Instantly his mind flashed back to the details of the scene.  He rehearsed it with himself in a different role, beating the cowpuncher to a helpless pulp of bruised muscle, snatching away his wife.  But even if he had been able to do that, what would the outcome be?  He could not let the world know the truth—­that his wife had fled from him in horror on their marriage day, that she had wondered about in the clothes of a man, that she was the companion of another man.  And if he brought her back, certainly all these facts would come to light.  The close-cropped hair alone would be damning evidence.

He framed a wild tale of abduction by villains, of an injury, a sickness, a fever that forced a doctor to cut her hair short.  He had no sooner framed the story than he threw it away as useless.  With all his soul he began to wish for the only possible solution which would save the remnants of his ruined self-respect and keep him from the peril of discovery.  The girl must indubitably die!

By the time he came to this conclusion, he had struck out of the hills, and, as his horse hit the level going and picked up speed, the heart of Jude Cartwright became lighter.  He would get weapons and the finest horse money could buy in Sour Creek, trail the pair, take them by surprise, and kill them both.  Then back to the homeland and a new life!

Already he saw himself in it, his name surrounded with a glamour of pathetic romance, as the sad widower with a mystery darkening his past and future.  It was an agreeable gloom into which he fell.  Self-pity warmed him and loosened his fierceness.  He sighed with regret for his own misfortunes.

In this frame of mind he reached Sour Creek and its hotel.  While he wrote his name in the yellowed register he over-heard loud conversation in the farther end of the room.  Two men had been outlawed that day—­John Gaspar, the schoolteacher who killed Quade, and Riley Sinclair, a stranger from the North.

Paying no further attention to the talk, he passed on into the general merchandise store which filled most of the lower story of the hotel.  There he found the hardware department, and prominent among the hardware were the gun racks.  He went over the Colts and with an expert hand took up the guns, while the gray-headed storekeeper advanced an eulogium upon each weapon.  His attention was distracted by the entrance of a tall, painfully thin man who seemed in great haste.

“What’s all this about Cold Feet, Whitey?” he asked.  “Cold Feet and Sinclair?”

“I dunno, Sandersen, except that word come in from Woodville that Sinclair stuck up the sheriff on his way in with Jig, and Sinclair got clean away.  What could have been in his head to grab Jig?”

“I dunno,” said Sandersen, apparently much perturbed.  “They outlawed ’em both, Whitey?”

There was an eagerness in this question so poorly concealed that Cartwright jerked up his head and regarded Sandersen with interest.