“Sure, my word goes,” he hastened to put in.  “The sheriff and all of us work like a closed hand—­all together!”

There was a subtle flattery about this that pleased the sheriff and the others.

“Reckoning it all in all,” said sheriff, “I think we better figure you out, Sandersen.  Besides they ain’t anything to keep you and Cartwright and the rest from rigging up a little posse of your own.  Sinclair is up yonder in the hill waiting—­”

Suddenly he stopped.  Sandersen was shaken as if by a violent ague, and his face lost all color, becoming a sickly white.

“And we’re going to find him by ourselves.  S’long Sandersen, and thanks for dropping in.  No hard feelings, mind!”

To this friendly dismissal Sandersen returned no answer.  He turned away with a wide, staring eye, and went through the doorway like a man walking in a dream.  Arizona was instantly on his feet.

“You see, boys?” he asked exultantly.  “I was right.  When you said Sinclair was waiting up there in the hills, Sandersen was scared.  I was right.  He’s one of them that Sinclair is after, and that’s why he wanted to throw in with us!”

“And why the devil shouldn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

“For a good reason, sheriff, reason that’ll save us a pile of riding.  We’ll sit tight here in Sour Creek for a while and catch Sinclair right here.  D’you know how?  By watching Cartwright and Sandersen.  As sure as they’s a sky over us, Sinclair is going to make a try at one of ’em.  They both hate him.  Well, you can lay to it that he hates ’em back.  And a man that Sinclair hates he’s going to get sooner or later—­chiefly sooner.  Sheriff, keep an eye on them two tonight, and you’ll have Sinclair playing right into your hands!”

“Looks to me,” muttered Red Chalmers, “like you had a grudge agin’ Cartwright and Sandersen, using them for live bait and us for a trap.”

“Why not?” asked Arizona, sitting down and rubbing his fat hands, much pleased with himself.  “Why not, I’d like to know?”

In the meantime Bill Sandersen had gone down to the street, still with the staring eyes of a sleep walker.  It was evening, and from the open street he looked out and up to the mountains, growing blue and purple against the sky.  He had heard Hal Sinclair talk about Riley and Riley’s love for the higher mountains.  They were “his country.”  And a great surety dropped upon him that the fat man of the posse had been right.  Somewhere in those mountains Sinclair was lurking, ready for a descent upon Sour Creek.

Now Sandersen grew cold.  All that was superstitious in his nature took him by the throat.  The fate, which he had felt to be fighting with him, he now was equally sure was aligned against him.  Otherwise, why had the posse refused to accept him as a member?  For only one reason:  He was doomed to die by the hand of Riley Sinclair, and then, no doubt, Riley Sinclair would fall in turn by the bullets of the posse.