He avoided that appeal with a grunt.

“Like Sandersen, say,” went on the girl.

“Why not him?”

“He’s a bad hombre,” said the girl.  “Hate to have Jig in his hands.  With you it’s different.”

Sinclair waited until he had put down the bucket in the kitchen.  Then he faced Sally thoughtfully.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you’re reasonable.”

“Did Jig tell you that?”

“And a pile more.  Jig says you’re a pretty fine sort.  That’s his words.”

The cowpuncher caressed the butt of his gun with his fingertips, his habitual gesture when in doubt.

“Lady,” he said at length, “suppose I cut this short?  You think I ain’t going to keep Cold Feet here till the sheriff comes for him?”

“You see what it would mean?” she asked eagerly.  “It wouldn’t be a fair trial.  You couldn’t get a fair jury for Jig around Sour Creek and Woodville.  They hate him—­all the young men do.  D’you know why?  Simply because he’s different!  Simply because—­”

“Because all the girls are pretty fond of him, eh?”

“You can put it that way if you want,” she answered steadily enough, though she flushed under his stare.  Then:  “you’ll keep that in mind, and you’re man enough to do what you think is right, ain’t you, Mr. Sinclair?”

He shifted away from the hand which was moving toward him.

“I’ll tell you what,” he answered.  “I’m man enough to be afraid of a girl like you, Sally Bent.”

Then he saw her head fall in despair, as he turned away.  When he reached the shimmering heat of the outdoors again, he was feeling like a murderer.  His reason told him that Cold Feet was “yaller,” not worth saving.  His reason told him that he could save Jig only by a confession that would drive him, Sinclair, away from Sour Creek and his destined victim, Sandersen.  Or he could save Jig by violating the law, and that also would drive him from Sour Creek and Sandersen.

Suddenly he halted in the midst of his pacing to and fro.  Why was he turning these alternatives back and forth in his mind?  Because, he understood all at once, he had subconsciously determined that Cold Feet must not die!

The face of his brother rose up and looked into his eyes.  That was the friend of whom he would not speak to Jig, brother and friend at once.  And as surely as ever ghost called to living man, that face demanded the death of Sandersen.  He blinked the vision away.

“I am going nutty,” muttered Sinclair.  “Whether Sandersen lives or dies, Jig ain’t going to dance at a rope’s end!”

Presently Sally called him in to lunch, and Riley ate halfheartedly.  All during the meal neither Sally nor John Gaspar had more than a word for him, while they talked steadily together.  They seemed to understand each other so well that he felt a hidden insult in it.

Once or twice he made a heavy attempt to enter the conversation, always addressing his remarks to Sally Bent.  He was received graciously, but his remarks always fell dead, and a moment later Cold Feet had picked up the frayed ends of his own talk and won the entire attention of Sally.  Riley was beginning to understand why the youth of that district detested Cold Feet.