It was not, altogether, that he was a rider without peer; a dead shot with Winchester or Colt; leader in any daring enterprise of “the boys,” a master cowboy. Nor was his popularity born wholly of generosity and a certain rough chivalry, though these qualities he had in large measure. Others have had the every characteristic of Sam Bass, yet have waked no such fierce loyalty as this stocky, dark-eyed cowboy knew; such admiration in Cowland, where he is a heroic figure even today. From friends in Denton Sam learned that an Ogallala man, an ex-express messenger, had suspected the six cowboys of the train robbery, though the Officials had not been suspicious of them as, in the days after the robbery, they mingled with sheriffs and marshals and railroad detectives in Ogallala. He had trailed the party southward, this ex-messenger, and spying upon their camp had heard them discuss the crime; had learned their plans, their real names; had even seen them handling bright new gold-pieces of the year 1877. His knowledge he had communicated to the officials. The law wanted Sam Bass and Jack Davis--wanted them hard. So to Jack Davis, hiding in the elm-bottoms, Sam Bass took back the story of the search and the large reward offered for them. To the authenticated report of the death of Collins and Heffridge, two of their gang, he added the account of the killing of another, Jim Berry, in his home town, Mexico, Missouri, where Berry’s shining new gold-pieces had connected him with the robbery. “That leaves just three out o’ the six,” said Sam. “Seems Ol’ Dad Underwood never went to Missoury with Jim Berry. Anyway, they never got him.” “I told you we’d better hit for South America!” complained Jack Davis, whose bump of discretion seems to have been well-developed. “’Tain’t too late now. Let’s high-tail it, Sam. We can’t buck all this.” “Ah, what’s to be scared of?” scoffed Sam, those large white teeth showing in his famous grin. “Don’t I know this-here country like the palm o’ my hand? Don’t be losin’ your nerve, Jack! We’ll just stick here an’ be damned to ’em to catch us.” But Jack Davis was beyond persuasion. He never had thought such a hornets’ nest would be aroused by that U. P. robbery. While planning it, Collins had stressed the large chance of their never being recognized. To be “on the dodge” in the face of such widespread and earnest search broke Davis’ nerve. So from the elm-bottoms outside of Denton, Jack Davis rode hell-for-leather; rode out of the picture entirely. Whether he made South America, or started afresh under another name in the States there is no authentic report. But certain it is that neither he nor Old Dad Underwood ever paid the penalty, officially, for the crime. * * * * *