Presently he reached a bald upland.  The fresh wind of the morning struck his face, and he breathed deep of it.  Why could he not return to Sour Creek as a hero, and why could he not collect the price on the head of Riley Sinclair?

The thought made him alert, savage.  A moment later, his head pushing up to the level of the shoulder of the mountain, he saw his quarry.  In the dimness of that early dawn he made out the form of a sleeper huddled in blankets, but it was enough.  That must be Riley Sinclair.  It could not be another, and all his premonitions were correct.

Suddenly he became aware that he could not fail.  It was impossible!  As gloomy as he had been before, his spirits now leaped to the heights.  He swung down from the saddle, softly, slowly, and went up the hill without once drawing his eyes from that motionless form in the blankets.

Once something stirred to the right and far below him.  He flashed a glance in that direction and saw that it was a hobbled horse, though not the horse of Sinclair; but that mattered nothing.  The second horse might be among the trees.

Easing his step and tightening the grip on his revolver, he drew closer.  Should he shoot without warning?  No, he would lean over the sleeper, call his name, and let him waken and see his death before it came to him.  Otherwise the triumph would be robbed of half of its sweetness.

Now he had come sufficiently near to make out distinctly that there was only one sleeper.  Had Sinclair and Cold Feet separated?  If so, this must be Sinclair.  The latter might have the boldness to linger so close to danger, but certainly never Cold Feet, even if he had once worked his courage to the point of killing a man.  He stepped closer, leaned, and then by the half-light made out the pale, delicate features of the schoolteacher.

For the moment Sandersen was stunned with disappointment, and yet his spirits rose again almost at once.  If Sinclair had fled, all the better.  He would not return, at least for a long time, and in the meantime, he, Sandersen, would collect the money on the head of Cold Feet!

With the Colt close to the breast of Jig, he said:  “Wake up, Cold Feet!”

The girl opened her eyes, struggled to sit up, and was thrust back by the muzzle of the gun, held with rocklike firmness in the hand of Sandersen.

“Riley—­what—­” she muttered sleepily and then she made out the face of Sandersen distinctly.

Instantly she was wide awake, whiter than ever, staring.  Better to take the desperado alive than dead—­far better.  Cold Feet would make a show in Sour Creek for the glorification of Sandersen, as he rode down through the main street, and the men would come out to see the prize which even Sheriff Kern and his posse had not yet been able to take.

“Roll over on your face.”

Cold Feet obeyed without a murmur.  There was a coiled rope by the cinders of the fire.  Sandersen cut off a convenient length and bound the slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher.  Then he jerked his quarry to a sitting posture.