Tom Mason was in dead earnest to go home after receiving that letter. He never expected to receive a letter like that from Joe Coleman, but then Joe wasn’t down on him any more than the rest of “Our Fellows” were. The very next day we brought our trunks down, all ready to take the stage to Houston by way of Clinton, six miles from the sea. Mr. Chisholm was there as well as the cowboys, but I couldn’t see anything of Elam. I had already given him my horse, and the way he received it told me that he considered that a good-by.
“Well, boys, if I don’t see you again, hallo,” said Mr. Chisholm, hastily drawing his hand across his eyes. “You are going far away, and there’s no knowing what will happen to you. So-long.”
We got aboard, the driver cracked his whip, and we were whirled away from some of the best friends a man ever had. Bob was very lonely after that, and it was only when he reached Clinton and saw the steamer that was to carry him across the Gulf to New Orleans, that he recovered his usual spirits. Tom Mason now assumed charge—he was more at home in that line of business than we were—and in less than half an hour after we reached Clinton we were aboard the ship, our passage paid, and we were sitting on the deck watching the stevedores at their labor. This I thought to be a good time for my story, and I brought out the revolver with Clifford Henderson’s name on the trigger guard, and for an hour those fellows scarcely interrupted me. They listened spellbound. When I was through they drew a long breath of relief.
“You have kept your word, if it was made to an outlaw,” said Bob. “Now, what do you suppose his object was? He has always seen something about you that took his eye.”
“I am as much in the dark as you are,” I replied. “I only know that he saved me from death.”
For a long time after this Coyote Bill was our principal subject of conversation, until the steamer got under way, and then we had other topics to talk about. In due time we arrived in New Orleans and there we spent just one day, in order to deposit our money in the bank. We did not know how long we should remain at Tom Mason’s home, and we thought that would be the best place for it. At four o’clock we took passage on a steamer from which we were not to get off until we reached Tom’s destination. The torches were lighted when we drew up to the landing, but we saw there a carriage and an old gray-headed man leaning on a cane. I knew it was General Mason before Tom spoke.
“There’s my uncle!” he exclaimed, almost wild with delight. “My goodness, how he has changed!”
Tom ran down to the forecastle and cleared the long jump of ten feet to reach the bank, and hastened up to where the old man stood. We turned away, for we did not care to see that meeting between uncle and nephew, and when we got our luggage ashore, and the steamer was backing out to continue her journey up the river, Tom came down to us. It was the first time I had seen him cry, but he blew his nose with a blast like a trumpet.
“These are the boys who stood up for me when I was friendless and alone,” said he. “Bob Davenport and Carlos Burnett. I really wish Elam was here, so that you could shake him by the hand, for he is the one who took me up when I was starving.”
“Where is he?” ejaculated the old gentleman, who tried not to show how delighted he was. “Go and get him. I want to see him.”