“Not even Burleson Lockhart,” rejoined Rudabaugh savagely. “He did!”
He pulled up. Something chill seemed to sit in the air about him. “Well, come into camp,” said he, “and let’s have a snort of liquor. I have got some left.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE MURDER
RUDABAUGH and his band, early on the following morning, broke camp and crossed the Red River, finding no difficulty in making the ford at the old Whisky Trail. They rode a dozen strong, alcoholically buoyant, defiling the air with their boastful blasphemies.
McMasters had suggested that they keep together and follow the old Arbuckle Trail up the Washita, their course making one side of a triangle whose other leg probably would be covered by the Del Sol herd. The two courses naturally would converge somewhere to the north and west, at some point on the Washita. He pointed out that in no case could they miss the Del Sol men, because certainly they would see the northbound trail if they came to it, and could wait if they did not. The logic of this appealed sufficiently to Rudabaugh.
At the end of their first day’s march they stopped at the edge of a walnut grove through which ran a little stream. All that country was full of game, and Rudabaugh took up his rifle, promising soon to come back with meat for the company. McMasters himself, unobserved, followed not far behind him.
Rudabaugh had been gone perhaps a quarter of an hour or so when his mates heard two reports of his rifle in the direction of the stream. He came in not long after, but without any game.
“Well, Dave,” said one of his men, “did you get your meat?”
“I certainly did,” answered the ruffian.
“You didn’t bring it in?”