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Updated: May 19, 2025
There was a coiled rope by the cinders of the fire. Sandersen cut off a convenient length and bound the slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher. Then he jerked his 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? Thank goodness!"
You're in reach of my fist, and I'd think nothing of busting you in the face. Shut up till I talk to you." The misty eyes of Sandersen brightened a little and grew hard. There was a great deal of fighting spirit in the man, and his easy victory of that morning had roused him to a battling pitch. "Looks to me like you ain't running this here party, Arizona," he said dryly.
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.
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.
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 the reward. Won't that be two murders on his head?" The thin Swede rubbed his chin. "For a grown man, Fatty, you're doing a lot of supposing." "I'm going to turn it into fact," said Arizona. "How?" "With a chunk of lead! Pull your gun, you lanky fool!"
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.
"Sandersen and some of the rest in Sour Creek fixed up a posse and went out and grabbed Gaspar. They gave him a lynch trial and was about to string him up when a stranger named Sinclair, a man who had joined up with the posse, steps out and holds for keeping Gaspar and turning him over to me, to be hung all proper and legal.
Denver, Larsen, the judge, and Sandersen held the free end of the rope. Buck Mason tied the hands of the prisoner behind him. Montana spoke calmly through his mask. "Jig, you sure done a rotten bad thing. You hadn't ought to of killed him, Jig. These here killings has got to stop. We ain't hanging you for spite, but to make an example."
"If he does show his face alive, it'll be a dead face pronto. You can lay to that." Sandersen seemed to turn this fact over and over in his mind, with immense satisfaction. "And yet," pursued the storekeeper, "think of a full-grown man breaking the law to save such a skinny little shrimp of a gent as Jig? Eh? More like a pretty girl than a boy, Jig is."
A hunch might make him journey five hundred miles; a snort 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 at thirty 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 his lips to sing, as he usually did.
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