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Updated: May 19, 2025
The others of the self-appointed posse had apparently made up their minds that Sandersen was right, and that this was a cold trail. "It's like Sinclair says," admitted the judge. "We got to find a gent that had a reason for wishing to have Quade die. Where's the man?" "Hunt for the reason first and find the man afterward," said big Larsen, still smiling. "All right!
"What d'you know about it, Lanky?" he demanded of Sandersen. "Didn't I run the affair? Wasn't it me that planted the whole trap? Wasn't it me that 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 we would. And they laughed at me, the fools!"
He had found it snatched out of his hand, and, as he measured Sandersen, his heart rose. Twenty-five-hundred dollars would fairly well equip him in life. The anger faded out of his eyes, and in its place came the cold gleam of the man who thinks and calculates. All at once he began to smile, a mirthless smile that was of the lips only.
"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, much pleased with himself. "Why not, I'd like to know?" In the meantime Bill Sandersen had gone down to the street, still with the staring eyes of a sleep walker.
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.
Every downward step of those shadows was to the feverish imagination of Sandersen a forecast of the coming of Sinclair Sinclair coming in spite of the posse, in spite of the price upon his head. In the few moments during which Sandersen remained in the street watching, the tumult grew in his mind. He was afraid.
Drawing into the background Larsen said: "Open up on him, judge. Start the questions." But Sandersen was of no mind to let the slow-moving mind of the judge handle this affair which was so vital to him. If Riley Sinclair did not hang, Sandersen himself was instantly placed in peril of his life. He stepped in front of Sinclair and thrust out his long arm. "You killed Quade!"
Why else would he have called on Quade?" There was a round chorus of oaths and exclamations. "The poisonous little 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 of the big man from up north all during the scene, and he found the stern features unreadable.
"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 come to find Quade. You ride down off'n the hills, and you come up to Quade's house. You call him out to talk to you. You're sitting on your horse. All at once you snatch out a gun and shoot Quade down. We know!
All his strong instincts cried out to find Sandersen and, having found him, to shoot him and flee. Yet he had a sense of fatality connected with Sandersen. Lowrie's own conscience had betrayed him, and his craven fear had been his executioner. Quade had been shot in a fair fight with not a soul near by. But, at the third time, Sinclair felt reasonably sure that his luck would fail him.
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