Sheriff Kern grunted. "All right, Arizona, I ain't asking. But you can lay to it that Sinclair won't talk. He's as straight as ever I seen!"
"Maybe," said Arizona, "but he's slippery. And I got this to say: Lemme have the watch over Sinclair while he's in Sour Creek, or are you taking him back to Woodville today?"
"I'm held over," said the sheriff.
He paused. Twice the little olive-skinned man from the south had demonstrated his superiority in working out criminal puzzles. The sheriff was prone to unravel the new mystery by himself, if he might.
"By what?"
"Oh, by something I'll tell you about later on," said the sheriff. "It don't amount to much, but I want to look into it."
Purposely he had delayed sending the party to bury Sandersen. It would be simply warning the murderer if that man were in Sour Creek.
"About you and Sinclair," went on the sheriff, "there ain't much good feeling between you, eh?"
"I won't shoot him in the back if I guard him," declared Arizona. "But if you want one of the other boys to take the jog, go ahead. Put Red on it."
"He's too young. Sinclair's get him off guard by talking."