Part 40 (2/2)

Suddenly he became aware that he could not fail. It was impossible! As gloomy as he had been before, his spirits now leaped to the heights. He swung down from the saddle, softly, slowly, and went up the hill without once drawing his eyes from that motionless form in the blankets.

Once something stirred to the right and far below him. He flashed a glance in that direction and saw that it was a hobbled horse, though not the horse of Sinclair; but that mattered nothing. The second horse might be among the trees.

Easing his step and tightening the grip on his revolver, he drew closer. Should he shoot without warning? No, he would lean over the sleeper, call his name, and let him waken and see his death before it came to him. Otherwise the triumph would be robbed of half of its sweetness.

Now he had come sufficiently near to make out distinctly that there was only one sleeper. Had Sinclair and Cold Feet separated? If so, this must be Sinclair. The latter might have the boldness to linger so close to danger, but certainly never Cold Feet, even if he had once worked his courage to the point of killing a man. He stepped closer, leaned, and then by the half-light made out the pale, delicate features of the schoolteacher.

For the moment Sandersen was stunned with disappointment, and yet his spirits rose again almost at once. If Sinclair had fled, all the better. He would not return, at least for a long time, and in the meantime, he, Sandersen, would collect the money on the head of Cold Feet!

With the Colt close to the breast of Jig, he said: ”Wake up, Cold Feet!”

The girl opened her eyes, struggled to sit up, and was thrust back by the muzzle of the gun, held with rocklike firmness in the hand of Sandersen.

”Riley--what--” she muttered sleepily and then she made out the face of Sandersen distinctly.

Instantly she was wide awake, whiter than ever, staring. Better to take the desperado alive than dead--far better. Cold Feet would make a show in Sour Creek for the glorification of Sandersen, as he rode down through the main street, and the men would come out to see the prize which even Sheriff Kern and his posse had not yet been able to take.

”Roll over on your face.”

Cold Feet obeyed without a murmur. There was a coiled rope by the cinders of the fire. Sandersen cut off a convenient length and bound the slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher. Then he jerked his quarry to a sitting posture.

”Where's Sinclair gone?”

To his astonishment, Cold Feet's face brightened wonderfully.

”Oh, then you haven't found him? You haven't found him? Thank goodness!”

Sandersen studied the schoolteacher closely. It was impossible to mistake the frankness of the latter's face.

”By guns,” he said at last, ”I see it all now. The skunk sneaked off in the middle of the night and left you alone here to face the music?”

Jig flushed, as she exclaimed: ”That's not true. He's never run away in his life.”

”Maybe not,” muttered Sandersen apprehensively. ”Maybe he'll come back ag'in. Maybe he's just rode off after something and will be back.”

At once the old fear swept over him. His apprehensive glance flickered over the rocks and trees around him--a thousand secure hiding places.

He faced the schoolteacher again.

”Look here, Jig: You're charged with a murder, you see? I can take you dead or alive; and the shot that b.u.mped you off might bring Sinclair running to find out what'd happened, and he'd go the same way. But will you promise to keep your mouth shut and give no warning when Sinclair heaves in sight? Take your pick. It don't make no difference to me, one way or the other; but I can't have the two of you on my hands.”

To his surprise Jig did not answer at once.

”Ain't I made myself clear? Speak out!”

”I won't promise,” said Cold Feet, raising the colorless face.

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