“Hold on,” cut in Arizona.

Patently they regarded him with disfavor.  There was something blandly superior in Arizona’s demeanor.  He had a way of putting forth his opinions as though it were not the slightest effort for him to penetrate truths which were securely veiled from the eyes of ordinary men.

Now he looked calmly, almost contemptuously upon the sheriff and the rest of the posse.

“Gents, has any of you ever seen this Jig you talk about ride a hoss?”

“Me, of course,” said the sheriff.

“Anything about him strike you when he was in a saddle?”

“Sure!  Got a funny arm motion.”

“Like he was fanning his ribs with his elbows to keep cool?” went on Arizona, grinning.

The sheriff chuckled.

“Would you pick him for a good hand on a long trail?”

“Never in a million years,” said the sheriff.  “Is he?”

Kern seemed to admit his inferiority by asking this question.  He bit his lip and was about to go on and answer himself when Arizona cut in with:  “Never in a million years, sheriff.  He couldn’t do twenty miles in a day without being laid up.”

“What’s the point of all this, Arizona?”

“I’ll show you pronto.  Let’s go back to Sinclair.  The other day he was one of a bunch that pretty near got Gaspar hung, eh?”

“Yep.”

“But at the last minute he saved Jig?”

“Sure.  I just been telling you that.”

Their inability to follow Arizona’s train of thought irritated the others.  He literally held them in the palm of his hand as he developed his argument.

“Why did he save Jig?” he went on.  “Because when Gaspar was about to swing, they was something about him that struck Sinclair.  What was it?  I dunno, except that Jig is tolerable young looking and pretty helpless, even though you say he killed Quade.”

“Say he killed him?” burst put the sheriff.  “It was plumb proved on him.”

“I’d sure like to see that proof,” said the man from the southland.  “The point is that Sinclair took pity on him and kept him from the noose.  Then he stays that night guarding him and gets more and more interested.  This Jig has got a pile of education.  I’ve heard him talk.  Today you come over the hills.  Sinclair sees Woodville, figures that’s the place where Jig’ll be hung, and he loses his nerve.  He sticks you up and gets Jig free.  All right!  D’you think he’ll stop at that?  Don’t he know that Jig’s plumb helpless on the trail?  And knowing that, d’you think he’ll split with Jig and leave the schoolteacher to be picked up the first thing?  No, sir, he’ll stick with Jig and see him through.”

“Well, all the better,” snapped the sheriff.  “That’s going to make our trail shorter—­if what you say turns out true.”

“It’s true, well enough.  Sinclair right now is camping somewhere in the hills near Sour Creek, waiting for things to quiet down before he hits the out-trail with this Gaspar.”