Sinclair had neither eye nor ear for them.  But he looked back and up to the western sky, with a flat-topped mountain clearly outlined against it.  There was his country, and in his country he had left Jig alone and helpless.  A feeling of utter desolation and failure came over him.  He had started with a double-goal—­Sandersen or Cartwright, or both.  He had failed lamentably of reaching either one.  He looked back to the sheriff, squat, insignificant, gray-headed.  What a man to have blocked him!

“But who’s this Arizona?” he asked.

“I dunno.  Seems to have known you somewhere.  Maybe a friend of yours, Sinclair?”

“H’m,” said the cowpuncher.  “Maybe!  Tell me:  Was it him that was outside the window and trimmed the light on me?”

“You got him right, Sinclair.  That was the gent.  Nice play he made, eh?”

“Very pretty, sheriff.  I thought I knowed his voice.”

“He seems to have made himself pretty infrequent.  Didn’t know Arizona was so darned modest.”

“Maybe he’s got other reasons,” said Sinclair.  “What’s his full name?”

“Ain’t that curious!  I ain’t heard of anybody else that knows it.  He’s a cool head, this Arizona.  Seemed to read your mind and know jest how you’d jump, Sinclair.  I would have been off combing the trails, but he seemed to know that you’d come into town.”

“I’ll sure keep him in mind if I ever meet up with him,” murmured Sinclair.  “Is this where I bunk?”

The sheriff had paused before a squat, dumpy building and was working noisily at the lock with a big key.  Now that his back was necessarily toward his prisoner, two of the posse stepped up close beside Sinclair.  They had none of the sheriff’s nonchalance.  One of them was the man whose head had made the acquaintance of Sinclair’s knee, and both were ready for instant action of any description.

“I’m Rhinehart,” said one softly.  “Keep me in mind, Sinclair.  I’m him that you smashed with your knee.  Dirty work!  I’ll see you when you get out of the lockup—­if that ever happens!”

The voice of Sinclair was not so soft.  “I’ll meet you in jail or out,” he answered, “on foot or on horseback, with fists or knife or gun.  And you can lay to this, Rhinehart:  I’ll remember you a pile better’n you’ll remember me!”

All the repressed savagery of his nature came quivering into his voice as he spoke, and the other shrank instinctively a pace.  In the meantime the sheriff had succeeded in turning the rusted lock, which squeaked back.  The door grumbled on its heavy hinges.  Sinclair stepped into the musty, close atmosphere within.

“Don’t look like you had much use for this here outfit,” he said to the sheriff.

The latter lighted a lantern.