"That we go to Sour Creek pronto—and sit down and wait!"
A chorus of exclamations arose.
Arizona grew impatient with such stupidity. "Sinclair come to Sour Creek to do something. I dunno what he wants, but what he wants he ain't got yet, and he's the sort that'll stay till he does his work."
"I've got in touch with the authorities higher up, boys," declared Kern. "Sinclair and Gaspar is both outlawed, with a price on their heads. Won't that change Sinclair's mind and make him move on?"
"You don't know Sinclair," persisted Arizona. "You don't know him at all, sheriff."
"Grab your hosses, boys. I'm following Arizona's lead."
Pouring out of the door in silence, the omniscience of Arizona lay heavily upon their minds. Inside, the sheriff lingered with the wise man from the southland.
"If I was to get in touch with Colma, Fatty, what d'you think they'd be able to tell me about your record up there?"
The olive skin of Arizona became a bleached drab.
"I dunno," he said rather thickly, and all the while his little black eyes were glittering and shifting. "Nothing much, Kern."