The sheriff sprang to his feet, his heavy face bloated and blotched
with terror.

"He cursed me; he tried to pull his gun!" he wailed. His eyes
protruded, glaring; one hand clutched at his throat, the other spread
out before him as he tottered, stumbling. "Oh, my God!" he sobbed.

"That will do nicely," said Anastacio. "You're guilty as hell! I'll
put your own handcuffs on you. Oddly enough, the law provides that
when it is necessary to arrest the sheriff the duty falls to the
coroner. It is very appropriate. You must pardon me, Mr. Lisner, if I
seem unsympathetic. Dick Marr was your friend! And you have not been
entirely fair with Foy, I fear.... Creagan, we'll hold you and Joe for
complicity and for conspiracy in Foy's case. We'll arrest Applegate,
too, when we get to camp. He'll be awfully vexed."

"What!" shrieked the sheriff, raising his manacled hands. "Liar!
Murderer!"

"So Applegate's not dead? Well, I'm just as well pleased," said
Pringle.

"Not even hurt badly. I was after the Man Lower Down. What the Major
told me was that the Barelas were at the ranch--more than enough to
hold Lisner's crowd down. They come at daylight. I was expecting that,
and waiting. As I told you, that's the best thing I do--waiting."

"But how did you know?" demanded Breslin, puzzled.