“Masterson has just left for Dodge to kill you and Updegraffe.
—A.”
The cloud was never lifted. The queries of “Who sent them?” and “Why?” remain to this hour unanswered.
While the puzzle was fresh, and Mr. Peacock’s message was going from hand to hand, together with the one received by Mr. Masterson, the latter—all vigilance and caution—turned to Jim.
“Get your blankets,” was his low command. “The train will be here in an hour, and we’re going West.”
“We’ll have to put you under arrest!” faltered Mr. Webster.
An ominous shadow settled about Mr. Masterson’s mouth. He opened Mr. Webster’s shotgun with militant prudence; there were two shells in it. Without a word he reloaded the empty chambers of his six-shooter. Being organised, he looked at Mr. Webster and shook his head.
“I must take the next train West,” he said. “I haven’t time to-day to be arrested.”
“Only for voylatin’ an ordinance!” whiningly explained Mr. Webster, who must do something for his honour. “Dodge has become a city since you was here, Bat, an’ the fact is we ought to fine you five dollars for shootin’ inside th’ limits. As for Updegraffe: onder th’ circumstances no one thinks of blamin’ you for downin’ him.”
“City!” mused Mr. Masterson. “Five dollars! If you’ll consider court as held and the fine imposed, I’ll yield to these metropolitan exactions,” and Mr. Masterson snapped a gold-piece towards Mr. Webster. “And now,” concluded Mr. Masterson, pleasantly, tossing the shotgun into the hollow of his arm, “since I see but few familiar faces, Web, I want you to stay close by my side till I leave.”
“Why, shorely!” murmured Mr. Webster, whom the suggestion discouraged.