The white rim of the sun had just slid over the top of a mountain.
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She dropped to her knees, and with a sudden, hysterical strength she was able to turn him on his back. He was dead. The first glimpse of his face told her that. She looked up into the eyes of the murderer.
Arizona was methodically cleaning his gun. His color had not changed.
There was a singular placidity about all his movements.
"I just hurried up what was coming to him," said Arizona coolly, as he finished reloading his Colt. "Sinclair was after him, and that meant he was done for."
Oddly enough, she found that she was neither very much afraid of the fat man, nor did she loathe him for his crime. He seemed outside of the jurisdiction of the laws which govern most men.
"You said Sinclair is in jail."
"Sure, and he is. But they don't make jails strong enough in these parts to hold Sinclair. He'd have come out and landed Sandersen, just as he's going to come out and land Cartwright. What has he got agin' Cartwright, d'you know?"
Oh, it was incredible that he could talk so calmly with the dead man before him.
"I don't know," she murmured and drew back.