"Have I? I'm Sandersen. Glad to know you, Sinclair."

"Sandersen!" repeated the stranger slowly. "Sandersen!"

Letting his fingers fall away nervelessly from the hand of the other,
he sighed deeply.

Sandersen with a side-glance followed every changing shade of
expression in that hard face. How could Sinclair attack a man who had
just defended him from a terrible charge? It could not be. For the
moment, at least, Sandersen felt he was safe. In the future, many
things might happen. At the very least, he had gained a priceless
postponement of the catastrophe.

"Them that do me a good turn is writ down in red," Sinclair was saying;
"and them that step on my toes is writ down the same way. Sandersen, I
got an idea that for one reason or another I ain't going to forget you
in a hurry."

There was a grim double meaning in that speech which Sandersen alone
could understand. The others of the self-appointed posse had apparently
made up their minds that Sandersen was right, and that this was a cold
trail.

"It's like Sinclair says," admitted the judge. "We got to find a gent
that had a reason for wishing to have Quade die. Where's the man?"

"Hunt for the reason first and find the man afterward," said big
Larsen, still smiling.