"That's him," the hotel-keeper said in an excited whisper.
A brown-faced man without a coat turned quickly and looked at Sanders. He wore a belt with cartridges and a revolver.
"What's your name?" he demanded.
Dave knew at once this man was an officer of the law. He knew, too, the futility of trying to escape under the pseudonym he had written on the register.
"Sanders—Dave Sanders."
"I want you."
"So? Who are you?"
"Sheriff of the county."
"Whadjawant me for?"
"Murder."