
single 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 found
that the eyes of Arizona continually whipped up and across to him. Once
the newcomer shifted his position a little, and Sinclair saw him test
the weight of the stool beneath him with his hand. Even in the cell
Arizona had found a weapon.
Gradually Sinclair understood the meaning of that glance and the
gesture of the sheriff, as the latter left; he read other things in the
gray 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--a
sinking of the heart and a momentary doubt of himself. But he was
something more of a philosopher than Kern. He had seen more of life and
men and put two and two together.
One thing stared him plainly in the face. The Arizona who skulked in
the corner had relapsed eight years. He was the same sneak thief whom
Sinclair had first met in the lumber camp, and he knew instinctively
that this was the first time since that unpleasant episode that Arizona
had been cornered. The loathing left Sinclair, and in its place came
pity. He had no fondness of Arizona, but he had seen him in the role of
a strong man, which made the contrast more awful. It reminded Sinclair
of the wild horse which loses its spirit when it is broken. Such was
Arizona. Free to come and go, he had been a danger. Shut up helplessly
in a cell, he was as feeble as a child, and his only strength was a
sort of cunning malice. Sinclair turned quietly to the fat man.
"Arizona," he said, "you look sort of underfed today. Bring your stool
a 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 glared
thoughtfully 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 up
before you're beaten."
Riley Sinclair's words brought a flash from Arizona, a sudden lifting
of the head, as if he had not before thought of hoping. Then he began
to slump back into his former position, without a reply. Sinclair
followed 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 was
ended; Hal was avenged at last!
"And you done it? Fatty, you took that job out of my hands. I'm
thanking 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 to
Sinclair, but rather at him. His shifting eyes made sure that no one
was near.
"Kern is going to send south for the dope. I'm done for. They can hang
me three times on what they'll learn, and--"
"Shut up," snapped Sinclair. "Don't talk foolish. The south is a
tolerable 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 of
that suggestion merely to see what the fat man's reaction would be. The
result was more than he could have dreamed. Arizona whirled on him with
eyes 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 arms
they 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 just
out 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 works
the same way. A trout may be a flash of light in water, but on dry land
he ain't worth a damn. Same way with you, Fatty. While you got a free
foot you're all right, but when they put you behind a wall and say
they'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. So
you quit altogether. But you'll come back to yourself, Arizona. You--"
Arizona raised his hand. He was sitting erect now, drinking in the
words of Sinclair, as if they were air to a stifling man. His face
worked.
"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 of
the 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 trouble
before. Come alive, man. You and me are going to bust this ol' jail to
smithereens, 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-skinned
hand shot out and clutched his own bony, strong fingers. The hand was
fat and cold, but it gripped that of Riley Sinclair with a desperate
energy.
"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. New
life shone in the face of Arizona.
"A man with you for a partner ain't done, Sinclair--not if he had a
rope 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 to
wait 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 saw
the sun descend in the west, a streak of slowly dropping fire. And now
she became excited.
"As soon as it's dark," Arizona had promised, "I'll make my start. Have
your hoss ready. Be in the saddle, and the minute you see us come down
that trail out of Sour Creek, be ready to feed your hoss the spur and
join 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 the
evenin' is a pile worse nor the dark for fooling a man's aim. You'll
see 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 smile
of confidence, jogged away from her. It was the beginning of a dull day
of waiting for her, yet a day in which she dared not altogether relax
her vigilance, because at any time the break might come, and Arizona
might appear flying down the trail with the familiar tall form of
Sinclair beside him. Wearily she waited until sundown.
With the coming of dusk she wakened suddenly and became tinglingly
alert. The night spread rapidly down out of the mountains. The color
faded, and the sudden chill of the high altitude settled about her. Her
hands and her feet were cold with the fear of excitement.
Into the gathering gloom she strained her eyes; toward Sour Creek she
strained her ears, starting at every faint sound of a man's shout or
the barking of a dog, as if this might be the beginning of the uproar
that would announce the escape.
Something swung on to the road out of the end of the main street. She
was instantly in the saddle, but, by the time she reached the edge of
the copse, she found it to be only a wagon filled with singing men
going 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 every
moment. His intention must have been guessed, for she could not imagine
that slippery and cold-minded fellow being thwarted, if he were left
free to work as he pleased toward an object he desired. She could not
stay in the grove all night. Besides, this was the critical time for
Riley Sinclair. Tomorrow he would be taken to the security of the
Woodville jail, and the end would be close. If anything were done for
him, it must be before morning.
With this thought in mind she rode boldly out of the trees and took the
road into town, where the lights of the early evening had turned from
white to yellow, as the night deepened. Sour Creek was hardly a mile
away 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 out
at her, with two down-headed horses jogging along and the loose reins
swinging above their backs.
"Halloo!" called Jig.
The brakes ground against the wheels, squeaking in protest. The horses
came to a halt so willing and sudden that the collars shoved halfway up
their 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 make
out 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 was
raised 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, your
voice 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 the
bottle and at the same time lighted a match for the apparent purpose of
starting his cigarette. But Jig nodded her head in time to obscure her
face with the flopping brim of her sombrero. The other coughed his
disappointment. She raised the bottle after uncorking it, firmly
securing the neck with her thumb. After a moment she lowered it and
sighed 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 that
didn't choke on a swig of that. But you youngsters has the advantage of
a sound lining for your innards."
He helped himself from the flask, coughed heavily, and then pounded
home the cork.
"How's things up Whiteacre way?"
"Fair to middlin'," said Jig. "They ain't hollering for rain so much as
they 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 sure
going plumb to the dogs at this rate!"
"You don't say! Well, I heard something about a gent named Quade being
plugged."
"Him? He was just the beginning--just the start! Since then we had a
man 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 present
minute they's two in jail on murder charges, and both are sure to
swing!"
Jig gasped. "Two!" she exclaimed.
"Yep. They was a skinny schoolteacher named--I forget what. Most
general he was called Cold Feet, which fitted. They thought he killed
Quade 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 himself
grabbed Arizona for the murder of Sandersen. Oh, times is picking up
considerable in Sour Creek. Reminds me of twenty years back before Kern
come 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 to
be drifting on, son. Take my advice and head straight for Woodville.
You lack five years of being old enough for Sour Creek these days!" He
called his farewell, threw off the brake and cursed the span of horses
into their former trot.
As for Jig, she waited until the scent of alkali dust died away, and
the rattle of the buckboard was faint in the distance. Then she turned
her 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 thrown
his life in peril, and now Arizona was caught and held in the same
danger. Enough of sacrifices for her; her mind was firm to repay some
of 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 among
the rough men of the town, constantly fearful that they might pierce
her disguise. She had trained herself to a long stride and a swaggering
demeanor, and by constant practice she had been able to lower the pitch
of her voice and roughen its quality. Yet, in spite of the constant
practice, 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 boldly
through the door into a cluster of men. They yelled at the sight of
her.
"Jig, by guns! He's come in! Say, kid, the sheriff's been looking for
you."
They swerved around her, grinning good-naturedly. When a person has
been almost lynched for a crime another has committed, he gains a
certain standing, no matter what may be the public opinion of his
courage. The schoolteacher had become a personage. But Jig met their
smiles with a level eye.
"If the sheriff's looking for me," she said, "tell him I have a room in
the hotel. He can find me here."
Pop shook hands before he shoved the register toward her. "My kids will
sure 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 she
had cultivated. She could feel the crowd staring behind her, and she
could hear their murmurs. But she was not nervous. It seemed that all
apprehension 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 tell
Cartwright 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 to
get anybody excited. He won't come. Better go in there if you want to
see 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 of
sight. "Looks like he's growed up in a day!"
"He's gone through enough to make a man of him," answered Pop. "Never
can tell how a kid will turn out."
But in her room Jig had sunk into a chair, dropped her elbows on the
table, 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 in
the hall that made the flooring of the old building quiver, and then
the door was flung open, slammed shut, and the key turned in the lock.
Cartwright set his shoulders against the door, as though he feared she
would try to rush past him. He stared at her, with a queer admixture of
fear, 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 now
that 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 his
fist on it. "Now, to start with, what in thunder did you mean by
running away?"
"We're leaving the past to bury the past," she said. "That's the first
concession 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 calm
acted 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's
outfit that I ever see you--a pile prettier!"
For a moment she closed her eyes. The sacrifice which she intended was
becoming 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 to
carry malice. You keep to the line from now on, and we'll get along
fine. But you step crooked just once more, and I'll learn you a pile of
things you never even dreamed could happen!"
To her it seemed that he stood in a shaft of consuming light that
exposed every shadowy nook and cranny of his nature, and the
narrow-minded meanness that she saw, startled her.
"What you do afterward with me is your own affair," she said. "It's
about the present that I've come to bargain."
"Bargain?"
"Exactly! Do what I ask, and I go back and act as your wife. If you
refuse, 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'll
let the whole truth be known that I ran away from you. Can your pride
stand 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 by
half 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 will
wash."
"Yes, I think you will," said Cartwright, breathing heavily. "I sure
think you will. You was always a clever little devil, I know! But a
bargain! I'd ought to--" He checked himself. "But I'm through with the
black talk. When I get you back on the ranch I'll show you that you can
be happy up there. And when you get over your fool notions, you'll be a
wife 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 my
account. 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 they
between you two?"
Her answer smothered his fury again. It was pain that was giving her
strength.
"Jude, if you really want me to go back with you, don't ask that
question. He has treated me as an honorable man always treats a
woman--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 was
going to do."
"That's a lie." He stopped, watching her white face. "I don't mean
that, you know. But you ain't actually asking me to get Sinclair out of
jail? Besides, I couldn't do it!"
"You could easily. Moreover, it's to your interest. It will take a
strong jail to hold him, and if he breaks away, you know that he's a
dangerous man. He hates you, Jude, and he might try to find you. If he
did--"
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 seen
him work?" He shuddered at the memory.
"But get him out of the jail, Jude, and that will be ended. He'll be
your 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 no
man-killer, honey."
"But you're rich, Jude."
"Tolerable. They may be one or two has more than me, around these
parts."
"And money buys men!"
"Don't it, though?" said Jude, expanding. "Why, when they found that I
was a spender they started in hounding me. One gent wanted me to help
him on a mortgage--only fifty bucks to meet a payment. And they's half
a dozen would mortgage their souls if I'd stake 'em to enough
downstairs to get them into a crap game, or something."
"Then let them have the money they need. Why, it wouldn't be more than
a 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 follow
you. 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 then
spread the word around that Riley Sinclair is really an honorable man
who killed Quade in a fair fight. I know what they thought of Quade. He
was a bully. No one liked him. Tell them it's a shame that a man like
Sinclair 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 their
necks to right it! And if you work on them in the right way, you can
have twenty men who'll risk everything to get Riley out. But there
won't be a risk. If twenty men rush the jail, the guards will simply
throw 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 killed
simply 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 once
already."
"By Sinclair! You keep coming back to him!"
"Jude, if you do this thing for me," she said steadily, "I'll go back
with you. I don't love you, but if I go back I'll keep you from a great
deal of shameful talk. I'm sorry, truly, that I left. I couldn't help
it. It was an impulse that--took me by the throat. And if I go back
I'll honestly try to make you a good wife."
She faltered a little before that last word, and her voice fell. But
Jude Cartwright was wholly fascinated by the color in her face, and the
softness 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--I
mean--have you ever told him you're pretty fond of him--that you love
him?" He blurted it out, stammering.
Certainly she knew that her answer was a lie, though it was true in the
letter.
"I have never told him so," she said firmly. "But I owe him a great
debt--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 known
then. No matter what she said, she loved Riley Sinclair. He smiled
sourly down on her.
"Keep your thanks. You'll hear news of Sinclair before morning." And he
stalked out of the room.
33
Cartwright went downstairs in the highest good humor. He had been
convinced of two things in the interview with his wife: The first was
that she could be induced to return to him; the second was that she
loved Riley Sinclair. He did not hate her for such fickleness. He
merely despised her for her lack of brains. No thinking woman could
hesitate a moment between the ranches and the lumber tracts of
Cartwright and the empty purse of Riley Sinclair.
As for hatred, that he concentrated on the head of Sinclair himself. He
had already excellent reasons for hating the rangy cowpuncher. Those
reasons were now intensified and given weight by what he had recently
learned. He determined to raise a mob, but not to accomplish his wife's
desires. What she had said about the weakness of jails, the strength of
Sinclair, and the probability that once out he would take the trail of
the rancher, appealed vigorously to his imagination. He did not dream
that such a man as Sinclair would hesitate at a killing. And, loving
the girl, the first thing Sinclair would do would be to remove the
obstacle through the simple expedient of a well-placed bullet.
But the girl had not only convinced him in this direction, she had
taught him where his strength lay, and she had pointed a novel use for
that strength. He went to work instantly when he entered the big back
room of the hotel which was used for cards and surreptitious drinking.
A little, patient-faced man in a corner, who had been sucking a pipe
all evening and watching the crap game hungrily, was the first object
of his charity. Ten dollars slipped into the pocket of the little
cowpuncher brought him out of his chair, with a grin of gratitude and
bewilderment. A moment later he was on his knees calling to the dice in
a cackling voice.
Crossing the room, Cartwright picked out two more obviously stalled
gamblers and gave them a new start. Returning to the table, he found
that the game was lagging. In the first place he had from the start
supplied most of the sinews of war to that game. Also, two disgruntled
members had gone broke in his absence, through trying to plunge for the
spoils of the evening. They sat back, with black faces, and watched him
come.
"We're getting down to a small game," said the gray-headed man who was
dealing.
But Cartwright had other ideas. "A friend's a friend," he said
jovially. "And a gent that's been playing beside me all evening I
figure for a friend. Sit in, boys. I'll stake you to a couple of
rounds, eh?"
Gladly they came, astonished and exchanging glances.
Cartwright had made a sour loser all the game. This sudden generosity
took them off balance. It let in a merciful light upon the cruel
criticism which they had been leveling at him in private. The pale man,
with the blond eyelashes and the faded blue eyes, who had been
dexterously stacking the cards all through the game, decided at that
moment that he would not only stop cheating, but he would even lose
some of his ill-gotten gains back into the game; only a sudden rush of
unbelievable luck kept him from executing his generous and silent
promise.
This pale-faced man was named Whitey, from the excessive blondness of
his hair and his pallor. He was not popular in Sour Creek, but he was
much respected. A proof of his ingenuity was that he had cheated at
cards in that community for five years, and still he had never been
caught at his work. He was not a bold-talking man. In fact he never
started arguments or trouble of any kind; but he was a most dexterous
and thoroughgoing fighter when he was cornered. In fact he was what is
widely known as a "finisher." And it was Whitey whom Cartwright had
chosen as the leader of the mob which he intended raising. He waited
until the first shuffle was in progress after the hand, then he began
his theme.
"Understand the sheriff is pretty strong for this Sinclair that
murdered 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 be
cut. He raised his pale eyes to the face of the rancher. "What makes
you laugh, Cartwright?"
"Nothing," said Jude hastily. "Nothing at all. If you gents don't know
Sinclair, 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, and
then he allowed himself to be called with a pair of tens against a full
house. Not only did he lose, but he started a laugh against himself,
and he joined in cheerfully. He was aware of Whitey frowning curiously
at him and smiling faintly, which was the nearest that Whitey ever came
to laughter. And, indeed, the laugh cost Cartwright more than money,
but it was a price--the price he was paying for the adherence of
Whitey.
"What about this Sinclair?" asked the man with the great, red, blotchy
freckles across his face and the back of his neck, so that the skin
between looked red and raw. "You come from up north, which is his
direction, too. Know anything about him? He looks like pretty much of a
man to me, and the sheriff says he's a square shooter from the word
go."
"Maybe he is," said Cartwright. "But I don't want to go around digging
the ground away from nobody's reputation."
"Whatever he's got, he won't last long," said Whitey definitely. "He'll
swing 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 quietly
and looked full at Whitey across the table. It was a challenge which
the 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 abundant
knowledge in reserve. "But they say that the sheriff and Sinclair have
become regular bunkies. Don't do nothing hardly but sit and chin with
each 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 sober
Whitey.
"Which is a sign that he might have something on the sheriff," said
Jude Cartwright. "I don't say that he _has_, mind you, but it looks
kind of queer. He yanked a prisoner away from the sheriff one day, and
the next day he's took for murder. Did the sheriff have much to do with
his taking? No, he didn't. By all accounts it was Arizona that done the
taking, planning and everything. And after Sinclair is took, what does
the sheriff do? He gets on the trail of Arizona and has him checked in
for murder of another gent. Maybe Arizona is guilty, maybe he ain't.
But it kind of looks as if they was something between Sinclair and
Kern, 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. Maybe
he 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. The
professional 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 him
polishing his spurs."
"Sure, he's getting ready for a ride," put in Cartwright.
There was a growl from the others. They were slowly turning their
interest from the game to Cartwright.
"What d'you mean a ride?"
"Got another hundred," said Cartwright calmly, "that when the morning
comes it won't find Sinclair in the jail."
At once they were absolutely silenced, for money talks in an eloquent
voice. Deliberately Cartwright counted out the two stacks of shimmering
twenty-dollar gold pieces, five to a stack.
"One hundred that he don't hang; another hundred that he ain't in the
jail when the morning comes. Any takers, boys? It had ought to be easy
money--if everything's square."
Whitey made a move, but finally merely raised his hand and rubbed his
chin. He was watching that gold on the table with catlike interest. A
man _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. For
one thing, if the sheriff was plumb set on keeping them two, why didn't
he take 'em over to Woodville today, where they's a jail they couldn't
bust 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, "it
don'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 is
giving us the truth! He's got his hunch, and hunches is mostly always
right."
"Speak out, Whitey," said the man with the freckles encouragingly. "I
like your style of thinking."
Nodding his acknowledgments, Whitey said:
"The main thing seems to be that Sinclair and Arizona is old hands at
killing. And they had ought to be hung. Well, if the sheriff ain't got
the rope, maybe we could help him out, eh?"
34
The moment her husband was gone, Jig dropped back in her chair and
buried her face in her arms, weeping. But there is a sort of sad
happiness in making sacrifices for those we love, and presently Jig was
laughing through her tears and trembling as she wiped the tears away.
After a time she was able to make herself ready for another appearance
in the street of Sour Creek. She practiced back and forth in her room
that 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 he
sat, 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 hands
violently.
"All I got to say, Jig," he remarked, "is that the others was the ones
that made the big mistake. When I went and arrested you, I was just
following in line. But I'm sorry, and I'm mighty glad that you been
found to be O.K."
Wanly she smiled and thanked him for 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 turning
Sinclair down, now that he's in trouble. Go right back in the jail. Him
and Arizona is chinning. Wait a minute. I guess I got to keep an eye on
you to see you don't pass nothing through the bars. Keep clean back
from them bars, Jig, and then you can talk all you want. I'll stay here
where 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 a
peculiar something in Jig's smile that softened men.
But when she stepped into the sphere of the lantern light that spread
faintly through the cell, she was astonished to see Arizona and
Sinclair kneeling opposite each other, shooting dice with abandon and
snapping of the fingers. They rose, laughing at the sight of her, and
came 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 his
entrance into the jail.
"Look here," he said gaily, "why should we be worryin'? Ain't we got a
good 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 shadowy
figure of the sheriff. "Sorry, but we'll work this out yet."
"I know," she answered. She lowered her voice to caution. "I'm only
going to stay a moment to keep away suspicions. Listen! Something is
going to happen tonight that will set you both free. Don't ask me what
it is. But, among those cottonwoods behind the blacksmith shop, I'm
going to have two good horses saddled and ready for you. One will be
your roan, Arizona. And I'll have a good horse for you, Riley. And when
you're free start for those horses."
Sinclair laid hold on the bars with his big hands and pressed his face
close 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--"