They rode on in silence and they had not covered a distance of three miles from town when Mattison rode into the county seat at the head of a half-dozen men,—men who, incidentally, knew nothing whatever of his mission except that they had been deputized to follow wherever he led. As the marshal entered the outskirts of town a figure detached itself from the shadows. Mattison joined the man who reported in tones that did not carry to the rest of the posse.
“They’ve gone,” he informed. “I followed Freel every living minute till he and Wellman slipped out of town together a half-hour ago.”
“Sure they didn’t change their plans and come back?” Mattison asked.
“Dead sure,” the man stated positively. “Not a chance.”
Mattison led his men direct to the county jail and left them just outside the office while he entered alone. The two Ralstons occupied the place at the time.
“Where’s Freel?” the marshal demanded.
“Couldn’t say,” one of the deputies answered. “Out around town somewheres likely.” His eyes rested apprehensively on the group of men standing just outside the door. “You wanting to see him?”
“Yes. I was—somewhat,” Mattison admitted. “I surmise you all know what about.”
The Ralstons denied this.
“We’ll go out and look him up,” Mattison decided. “You two stay here. I might be wanting to question you later.”