"I still got the chills," said the sheriff. "Sure has got a wicked pair of eyes, that Arizona."
Kern cast an apprehensive glance at the closed door, yet, in spite of the fact that it was closed, he lowered his voice.
"What in thunder have you done to him, Sinclair?"
"About eight years ago—" began Sinclair and then stopped short.
"Let it go," he went on. "No matter what Arizona is today, he's sure improved on the gent I used to know. What's done is done. Besides, I made a mistake that time. I went too far with him, and a mistake is like borrowed money, sheriff. It lays up interest and keeps compounding. When you have to pay back what you done a long time ago, you find it's a terrible pile. That's all I got to say about Arizona."
Sheriff Kern nodded. "That's straight talk, Sinclair," he said softly.
"But what was it you wanted to see me about?"
"Cold Feet," said Sinclair.
At once the sheriff brightened. "That's right," he said hurriedly. "You got the right idea now, partner. Glad to see you're using hoss sense. And if you gimme an idea of the trail that'll lead to Cold Feet, I can see to it that you get out of this mess pretty pronto. After all, you ain't done no real harm except for nicking Cartwright in the arm, and I figure that he needs a little punishment. It'll cool his temper down."
"You think I ought to tell you where Cold Feet is?" asked Sinclair without emotion.
"Why not?"