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"Maybe he's started crawling and gone the wrong way. He should have sat still," said Lowrie, "because " "Oh, Lord," broke in Sandersen, "I knew it! I been seeing it all the way!" 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 Hal Sinclair dead and cold.
I been in my time about everything that's bad. I ain't done a killing except squarely. Sinclair taught me that. And you got to allow that what I done to Sandersen was after 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 and shame and anger.
"Looking for somebody, Sandersen?" he asked. "Know this gent Sinclair?" "Face looked kind of familiar to me," said the other, who had jerked his head up from the study of the register. "Somehow I don't tie that name up with the face." "Maybe not," said the proprietor. "Maybe he ain't Riley Sinclair of Colma; maybe he's somebody else." "Traveling strange, you mean?" asked Sandersen.
The telegram had been sent "collect," and Bill Sandersen groaned as he paid the bill. But when he opened the telegram he did not begrudge the money. Riley Sinclair is harder than he looks, but absolutely honest and will pay fairer than anybody. Avoid all trouble. Trust his word, but not his temper. Gunfighter, but not a bully. By the way, your pal Lowrie shot himself last week.
If he had expected the tall man to groan with disappointment, there was a 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 being caught." The slender form of Jig rose before them, trembling. "It isn't true! It isn't true!
He had literally to grip his hands and rouse himself to a pitch of semihysteria. Then he spurred his horse down the path, flung himself with a shout out of the saddle, cast open the door of the house without a preliminary knock, and rushed into the room. "Murder!" shouted Bill Sandersen. "Quade is killed!" Who killed Quade?
Suppose you step outside and we talk shop?" Arizona smiled. It took a man of some courage and standing to refuse such an invitation without losing caste. But for some reason Arizona was 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. You may be as good a man as the next.
"And we're going to find him by ourselves. S'long Sandersen, and thanks for dropping in. No hard feelings, mind!" To this friendly dismissal Sandersen returned no answer. He turned away with a wide, staring eye, and went through the doorway like a man walking in a dream. Arizona was instantly on his feet. "You see, boys?" he asked exultantly. "I was right.
Vaguely he guessed the trend of their conversation, and vaguely he suspected their treacherous meanness. Yet he dared not speak, even had his pride permitted. It was the same story over again when Lowrie walked. Quade rode aside with Sandersen, and again, with the wolfish side glances, they eyed the injured man, while they talked. At the next halt they faced him. Sandersen was the spokesman.
Then he slipped back into the shadow of the main building. Directly above him he saw three dark windows bunched together. This must be Cartwright's room. It seemed patent to Bill Sandersen, earlier that afternoon, that fate had stacked the cards against Riley Sinclair. Bill Sandersen indeed, believed in fate.
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