"Him and me sat around the same campfire, sheriff, and ate off'n the same deer."
At this the sheriff winced. "I know," he murmured. "It's hard—mighty hard!" He continued more smoothly: "But listen to me, partner. There's twenty-five-hundred dollars on the head of Cold Feet. Why not come in? Why not split on it? Plenty for both of us; and, speaking personal, I could use half that money, and maybe you could use the other half just as well!"
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Sinclair, "I'll give you the layout for finding Cold Feet. Ride west out of Sour Creek and head for a flat-topped mountain. On the shoulder just under the head of the peak you'll find Cold Feet. Go get him!"
The sheriff caught his breath, then whirled on his heel. The sharp voice of Sinclair called him back.
"Wait a minute. I ain't through. When you catch Cold Feet you go after him without guns."
"How come?"
"Because you might hurt him, and he can't fight, sheriff. Even if he was to pull a gun, he couldn't hit nothing with it. He couldn't hit the ground he's standing on with a gun."
Sheriff Kern scratched his head.
"And when you get him," went on Sinclair, "tell him to go back and take up his life where he left off, because they's no harm coming to him."
"Great guns, man! No harm coming to him with a murder to his count and a price on his head?"