He flung himself gloomily into his saddle again, and this time he headed straight down the trail for Sour Creek.

At the hotel he was surrounded by an excited knot of people who wished to know how he had extracted the amazing confession from Riley Sinclair.  The sheriff tore himself away from a dozen hands who wished to buttonhole him in close conversation.

“I’ll tell you gents this,” he said.  “Quade was killed because he needed killing, and Sinclair confessed because he’s straight.”

With that, casting an ugly glance at the lot of them, he went back into the kitchen and demanded a cup of coffee.  The Chinese cook obeyed the order in a hurry, highly flattered and not a little nervous at the presence of the great man in the kitchen.

While Kern was there, Arizona entered.  The sheriff greeted him cheerfully, with his coffee cup balanced in one hand.

“Arizona,” he said, “or Dago, or whatever you like to be called—­”

“Cut the Dago part, will you?” demanded Arizona.  “I ain’t no ways wishing to be reminded of that name.  Nobody calls me that.”

Kern grinned covertly.

“I s’pose,” said Arizona slowly, “that you and Sinclair had a long yarn about when he knew me some time back?”

The sheriff shook his head.

“Between you and me,” he said frankly, “it sounded to me like Sinclair knew something you mightn’t want to have noised around.  Is that straight?”

“I’ll tell you,” answered the other.  “When I was a kid I was a fool kid.  That’s all it amounts to.”

Sheriff Kern grunted.  “All right, Arizona, I ain’t asking.  But you can lay to it that Sinclair won’t talk.  He’s as straight as ever I seen!”

“Maybe,” said Arizona, “but he’s slippery.  And I got this to say:  Lemme have the watch over Sinclair while he’s in Sour Creek, or are you taking him back to Woodville today?”

“I’m held over,” said the sheriff.

He paused.  Twice the little olive-skinned man from the south had demonstrated his superiority in working out criminal puzzles.  The sheriff was prone to unravel the new mystery by himself, if he might.

“By what?”

“Oh, by something I’ll tell you about later on,” said the sheriff.  “It don’t amount to much, but I want to look into it.”

Purposely he had delayed sending the party to bury Sandersen.  It would be simply warning the murderer if that man were in Sour Creek.

“About you and Sinclair,” went on the sheriff, “there ain’t much good feeling between you, eh?”

“I won’t shoot him in the back if I guard him,” declared Arizona.  “But if you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead.  Put Red on it.”

“He’s too young.  Sinclair’s get him off guard by talking.”

“Then try Wood.”

“Wood ain’t at his best off the trail.  Come to think about it, I’d rather trust Sinclair to you—­that is, if you make up your mind to treat him square.”