“Who brought me here?”

“Dale and his first deputy—­the guy you poked in the stummick, over in the Okar Hotel.  They tell me you fi’t like hell!  What’s Dale got ag’in’ you?  Be sure was some het up about you.”

Sanderson did not answer.  He turned his back to the jailer and walked to the cot, again sitting on its edge.  He heard the jailer sniff contemptuously, but he paid no attention to him.

Prominent in Sanderson’s thoughts was the realization that Dale had taken his money.  He knew that was the last of it—­Dale would not admit taking it.  Sanderson had intended to use the four thousand on the Double A irrigation project.  The sum, together with the three thousand he meant to draw from the Okar bank, would have been enough to make a decent start.

Sanderson had some bitter thoughts as he sat on the edge of the cot, all of them centering around Dale, Silverthorn, Maison, Owen, Mary Bransford, and himself.  He realized that he had been defeated in the first clash with the forces opposed to him, that Owen had turned traitor, that Mary Bransford’s position now was more precarious than it had been before his coming, and that he had to deal with resourceful, desperate, and unscrupulous men.

And yet, sitting there at the edge of the cot, Sanderson grinned.  The grin did not make his face attractive, for it reflected something of the cold, bitter humor and savage passion that had gripped his soul.

At noon the next day Sanderson, looking out of the window of his cell; heard a sound at the door.  He turned, to see Silverthorn standing in the corridor.

Silverthorn smiled blandly at him.

“Over it, I see,” he said.  “They used you rather roughly, eh?  Well, they tell me you made them step some.”

Sanderson deliberately turned his back and continued to look out of the window.

“On your dignity, eh?” sneered Silverthorn.  “Well, let me tell you something.  We’ve heard a lot about you—­from Dal Colton and Barney Owen.  Morley—­one of our men—­got Owen soused last night, as per orders, and Owen spilled his knowledge of you all over the town.  It’s pretty well known, now, that you are Deal Sanderson, from down Tombstone way.

“I don’t know what your game was, but I think it’s pretty well queered by now.  I suppose you had some idea of impersonating Bransford, hoping to get a slice of the property.  I don’t blame you for trying.  It was up to us to see that you didn’t get away with it.

“But we don’t want to play hog.  If you’ll admit before a notary that you are not Will Bransford we’ll hand you back the four thousand Dale took from you, give you ten thousand in addition and safe conduct out of the county.  That strike you?”

Sanderson did not answer.

Silverthorn’s face reddened.  “You’re a damned fool!” he sneered, venomously.  “We’ll keep you in jail here for a thousand years, if necessary.  We’ll do worse!