“Could you guide her with your knees?”

“Sure.”

“And she’s plumb safe with you?”

“Sure.”

“I know a gent once that said he’d trust himself tied hand and foot on his hoss.”

“That goes for me and my hoss, too, Sinclair.”

“Well, then, just shove up them hands, sheriff!”

The sheriff blinked, as the sun flashed on the revolver in the steady hand of Sinclair.  There was a significant little jerking up of the revolver.  Each time the muzzle stirred, the hands of the sheriff jumped higher and higher until his arms were stiffly stretched.  Gaspar had halted his horse and looked back in amazement.

“I hate to do it,” declared Sinclair.  “Right off I sort of took to you, sheriff.  But this has got to be done.”

“Sinclair, have you done much thinking before you figured this all out?”

“Enough!  If I knowed you one shade better, sheriff, I’d take your word that you’d ride on into Woodville, good and slow, and not start no pursuit.  But I don’t know you that well.  I got to tie you on the back of that steady old hoss of yours and turn you loose.  We need that much start.”

He dismounted, still keeping careful aim, took the rope coiled beside the sheriff’s own saddle horn and began a swift and sure process of tying.  He worked deftly, without undue fear or haste, and Gaspar came back to look on with scared eyes.

“You’re a fool, Sinclair,” murmured the sheriff.  “You’ll never get shut of me.  I’ll foller you till I drop dead.  I’ll never forget you.  Change your mind now, and we’ll say nothing has happened.  But if you keep on, you’re done for as sure as my name is Kern.  Take you by yourself, and you’d be a handful to catch.  But two is easier than one, and, when one of them two is a deadweight like Gaspar, they ain’t nothing to it.”

He finished his appeal completely trussed.

“I ain’t tied you on the hoss,” said Sinclair.  “Take note of that.  Also I’m leaving you your guns, sheriff.”

“I hope you’ll have a chance to see ’em come out of the holster later on, Sinclair.”

The cowpuncher took no notice of this bitterness.  Gaspar, who looked on, was astonished by a certain deferential politeness on the part of the big cowpuncher.

“Speaking personal, I hope I don’t never have no trouble with you, sheriff.  I like you, understand?”

“Have your little joke, Sinclair!”

“I mean it.  I know I’m usin’ you like a skunk.  But I got a special need, and I can’t take no chances.  Sheriff, I tell you out of my heart that I’m sorry!  Will you believe me?”

The sheriff smiled.  “The same as you’ll believe me when we change parts, Sinclair.”

The big man sighed.  “I s’pose it’s got to be that way,” he said.  “But if you come for me, Kern, come all primed for action.  It’ll be a hard trail.”

“That’s my specialty.”

“Well, sheriff, s’long—­and good luck!”