“I don’t know.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“I was elected sheriff of Gonzales. I am a captain in the Texas Rangers.”
His face was grave as he spoke, sad rather than boastful.
“What’s that?” suddenly exclaimed Jim Nabours. “Listen!”
The sound of hoofs had come suddenly from around the bend of the trail that wound through the mesquite thicket screening the gate; hoofs of more than one animal, not coming but going.
“Wait!”
The sound of the young man’s voice deterred Nabours as much as his hand. He stood, absorbed, frowning, listening to the receding hoof beats. The rhythm told him the horses had riders. At last he beckoned to Nabours. The two set out down the trail.
“Look here!” said Dan McMasters at length as they rounded the bend.
At a clump of huisache the tracks of six horses could be seen making a trampled spot back of the bushes. It all was plainly visible to eyes experienced as these.