oblivion.  He held the southlander’s contempt for the men and ways of the north.  His presence in the office was explained by the fact that he had long before discovered it to be an excellent thing to stand in with the sheriff.  After this statement from Kern, therefore, he first glanced at his three companions, and, observing their agitation, he became somewhat stirred himself and puckered his fat brows above his eyes, as he glanced back at Kern.

“You’ve heard of the killing of Quade?” asked the sheriff.

“Yesterday,” said Red Chalmers.

“And that they got the killer?”

“Nope.”

“It was a gent you’d never have suspected—­that skinny little schoolteacher, Gaspar.”

“I never liked the looks of him,” said Red Chalmers gloomily.  “I always got to have a second thought about a gent that’s too smooth with the ladies.  And that was this here Jig.  So he done the shooting?”

“It was a fight over Sally Bent,” explained the sheriff.  “Sandersen and some of the rest in Sour Creek fixed up a posse and went out and grabbed Gaspar.  They gave him a lynch trial and was about to string him up when a stranger named Sinclair, a man who had joined up with the posse, steps out and holds for keeping Gaspar and turning him over to me, to be hung all proper and legal.  I heard about all this and went out to the Bent house, first thing this morning, to get Gaspar, who was left there in charge of this Sinclair.  Any of you ever heard about him?”

A general bowing of heads followed, as the men began to consider, all save Arizona, who never thought when he could avoid it, and positively never used his memory.  He habitually allowed the dead past to bury its dead.

“It appears to me like I’ve heard of a Sinclair up to Colma,” murmured Bill Wood.  “That was four or five years back, and I b’lieve he was called a sure man in a fight.”

“That’s him,” muttered the sheriff.  He was greatly relieved to know that his antagonist had already achieved so comfortable a reputation.  “A big, lean, hungry-eyed gent, with a restless pair of hands.  He come along with me while I was bringing Gaspar, but I didn’t think nothing about it, most nacheral.  I leave it to you, boys!”

Settling themselves they leaned forward in their chairs.

“We was talking about hosses and suchlike, which Sinclair talked uncommon slick.  He seemed a knowing gent, and I opened up to him, but in the middle of things he paws out his Colt, as smooth as you ever see, and he shoves it under my nose.”

Sheriff Kern paused.  He was wearing gloves in spite of the fact that he was in his office.  These gloves seem to have a peculiarly businesslike meaning for the others, and now they watched, fascinated, while the sheriff tugged his fingers deeper into the gloves, as if he were getting ready for action.  He cleared his throat and managed to snap out the rest of the shameful statement.