Whitey interrupted himself in the act of shoving the pack across to be cut.  He raised his pale eyes to the face of the rancher.  “What makes you laugh, Cartwright?”

“Nothing,” said Jude hastily.  “Nothing at all.  If you gents don’t know Sinclair, it ain’t up to me to give you light.  Let him go.”

Nothing more was said during that hand which Whitey won.  Jude, apparently bluffing shamelessly, bucked him up to fifty dollars, and then he allowed himself to be called with a pair of tens against a full house.  Not only did he lose, but he started a laugh against himself, and he joined in cheerfully.  He was aware of Whitey frowning curiously at him and smiling faintly, which was the nearest that Whitey ever came to laughter.  And, indeed, the laugh cost Cartwright more than money, but it was a price—­the price he was paying for the adherence of Whitey.

“What about this Sinclair?” asked the man with the great, red, blotchy freckles across his face and the back of his neck, so that the skin between looked red and raw.  “You come from up north, which is his direction, too.  Know anything about him?  He looks like pretty much of a man to me, and the sheriff says he’s a square shooter from the word go.”

“Maybe he is,” said Cartwright.  “But I don’t want to go around digging the ground away from nobody’s reputation.”

“Whatever he’s got, he won’t last long,” said Whitey definitely.  “He’ll swing sure.”

It was Cartwright’s opening.  He took advantage of it dexterously, without too much haste.  He even yawned to show his lack of interest.

“Well, I got a hundred that says he don’t hang,” he observed quietly and looked full at Whitey across the table.  It was a challenge which the gambling spirit of the latter could not afford to overlook.

“Money talks,” began Whitey, then he checked himself.  “Do you know anything, Cartwright?”

“Sure I don’t,” said Jude in the manner of one who has abundant knowledge in reserve.  “But they say that the sheriff and Sinclair have become regular bunkies.  Don’t do nothing hardly but sit and chin with each other over in the jail.  Ever know Kern to do that before?”

They shook their heads.

“Which is a sign that Sinclair may be all right,” said the sober Whitey.

“Which is a sign that he might have something on the sheriff,” said Jude Cartwright.  “I don’t say that he has, mind you, but it looks kind of queer.  He yanked a prisoner away from the sheriff one day, and the next day he’s took for murder.  Did the sheriff have much to do with his taking?  No, he didn’t.  By all accounts it was Arizona that done the taking, planning and everything.  And after Sinclair is took, what does the sheriff do?  He gets on the trail of Arizona and has him checked in for murder of another gent.  Maybe Arizona is guilty, maybe he ain’t.  But it kind of looks as if they was something between Sinclair and Kern, don’t it?”