with your hands.  And don’t brag about what you know or what you’ve done.  That’s the way to get on.  You got the markings in you, son.  You got grit.  I seen it when you was under the whip, and I wish I had the doing of that over again.  I made a mistake with you, kid.  But do what I’ve told you to do, and one of these days you’ll meet up with me and beat me to the draw and take everything you got as a grudge out on me.  But you can’t do it unless you turn into a man.”

Dago had listened in the most profound silence, accepted the money without thanks, and disappeared, never to be heard from again.  In the sleek-faced man before him, Sinclair could hardly recognize that slender fellow of the lumber camp.  Only the bright and agile eyes were the same; that, and a certain telltale nervousness of hand.  The color was coming back into his face.

“I guess I’ve done it,” Arizona was saying.  “I guess we’re squared up, Sinclair.”

“Yep, and a balance on your side.”

“Maybe, maybe not.  But I’ve followed your advice, Long Riley.  I’ve never forgot a word of it.  It was printed into me!”

He made a significant, short gesture, as if he were snapping a whip, and a snarl of undying malice curled his lips.

“As long as you live, Sinclair,” he added.  “As long as you live, I’ll remember.”

Even the sheriff shuddered at that glimpse into the black soul of a man; Sinclair alone was unmoved.

“I reckon you’ve barked enough, Arizona,” he suggested.  “S’pose you trot along.  I got to have words with my friend, the sheriff.”

Arizona waved his fat hand.  He was recovering his ordinary poise, and with a smiling good night to the sheriff, he turned away through the door.

“Nice, friendly sort, eh?” remarked Sinclair the moment he was alone with Kern.

“I still got the chills,” said the sheriff.  “Sure has got a wicked pair of eyes, that Arizona.”

Kern cast an apprehensive glance at the closed door, yet, in spite of the fact that it was closed, he lowered his voice.

“What in thunder have you done to him, Sinclair?”

“About eight years ago—­” began Sinclair and then stopped short.

“Let it go,” he went on.  “No matter what Arizona is today, he’s sure improved on the gent I used to know.  What’s done is done.  Besides, I made a mistake that time.  I went too far with him, and a mistake is like borrowed money, sheriff.  It lays up interest and keeps compounding.  When you have to pay back what you done a long time ago, you find it’s a terrible pile.  That’s all I got to say about Arizona.”

Sheriff Kern nodded.  “That’s straight talk, Sinclair,” he said softly.  “But what was it you wanted to see me about?”

“Cold Feet,” said Sinclair.

At once the sheriff brightened.  “That’s right,” he said hurriedly.  “You got the right idea now, partner.  Glad to see you’re using hoss sense.  And if you gimme an idea of the trail that’ll lead to Cold Feet, I can see to it that you get out of this mess pretty pronto.  After all, you ain’t done no real harm except for nicking Cartwright in the arm, and I figure that he needs a little punishment.  It’ll cool his temper down.”