“Yep, about a gent called Sinclair—­Hal Sinclair, I think it was.”  Immediately he turned his eyes away, as if he were striving to recollect accurately.  Covertly he sent a side glance at Quade and found him scowling suspiciously.  When he turned his head again, his eye was as clear as the eye of a child.  “Yep,” he said, “that was the name—­Hal Sinclair.”

“What about Hal Sinclair?” asked Quade gruffly.

“Seems like Sinclair was on Lowrie’s conscience,” said Riley in the same unperturbed voice.

“You don’t say so!”

“I’ll tell you what he told me.  Maybe he was just raving, for he had a sort of fever before he went out.  He said that you and him and Hal Sinclair and Bill Sandersen all went out prospecting.  You got stuck clean out in the desert, Lowrie said, and you hit for water.  Then Sinclair’s hoss busted his leg in a hole.  The fall smashed up Sinclair’s foot.  The four of you went on, Sinclair riding one hoss, and the rest of you taking turns with the third one.  Without water the hosses got weak, and you gents got pretty badly scared, Lowrie said.  Finally you and Sandersen figured that Sinclair had got to get off, but Sinclair couldn’t walk.  So the three of you made up your minds to leave him and make a dash for water.  You got to water, all right, and in three hours you went back for Sinclair.  But he’d given up hope and shot himself, sooner’n die of thirst, Lowrie said.”

The horrible story came slowly from the lips of Riley Sinclair.  There was not the slightest emotion in his face until Quade rubbed his knuckles across his wet forehead.  Then there was the faintest jutting out of Riley’s jaw.

“Lowrie was sure raving,” said Quade.

Sinclair looked carelessly down at the gray face of Quade.  “I guess maybe he was, but what he asked me to say was:  ’Hell is sure coming to what you boys done.’”

“He thought about that might late,” replied Quade.  “Waited till he could shift the blame on me and Sandersen, eh?  To hell with Lowrie!”

“Maybe he’s there, all right,” said Sinclair, shrugging.  “But I’ve got rid of the yarn, anyway.”

“Are you going to spread that story around in Sour Creek?” asked Quade softly.

“Me?  Why, that story was told me confidential by a gent that was about to go out!”

Riley’s frank manner disarmed Quade in a measure.

“Kind of queer, me running on to you like this, ain’t it?” he went on.  “Well, you’re fixed up sort of comfortable up here.  Nice little shack, partner.  And I suppose you got a wife and kids and everything?  Pretty lucky, I’d call you!”

Quade was glad of an opportunity to change the subject.  “No wife yet!” he said.

“Living up here all alone?”

“Sure!  Why?”

“Nothing!  Thought maybe you’d find it sort of lonesome.”

Back to the dismissed subject Quade returned, with the persistence of a guilty conscience.  “Say,” he said, “while we’re talking about it, you don’t happen to believe what Lowrie said?”