“I heard that a deputy United States marshal took him and his party the other day, below the Colorado, and sent him in with a force of Rangers. As you say, it might have been supposed that no court in this town would hold him.”
The red-faced official abated somewhat of his pompousness.
“From what I’ve heard in description, I believe you are Mr. McMasters, sheriff of Gonzales,” said he presently.
“I am that same, sir,” replied McMasters smilingly. “If I needed to quote Davy Crockett, I might say that I have the closest shooting rifle and the best coon dog in the whole state of Texas. Yes, I’m McMasters of Gonzales.”
“Well,” began the other, embarrassed, “it’s only right to tell you that at the preliminary hearing all those men were discharged.”
“That is why I called. I wanted to talk things over with Mr. Rudabaugh. I thought I might be able to explain one or two things to him. I thought maybe I might be of some use to him.”
Silence of the other, now afraid to speak.
“Where can I find Mr. Rudabaugh?” The quiet voice took a new note.
“That I can’t answer. He left town again yesterday morning, with some other gentlemen. They headed west.”
“It looks as though Mr. Rudabaugh thinks I still am after him. Perhaps he has been mistaken about my motives and purposes with him. Perhaps he forgets that my father voted and worked against slavery, the same as the gentlemen of your party did. Why antagonize Gonzales? Why fight the Rangers?