A sort of pity for the big cowpuncher moved him.  He knew that he and Quade and Lowrie deserved death in its most terrible form for their betrayal of Hal Sinclair in the desert; and nothing but fate, he was sure, could save him from the avenger.  Fate, however, had definitely intervened.  What save blind fate could have stepped into the mind of Sinclair and made him keep Cold Feet from the rope, when that hanging would have removed forever all suspicion that Sinclair himself had killed Quade?

Another man would have attributed both of those actions to common decency in Sinclair, but Sandersen always hunted out more profound reasons.  In order to let the fact of his own salvation from Sinclair’s gun sink more definitely into his brain, he trotted his horse into the hills that afternoon.  When he came back he heard that the posse was in town.

To another it might have seemed odd that the posse was there instead of on the trail of the outlaws.  But Sandersen never thought of so practical a question.  To him it was as clear as day.  The posse had been brought to Sour Creek by fate in order that he, Sandersen, might enlist in its ranks and help in the great work of running down Sinclair, for, after all, it was work primarily to his own interest.  There was something ironically absurd about it.  He, Sandersen, having committed the mortal crime of abandoning Hal Sinclair in the desert, was now given the support of legal society to destroy the just avenger of that original crime.  It was hardly any wonder that Sandersen saw in all this the hand of fate.

He went straight to the hotel and up to the room which the sheriff had engaged.  Cartwright was coming out with a black face, as Sandersen entered.  The former turned at the door and faced Kern and the four assistants of the sheriff.

“I’ll tell you what you’ll do, you wise gents,” he growled.  “You’ll miss him altogether.  You hear?”

And then he stamped down the hall.

Sandersen carefully removed his hat as he went in.  He was quite aware that Cartwright must have been just refused a place on the posse, and he did not wish to appear too confident.  He paid his compliments to the bunch, except Arizona, to whom he was introduced.  The sheriff forestalled his request.

“You’ve come for a job in the posse, Bill?”

Hastily Sandersen cut in before the other should pronounce a final judgment.

“I don’t blame you for turning down Cartwright,” he said.  “A gent like that who don’t know the country ain’t much use on the trail, eh?”

“The point is, Bill, that I got all the men I need.  I don’t want a whole gang.”

“But I got a special reason, sheriff.  Besides a tolerable fast hoss that might come in handy for a chase, I sling a tolerable fast gun, sheriff.  But beyond that all, I got a grudge.”

“A grudge?” asked the sheriff, pricking his ears.

“So did Cartwright have a grudge,” cut in Arizona dryly.