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Updated: May 19, 2025
"Now, suppose it was me that brought in Cold Feet, who'd get the money?" "Why, you that brought him in?" "Yep, me. And suppose I brought him in with two murders charged to him instead 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 to fear that the reason of Arizona was unbalanced. He shook his head.
Removing his sombrero he showed on the back of his head the great welt which had been made when he struck the ground with the weight of Sinclair on top of him. It was examined with intense interest by the other two. "Dirty work!" said Sandersen sympathetically. The storekeeper said nothing at all, but began to fold up a bolt of cloth which lay half unrolled on the counter.
"Well, take it all in all," pursued Arizona, "this deal of mine is pretty 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.
Sandersen studied the schoolteacher closely. It was impossible to mistake the frankness of the latter's face. "By guns," he said at last, "I see it all now. The skunk sneaked off in the 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 in his life." "Maybe not," muttered Sandersen apprehensively.
"Think of meeting up with them two all alone and not knowing what they was!" 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 blue eyes becoming dreamy. "Get your gat out, will you, Bill?" Bill Sandersen obliged. "Look at the butt. D'you see any point on it?" "Nope."
"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'you know 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 to have around." Contempt spread on the face of Sinclair.
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.
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.
A moment later her mouth was wrenched open, and a huge wadded bandanna was stuffed into it. Sandersen pushed her back to the ground and tossed the blanket over her again. "You ain't much of a man, Jig, but as a bait for my trap you'll do tolerable well. You're right: Sinclair's coming back, and when he comes, I'll be waiting for him out of sight behind the rock. But listen to this, Jig.
A sense of guilt troubled the mind of Bill Sandersen, but the obvious thing 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 that friend he now addressed a telegram.
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