The first jarring note brought Gaspar up and awake with a start, and he stared in astonishment at the uninterrupted flood which rippled from the lips of the cowpuncher.  It concluded:  “Still here!  Of all the shorthorned fatheads that I ever seen, the worst is this Gaspar—­this Jig—­this Cold Feet.  Say, man, ain’t you got no spirit at all?”

“What do you mean?” asked Gaspar.  “Still here?  Of course I’m still here!  Did you expect me to escape?”

Sinclair flung himself into a chair, speechless with rage and disgust.

“Did you think I was joking when I told you I was going to sleep eight hours without waking up?”

“It might very well have been a trap, you know.”

Sinclair groaned.  “Son, they ain’t any man in the world that’ll tell you that Riley Sinclair sets his traps for birds that ain’t got their stiff feathers growed yet.  Trap for you?  What in thunder should I want you for, eh?”

He strode to the window, still groaning.

“There’s where you’d ought to be, over yonder behind them mule ears.  They’d never catch you in a thousand years with that start.  Eight hours start!  As good as have eight years, kid—­just as good.  And you’ve throwed that chance away!”

He turned and stared mournfully at the schoolteacher.

“It ain’t no use,” he said sadly.  “I see it all now.  You was cut out to end in a rope collar.”

Not another word could be pried from his set lips during breakfast, a gloomy meal to which Sally Bent came with red eyes, and Jerry Bent sullenly, with black looks at Sinclair.  Jig was the cheeriest one of the party.  That cheer at last brought another explosion from Sinclair.  They stood in front of the house, watching a horseman wind his way up the road through the hills.

“It’s Sheriff Kern,” said Jerry Bent.  “I can tell by the way he rides, sort of slanting.  It’s Kern, right enough.”

Sally Bent choked, but Jig continued to hum softly.

“Singin’?” asked Riley Sinclair suddenly.  “Ain’t you no more worried than that?”

The voice of the schoolteacher in reply was as smooth as running water.  “I think you’ll bring me out of the trouble safely enough, Mr. Sinclair.”

“Mr. Sinclair’ll see you damned before he lifts a hand for you!” Riley retorted savagely.

He strode to his horse and expended his wrath by viciously jerking at the cinches, until the mustang groaned.  Sheriff Kern came suddenly into clear view around the last turn and rode quickly up to them, a very short man, muscular, sweaty.  He always gave the impression that he had been working ceaselessly for a week, and certainly he found time to shave only once in ten days.  Dense bristle clouded the lower features of his face.  He was a taciturn man.  His greetings took the form of a single grunt.  He took possession of John Gaspar with a single glance that sent the latter nervously toward his saddle horse.