The sheriff still kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner, his gloomy face
growing darker under its grime. "THAT ain't the reason, major. Life and
death don't mean much more to you than they do to me in this yer game. I
know that you'd kill me quicker nor lightning if you got the chance; YOU
know that I'm takin' you to the gallows."

"The reason is that I want to leave Wynyard's Bar," said the major
coolly; "and even this way out of it will suit me."

The sheriff took his revolver from his pocket and deliberately cocked
it. Then, leaning down, he unbuckled the strap from the major's ankles.
A wild hope that his incomprehensible captive might seize that moment to
develop his real intent--that he might fly, fight, or in some way act up
to his reckless reputation--sustained him for a moment, but in the next
proved futile. The major only said, "Thank you, Tom," and stretched his
cramped legs.

"Get up and go on," said the sheriff roughly.

The major began to slowly ascend the hill, the sheriff close on his
heels, alert, tingling, and watchful of every movement. For a few
moments this strain upon his faculties seemed to invigorate him, and his
gloom relaxed, but presently it became too evident that the prisoner's
pinioned arms made it impossible for him to balance or help himself on
that steep trail, and once or twice he stumbled and reeled dangerously
to one side. With an oath the sheriff caught him, and tore from his arms
the only remaining bonds that fettered him. "There!" he said savagely;
"go on; we're equal!"