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Updated: May 19, 2025
Then he saw her head fall in despair, as he turned away. When he reached the shimmering heat of the outdoors again, he was feeling like a murderer. His reason told him that Cold Feet was "yaller," not worth saving. His reason told him that he could save Jig only by a confession that would drive him, Sinclair, away from Sour Creek and his destined victim, Sandersen.
Keep an eye on him, you see?" "Easy, judge," replied Denver. "I can do it with one hand." "Montana, you keep the door." "What d'you mean door, judge?" "Ain't you got no imagination whatever?" demanded Sinclair. "You keep the door. When I holler for a witness you go and get 'em. And Sandersen, you're the hangman. Take charge of that rope!" "That ain't such an agreeable job, your honor."
"He thought about that might late," replied Quade. "Waited till he could shift the blame on me and Sandersen, eh? To hell with Lowrie!" "Maybe he's there, all right," said Sinclair, shrugging. "But I've got rid of the yarn, anyway." "Are you going to spread that story around in Sour Creek?" asked Quade softly. "Me? Why, that story was told me confidential by a gent that was about to go out!"
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.
He's the bait, Arizona, and we're the trap that'll catch Sinclair." But Arizona cursed again bitterly. "Leave that bait lie till the sun burns it up. You'll never catch Sinclair with it." "How come?" From around the rock Sandersen appeared and walked down to the fat man. "Because Sinclair's already caught."
In the crisis of action the big Swede seemed to be accorded the place of leader by natural right. The others imitated his example silently. Before they reached the door Larsen turned again. "Watch Jerry Bent," he said softly. "You watch him, Denver, and you, Sandersen. Me and Buck will take care of Cold Feet. He may fight like a rat. That's the way with a coward when he gets cornered."
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.
"Maybe I would, and maybe I wouldn't," answered Bill Sandersen gloomily. He went out onto the veranda and squinted thoughtfully into the darkness. Bill Sandersen was worried very worried. The moment he saw Sinclair enter the hotel, there had been a ghostly familiarity about the man. And he understood the reason for it as soon as he saw the name on the register. Sinclair!
"A grudge?" asked the sheriff, pricking his ears. "So did Cartwright have a grudge," cut in Arizona dryly. Perhaps after all, Sandersen felt, fate might not be with him in this quest for Sinclair. He said earnestly: "You see, boys, it was me that raised the posse that run down Cold Feet in the first place.
"You don't mean it," declared Sinclair. "Sandersen, you don't mean it! Not alone out here! You boys can't leave me out here stranded. Might as well shoot me!" All were silent. Sandersen looked to Lowrie, and the latter stared at the sand. It was Quade who acted. Stepping to the side of Sinclair he lifted him easily in his powerful arms and lowered him to the sands.
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