“Nope,” he said.  “It sure beats all how the luck runs, Sinclair.  We’d had a pretty bad time with crooks around these parts, and them that was nabbed in Sour Creek got away; about two out of three, before they was brought to me at Woodville.  So the boys got together and ponied up for this little jail, and it’s as neat a pile of mud and steel as ever you see.  Look at them bars.  Kind of rusty, they look, but inside they’re toolproof.  Oh, it’s an up-to-date outfit, this jail.  It’s been a comfort to me, and it’s a credit to Sour Creek.  But the trouble is that since it was built they ain’t been more’n one or two to put in it.  Maybe you can make out here for the night.  Have you over to Woodville in a couple of days, Sinclair.”

He brought his prisoner into a cagelike cell, heavily guarded with bars on all sides.  The adobe walls had been trusted in no direction.  The steel lining was the strength of the Sour Creek jail.  The sheriff himself set about shaking out the blankets.  When this was done, he bade his two companions draw their guns and stand guard at the steel door to the cell.

“Not that I don’t trust you a good deal, Sinclair,” he said, “but I know that a gent sometimes takes big chances.”

So saying, he cut the bonds of his prisoner, but instead of making a plunge at the door, Sinclair merely stretched his long arms luxuriously above his head.  The sheriff slipped out of the door and closed it after him.  A heavy and prolonged clangor followed, as steel jarred home against steel.

“Don’t go sheriff,” said Sinclair.  “I need a chat with you.”

“I’m in no hurry.  And here’s the gent we was talking about.  Here’s Arizona!”

The sheriff had waved his two companions out of the jail, as soon as the prisoner was securely lodged, and no sooner was this done, and they had departed through the doorway, than the heavy figure of Arizona himself appeared.  He came slowly into the circle of the lantern light, an oddly changed man.

His swaggering gait, with heels that pounded heavily, was gone.  He slunk forward, soft-footed.  His head, usually so buoyantly erect, was now sunk lower and forward.  His high color had faded to a drab olive.  In fact, from a free-swinging, jovial, somewhat overbearing demeanor, Arizona had changed to a mien of malicious and rather frightened cunning.  In this wise he advanced, heedless of the curious and astonished sheriff, until his face was literally pressed against the bars.  He peered steadily at Sinclair.

On the face of the latter there had been at first blank surprise, then a gradually dawning recognition.  Finally he walked slowly to the bars.  As Sinclair approached, the fat cowpuncher drew back, with lingering catlike steps, as if he grudged every inch of his retreat and yet dared not remain to meet Sinclair.

“By the Eternal,” said Sinclair, “it’s Dago!”

Arizona halted, quivering with emotions which the sheriff could not identify, save for a blind, intense malice.  The tall man turned to the sheriff, smiling:  “Dago Lansing, eh?”