Kern was no psychologist, but he knew that some men out of their peculiar element are like fish out of water.  He shook his head.

“Walk out that back door, will you?” he asked softly.

“We ain’t going down the street?” demanded Arizona.

“No.”

“Thanks, sheriff.”

Again Kern shuddered, swallowed, and then commanded:  “Start along, Arizona.”

Slinking through the door, the fat man hesitated on the little porch and cast a quick glance up and down.

“No one near!” he said.  “Hurry up, sheriff.”

Quickly they skirted down behind the houses—­not unseen, however.  A small boy playing behind his father’s house raised his head to watch the hurrying pair, and when he saw the glitter of the irons, they heard him gasp.  He was old enough to know the meaning of that.  Irons on Arizona, who had been a town hero the night before!  They saw the youngster dart around the house.

“Blast him!” groaned Arizona.  “He’ll spread it everywhere.  Hurry!”

He was right.  The sheriff hurried with a will, but, as they crossed the street for the door of the jail, voices blew down to them.  Looking toward the hotel, they saw men pouring out into the street, pointing, shouting to one another.  Then they swept down on the pair.

But the sheriff and his prisoner gained the door of the jail first, and Kern locked it behind him.  His deputy on guard rose with a start, and at the same time there was a hurried knocking on the door and a clamor of voices without.  Arizona shrank away from that sound, scowling over his shoulder, but the sheriff nodded good-humoredly.

“Take it easy, Arizona.  I ain’t going to make a show of you!”

“Sure, that’s like you, sheriff,” said a hurried, half-whining voice.  “You’re square.  I’ll sure show you one of these days now I appreciate the way you treat me!”

Kern was staggered.  It seemed to him that a new personality had taken possession of the body of the fat man.  He led the way past his gaping deputy.  The jail was not constructed for a crowd.  It was merely a temporary abiding place before prisoners were taken to the larger institution at Woodville.  Consequently there was only one big cell.  The sheriff unlocked the door, slipped the manacles from the wrists of Arizona, and jabbed the muzzle of a revolver into his back!

The last act was decidedly necessary, for the moment his wrists were released from the grip of the steel, Arizona twitched halfway round toward the sheriff.  The scrape of the gunmuzzle against his ribs, however, convinced him.  Over his shoulder he cast one murderous glance at the sheriff and then slouched forward into the cell.

“Company for you, Riley,” said the sheriff, as the tall cowpuncher rose.

The other’s back was turned, and thereby the sheriff was enabled to pass a significant gesture and look to Sinclair.  With that he left them.  In the outer room he found his deputy much alarmed.