McMasters smilingly waved a hand at either gun.
“I’m not quite alone. We will both have to come under a white flag. If he wants to be muy amigo, maybe I can be of service to him.”
His gray eyes, now narrowed, were fixed without wavering upon those of this other man.
“Tell me, where is Sim Rudabaugh!” he demanded suddenly. The man behind the desk started as though under an immediate menace.
“Well, since you seem to offer your aid, Mr. McMasters, in a misunderstanding—a very deplorable misunderstanding—I presume I may tell you. He’s gone north, up the trail, toward the Brazos. He’s on some private business of his own.”
“Yes? He’s in camp, waiting for the big Del Sol herd? Where is his camp?”
The desk man grew very uneasy; but at length he replied hesitantly: “Well, I’d take the trail that runs due north from San Marcos if I had to find him. I would say he might be camped a ride of a day and a half north of here—say, thirty to fifty miles north, on the general road to Fort Worth village.
“You don’t know where that herd is, do you?” he added. “Mr. Rudabaugh regards its going north as a very grave mistake; indeed, a risky and ruinous thing for the state at just this time. You don’t know where the herd is now?”
“Yes, I do know. I’ve just come from it. It’s been held up a few days in west of here. They may get over the Colorado by to-day. I ought to be able to find Mr. Rudabaugh well in advance of the herd itself, then, you think?”
“But you didn’t tell me where the scrip is.” The other man flushed at seeing his eagerness noted.