There was a suggestive lift of the eyebrows, as he spoke, but before Jig had a chance to study his face, he had turned and wrapped himself in one of the rugs.  He lay perfectly still, stretched on one side, with his back turned to Jig.  He stirred neither hand nor foot.

Outside, a door slammed heavily; Cold Feet heard the heavy voice of Jerry Bent and the beat of his heels across the floor.  In spite of those noises Riley Sinclair was presently sound asleep, as he had promised.  Gaspar knew it by the rise and fall of the arm which lay along Sinclair’s side, also by the sound of his breathing.

Cold Feet went to the window and looked out on the mountains, black and huge, with a faint shimmer of snow on the farthest summits.  At the very thought of trying to escape into that wilderness and wandering alone among the peaks, he shuddered.  He came back and studied the sleeper.  Something about the nonchalance with which Sinclair had gone to sleep under the very eye of his prisoner affected John Gaspar strangely.  Doubtless it was sheer contempt for the man he was guarding.  And, indeed, something assured Jig that, no matter how well he employed the next eight hours in putting a great distance between himself and Sour Creek, the tireless riding of Sinclair would more than make up the distance.

Gaspar went to the door, then turned sharply and glanced over his shoulder at the sleeper; but the eyes of Sinclair were still closed, and his regular breathing continued.  Jig turned the knob cautiously and slipped out into the living room.

Jerry and Sally beckoned instantly to him from the far side of the room.  The beauty of the family had descended upon Sally alone.  Jerry was a swart-skinned, squat, bow-legged, efficient cowpuncher.  He now ambled awkwardly to meet John Gaspar.

“Are you all set?” he asked.

“For what?”

“To start on the trail!” exclaimed Jerry.  “What else?  Ain’t Sinclair asleep?”

“How d’you know?”

“I listened at the door and heard his breathing a long time ago.  Thought you’d never come out.”

Sally Bent was already on the other side of Gaspar, drawing him toward the door.

“You can have my hoss, Jig,” she offered.  “Meg is sure as sin in the mountains.  You won’t have nothing to fear on the worst trail they is.”

“Not a thing,” asserted Jerry.

They half led and half dragged Cold Feet to the door.

“I’ll show you the best way.  You see them two peaks yonder, like a pair of mule’s ears?  You start—­”

“I don’t know,” said Jig.  “It seems very difficult, even to think of riding alone through those mountains.”

Sally was white with fear.  “You ain’t going to throw away this chance, Jig?  It’ll mean hanging sure, if you don’t run now.  Ask Jerry what they’re saying in Sour Creek tonight?”