Instantly she was wide awake, whiter than ever, staring. Better to take the desperado alive than dead—far better. Cold Feet would make a show in Sour Creek for the glorification of Sandersen, as he rode down through the main street, and the men would come out to see the prize which even Sheriff Kern and his posse had not yet been able to take.
"Roll over on your face."
Cold Feet obeyed without a murmur. There was a coiled rope by the cinders of the fire. Sandersen cut off a convenient length and bound the slender wrists behind the back of the schoolteacher. Then he jerked his quarry to a sitting posture.
"Where's Sinclair gone?"
To his astonishment, Cold Feet's face brightened wonderfully.
"Oh, then you haven't found him? You haven't found him? Thank goodness!"
Sandersen studied the schoolteacher closely. It was impossible to mistake the frankness of the latter's face.
"By guns," he said at last, "I see it all now. The skunk sneaked off in the middle of the night and left you alone here to face the music?"
Jig flushed, as she exclaimed: "That's not true. He's never run away in his life."
"Maybe not," muttered Sandersen apprehensively. "Maybe he'll come back ag'in. Maybe he's just rode off after something and will be back."