“Thanks,” said Jig, handing back the flask.  “Hot stuff, partner.”

“You got a tough throat,” observed the rancher.  “First I ever see that didn’t choke on a swig of that.  But you youngsters has the advantage of a sound lining for your innards.”

He helped himself from the flask, coughed heavily, and then pounded home the cork.

“How’s things up Whiteacre way?”

“Fair to middlin’,” said Jig.  “They ain’t hollering for rain so much as they was.”

“I reckon not,” agreed the rancher.

“And how’s things down Sour Creek way?” asked Jig.

“Trouble busting every minute,” said the other.  “Murder, gun scrapes, brawls in the hotel—­to beat anything I ever see.  The town is sure going plumb to the dogs at this rate!”

“You don’t say!  Well, I heard something about a gent named Quade being plugged.”

“Him?  He was just the beginning—­just the start!  Since then we had a man took away from old Kern, which don’t happen once in a coon’s age.  Then we had a fine fresh murder right this morning, and the present minute they’s two in jail on murder charges, and both are sure to swing!”

Jig gasped.  “Two!” she exclaimed.

“Yep.  They was a skinny schoolteacher named—­I forget what.  Most general he was called Cold Feet, which fitted.  They thought he killed Quade account of a girl.  But a gent named Sinclair up and confessed, and he is waiting for the rope.  And then a sheriff all by himself grabbed Arizona for the murder of Sandersen.  Oh, times is picking up considerable in Sour Creek.  Reminds me of twenty years back before Kern come on the job and cleaned up the gunfighters!”

“Two murders!” repeated the girl faintly.  “And has Arizona confessed, too?”

“Not him!  But the sheriff has enough to give him a hard run.  I got to be drifting on, son.  Take my advice and head straight for Woodville.  You lack five years of being old enough for Sour Creek these days!” He called his farewell, threw off the brake and cursed the span of horses into their former trot.

As for Jig, she waited until the scent of alkali dust died away, and the rattle of the buckboard was faint in the distance.  Then she turned her horse back toward Sour Creek and urged it to a steady gallop, bouncing in the saddle.

There seemed a fatality about her.  On her account Sinclair had thrown his life in peril, and now Arizona was caught and held in the same danger.  Enough of sacrifices for her; her mind was firm to repay some of these services at any cost, and she had thought of a way.

With that gloomy purpose before her, her ordinary timidity disappeared.  It was strange to ride into Sour Creek, and she passed in review among the rough men of the town, constantly fearful that they might pierce her disguise.  She had trained herself to a long stride and a swaggering demeanor, and by constant practice she had been able to lower the pitch of her voice and roughen its quality.  Yet, in spite of the constant practice, she never had been able to gain absolute self-confidence.  Tonight, however, there was no fear in her.