"I didn't talk as loud as he did—nor as much," Captain Bill said afterward. "I reckon he thought I was afraid of him."
Matthews had really cut the work out for himself, however, and had enlisted help for the occasion. He was satisfied with his target practice and the condition of his fire-arms, and he had taken to wearing a plug of tobacco or a Bible or something solid like that in the coat-pocket just over his heart, about where one of Bill McDonald's bullets would be apt to strike, provided the Ranger happened to get a bead on him, though he had planned against that, too.
It was in December, 1895, at last that Matthews and his pals came down to Quanah for the declared purpose of killing a Ranger Captain. It was a cold, dreary day and they visited one saloon after another, getting a supply of courage for the job and explaining what they were going to do. Then they took to following McDonald, always in a group, evidently waiting the proper opportunity, confident enough that McDonald would not take the offensive. Finally, however, they pressed him so close that he suddenly turned and told them to quit following him or trouble would ensue. Perhaps it did not seem a good place to do the job—there being no sort of protection; perhaps there was something disquieting in the manner of Captain Bill's warning. They dropped away, for the time, and McDonald gave the matter no further thought. Men threatening to kill him was an item on every day's program.
It was nearly dusk of that bleak day, and McDonald was in the railway station, sending an official telegram to his men at Amarillo, when an old man named Crutcher, whom McDonald knew, came in with the word that Matthews wanted to see him and fix up matters without any more trouble.
Captain Bill regarded Crutcher keenly; evidently he was sincere enough.
"John says he wants to see you and fix up everything right," repeated the old man persuasively.
Captain Bill finished writing his telegram and sent it. Then turning to Old Man Crutcher he said in his slow mild way:
"Well, that all sounds mighty good to me. I never want any trouble that I can help. Come on, let's go find him."
They left the depot on the side toward the town, and as they did so they saw the sheriff of Hardeman County, whose name was Dick Coffer, with Matthews and two of the latter's friends, coming to meet them. Sheriff Coffer was a step ahead of Matthews when they started across the street. Old Man Crutcher in a friendly way put his arm through McDonald's as they advanced. When they were but four or five feet between the groups, all stopped and there was a little silence.