Embitted, there was no warmth in Copeland for his older codefendant and jinx. Still, even without Brinker's attempt to shield him, he would have been loyal.
"During all important parts of mine and Jess Brinker's joint project," he told the court, "I was in full agreement with his purpose."
Their attorney accomplished one considerable victory before these angry people. The charge of previous murders and robbery was barred; it was admitted that footprints were easy to duplicate, and that the presence of some bearing the names of the guilty was unlikely.
Brinker got fifty years in the mine-pits, and Copeland thirty.
"You always figured I might get you in a jam, didn't you, Cope?" Brinker said. "I'll keep trying to fix that."
COPELAND found nothing to grin about, in a thirty-year sentence. It was goodbye wandering, goodbye girls, goodbye everything. He'd get out middle-aged, finished, and marked. He might as well stay another twenty with Brinker—complete a sour association with him.
Copeland had another recent jolt to brood over. A bunch of old letters from his Frances had been delivered to him. His inability to receive or answer any of them had brought the worst result. She had married another guy, and who could blame her?
Arne Copeland wanted to kill Brinker. Getting desolation-goofy, and dragging him into this mess.
But from Brinker's infuriating grin, Copeland caught a hot spark of hope, backed by reasoning.