s. And don't brag about what you know or what you've done.
That's the way to get on. You got the markings in you, son. You got
grit. I seen it when you was under the whip, and I wish I had the doing
of that over again. I made a mistake with you, kid. But do what I've
told you to do, and one of these days you'll meet up with me and beat
me to the draw and take everything you got as a grudge out on me. But
you can't do it unless you turn into a man."

Dago had listened in the most profound silence, accepted the money
without thanks, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. In the
sleek-faced man before him, Sinclair could hardly recognize that
slender fellow of the lumber camp. Only the bright and agile eyes were
the same; that, and a certain telltale nervousness of hand. The color
was coming back into his face.

"I guess I've done it," Arizona was saying. "I guess we're squared up,
Sinclair."

"Yep, and a balance on your side."

"Maybe, maybe not. But I've followed your advice, Long Riley. I've
never forgot a word of it. It was printed into me!"

He made a significant, short gesture, as if he were snapping a whip,
and a snarl of undying malice curled his lips.

"As long as you live, Sinclair," he added. "As long as you live, I'll
remember."

Even the sheriff shuddered at that glimpse into the black soul of a
man; Sinclair alone was unmoved.

"I reckon you've barked enough, Arizona," he suggested. "S'pose you
trot along. I got to have words with my friend, the sheriff."

Arizona waved his fat hand. He was recovering his ordinary poise, and
with a smiling good night to the sheriff, he turned away through the
door.

"Nice, friendly sort, eh?" remarked Sinclair the moment he was alone
with Kern.

"I still got the chills," said the sheriff. "Sure has got a wicked pair
of eyes, that Arizona."

Kern cast an apprehensive glance at the closed door, yet, in spite of
the fact that it was closed, he lowered his voice.

"What in thunder have you done to him, Sinclair?"

"About eight years ago--" began Sinclair and then stopped short.

"Let it go," he went on. "No matter what Arizona is today, he's sure
improved on the gent I used to know. What's done is done. Besides, I
made a mistake that time. I went too far with him, and a mistake is
like borrowed money, sheriff. It lays up interest and keeps
compounding. When you have to pay back what you done a long time ago,
you find it's a terrible pile. That's all I