"But who's this Arizona?" he asked.
"I dunno. Seems to have known you somewhere. Maybe a friend of yours,
Sinclair?"
"H'm," said the cowpuncher. "Maybe! Tell me: Was it him that was outside the window and trimmed the light on me?"
"You got him right, Sinclair. That was the gent. Nice play he made, eh?"
"Very pretty, sheriff. I thought I knowed his voice."
"He seems to have made himself pretty infrequent. Didn't know Arizona was so darned modest."
"Maybe he's got other reasons," said Sinclair. "What's his full name?"
"Ain't that curious! I ain't heard of anybody else that knows it. He's a cool head, this Arizona. Seemed to read your mind and know jest how you'd jump, Sinclair. I would have been off combing the trails, but he seemed to know that you'd come into town."
"I'll sure keep him in mind if I ever meet up with him," murmured
Sinclair. "Is this where I bunk?"
The sheriff had paused before a squat, dumpy building and was working noisily at the lock with a big key. Now that his back was necessarily toward his prisoner, two of the posse stepped up close beside Sinclair. They had none of the sheriff's nonchalance. One of them was the man whose head had made the acquaintance of Sinclair's knee, and both were ready for instant action of any description.