Part 30 (1/2)
”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.”
”He wouldn't be fool enough for that,” grumbled the sheriff.
”Fool? Has any one of you professional man hunters figured yet on hunting for 'em near Sour Creek? Ain't you-all been talking long trails--Colma, and what not?”
They were crushed.
”All you say is true, if Sinclair saddles himself with the tenderfoot.
Might as well tie so much lead around his neck.”
”He'll do it, though,” said Arizona carelessly. ”I know him.”
It caused a new focusing of attention upon him, and this time Arizona seemed to regret that he stood in the limelight.
”You know him?” asked Joe Stockton softly.
The bright black eyes of the fat man glittered and flickered from face to face. He seemed to be gauging them and deciding how much he could say--or how little.
”Sure, I drifted up to this country one season and rode there. I heard a pile about this Sinclair and seen him a couple of times.”
”How good a man d'you figure him to be with a gun?” asked the sheriff without apparent interest.
”Good enough,” sighed Arizona. ”Good enough, partner!”
Presently the sheriff showed that he was a man capable of taking good advice, even though he could not stamp it as his own original device.
”Boys,” he said, ”I figure that what Arizona has said is tolerable sound. Arizona, what d'you advise next?”
”That we go to Sour Creek p.r.o.nto--and sit down and wait!”
A chorus of exclamations arose.
Arizona grew impatient with such stupidity. ”Sinclair come to Sour Creek to do something. I dunno what he wants, but what he wants he ain't got yet, and he's the sort that'll stay till he does his work.”