But the Ralstons failed to tarry. Within five minutes after the marshal’s departure they set forth from town and the county was minus the services of two deputies who neglected even to hand in their resignations before quitting their posts.
A similar scene was enacted at Wellman’s hotel. The crowd in the lobby turned suddenly quiet as Mattison led his men in and inquired at the desk for Wellman. The proprietor was not to be found. The county attorney reclined in a chair at one side of the lobby and Mattison crossed over and addressed him.
“Any idea where I could locate Wellman and Freel?” he inquired.
The county attorney moistened his lips and disclaimed all knowledge of their whereabouts. A voice rose from the far end of the lobby, a voice which Mattison recognized as that of the man who had accosted him in the outskirts as he rode into town.
“They got out ahead of you, Colonel,” the man stated. “Your birds has flown.”
“What’s that?” Mattison asked, turning to face the informer. “How do you know?”
“Just by sheer accident,” the man reported. “I see one party holding two horses just outside of town. Another man joined him afoot. One of ’em touched off a smoke, and in the flare of the match I made out that they was Wellman and Freel. They rode west.”
“That’s downright unfortunate,” Mattison said. “But it don’t matter much. I was only wanting to see them to gather a little information they might be able to give. Another time will do just as well.”
He turned and stared absently at the county attorney and that gentleman’s florid countenance turned a shade lighter.
“Don’t matter,” the marshal repeated, rousing from his seeming abstraction. “Nothing of any importance.”