“Lady,” Arizona was saying to her, “they’s one gent in the world that I’ve got an eight-year-old grudge agin’.  I’ve swore to get him sooner or later, and that gent is Riley Sinclair.  Make it something else, and I’ll work for you till the skin’s off my hands.  But Sinclair—­” He stopped, studying her intently.  “Will you tell me one thing?  How much does Sinclair mean to you.”

“A great deal,” said the girl gently.  “But if you hate him, I can’t ask you.”

“He’s a hard man,” said Arizona, “and he’s got a mean name, lady.  You know that.  But when you say that he means a lot to you, maybe it’s because he’s taken a big chance for you in Sour Creek and—­”

She shook her head.  “It’s more than that—­much more.”

“Well, I guess I understand,” said Arizona.

Burying the last of his hopes, Arizona looked straight into the sun.

“Eight years ago he was a better man than I am,” said he at length.  “And he’s a better man still.  Lady, I’m going to get Riley Sinclair free!”

30

As Arizona had predicted, Sheriff Kern was greatly tempted not to start on the hard ride for the mountains before morning, and finally he followed his impulse.  With the first break of the dawn he was up, and a few minutes later he had taken the trail alone.  There was no need of numbers, for that matter, to tell a single man that he no longer need dread the law.  But it was only common decency to inform him of the charge, and Kern was a decent sort.

He was thoughtful on the trail.  A great many things had happened to upset the sheriff.  The capture of Sinclair, take it all in all, was an important event.  To be sure, the chief glory was attributable to the cunning of Arizona; nevertheless, the community was sure to pay homage to the skill of the sheriff who had led the party and managed the capture.

But now the sheriff found himself regretting the capture and all its attendant glory.  Not even a personal grudge against the man who had taken his first prisoner from him, could give an edge to the sheriff’s satisfaction, for, during the late hours of the preceding night he had heard from Sinclair the true story of the killing of Quade; not a murder, but a fair fight.  And he had heard more—­the whole unhappy tale which began with the death of Hal Sinclair in the desert, a story which now included, so far as the sheriff knew, three deaths, with a promise of another in the future.

It was little wonder that he was disturbed.  His philosophy was of the kind that is built up in a country of horses, hard riding, hard work, hard fighting.  According to the precepts of that philosophy, Sinclair would have shirked a vital moral duty had he failed to avenge the pitiful death of his brother.

The sheriff put himself into the boots of the man who was now his prisoner and facing a sentence of death.  In that man’s place he knew that he would have taken the same course.  It was a matter of necessary principle; and the sheriff also knew that no jury in the country could allow Sinclair to go free.  It might not be the death sentence, but it would certainly be a prison term as bad as death.