Dago had listened in the most profound silence, accepted the money without thanks, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. In the sleek-faced man before him, Sinclair could hardly recognize that slender fellow of the lumber camp. Only the bright and agile eyes were the same; that, and a certain telltale nervousness of hand. The color was coming back into his face.
"I guess I've done it," Arizona was saying. "I guess we're squared up,
Sinclair."
"Yep, and a balance on your side."
"Maybe, maybe not. But I've followed your advice, Long Riley. I've never forgot a word of it. It was printed into me!"
He made a significant, short gesture, as if he were snapping a whip, and a snarl of undying malice curled his lips.
"As long as you live, Sinclair," he added. "As long as you live, I'll remember."
Even the sheriff shuddered at that glimpse into the black soul of a man; Sinclair alone was unmoved.
"I reckon you've barked enough, Arizona," he suggested. "S'pose you trot along. I got to have words with my friend, the sheriff."
Arizona waved his fat hand. He was recovering his ordinary poise, and with a smiling good night to the sheriff, he turned away through the door.
"Nice, friendly sort, eh?" remarked Sinclair the moment he was alone with Kern.