“Well, they seems to be a few that gets along tolerable well in that town, partner.”

“They’s ten fools for one wise man,” declared Cartwright sententiously.

Sinclair veiled his eyes with a downward glance.  He dared not let the other see the cold gleam which he knew was coming into them.  “I guess them’s true words.”

“Tolerable true,” admitted Cartwright.  “But I’ve rode a long ways, and this ain’t much to find at the end of the trail.”

“Maybe it’ll pan out pretty well after all.”

“If Sour Creek holds the person I’m after, I’ll call it a good-paying game.”

“I hope you find your friend,” remarked Riley, with his deceptive softness of tone.

“Friend?  Hell!  And that’s where this friend will wish me when I heave in sight.  You can lay to that, and long odds!”

Sinclair waited, but the other changed his tack at once.

“If you ain’t from Sour Creek, I guess you can’t tell me what I want to know.”

“Maybe not.”

The brown man looked about him for diversion.  Presently his eyes rested on Cold Feet, who had not stirred during all this interval.

“Son?”

“Nope.”

“Kid brother?”

“Nope.”

Cartwright frowned.  “Not much of nothing, I figure,” he said with marked insolence.

“Maybe not,” replied Sinclair, and again he glanced down.

“He’s slept long enough, I reckon,” declared the brown man.  “Let’s have a look at him.  Hey, kid!”

Cold Feet quivered, but seemed lost in a profound sleep.  Cartwright reached for a small stone and juggled it in the palm of his hand.

“This’ll surprise him,” he chuckled.

“Better not,” murmured Sinclair.

“Why not?”

“Might land on his face and hurt him.”

“It won’t hurt him bad.  Besides, kids ought to learn not to sleep in the daytime.  Ain’t a good idea any way you look at it.  Puts fog in the head.”

He poised the stone.

“You might hit his eye, you see,” said Sinclair.

“Leave that to me!”

But, as his arm twisted back for the throw, the hand of Sinclair flashed out and lean fingers crushed the wrist of Cartwright.  Yet Sinclair’s voice was still soft.

“Better not,” he said.

They sat confronting each other for a moment.  The stone dropped from the numbed fingers of Cartwright, and Sinclair released his wrist.  Their characters were more easily read in the crisis.  Cartwright’s face flushed, and a purple vein ran down his forehead between the eyes.  Sinclair turned pale.  He seemed, indeed, almost afraid, and apparently Cartwright took his cue from the pallor.

“I see,” he said sneeringly.  “You got your guns on.  Is that it?”

Sinclair slipped off the cartridge belt.

“Do I look better to you now?”

“A pile better,” said Cartwright.

They rose, still confronting each other.  It was strange how swiftly they had plunged into strife.