Friday, July 19, 1878. Reynolds’ Company E. Frontier Battalion, Texas Rangers, had made the one hundred fifty miles from San Saba to old Round Rock at top speed and in early afternoon pitched camp outside of town. Sam Bass, with Barnes, Jackson and Murphy, were also camped upon the town’s outskirts. The outlaws rode into town for a last check-up of the robbery’s details. Murphy, sensing the final scene so soon to be played, upon some pretext dropped behind. So Bass and Barnes and young Frank Jackson came up to Copprel’s store together. As they went inside they were noticed by the two local deputy sheriffs, Moore and Grimes. They stared hard at the three dusty strangers, but apparently without thought that the trio were the famous outlaws they were awaiting, upon whose heads were placed rewards by states and railroads and express companies. When Sam Bass’ broad shoulders had disappeared within the door Moore turned to Grimes. “I think those fellows got guns on,” he said. “I think so, too,” nodded Grimes. “I’m goin’ in an’ search ’em.” He went in, a hero and a martyr, in a way; but history as written by the cool and practical judgment of rangeland in fifty years makes him, also, and more so, pretty much “plain damned fool.” For he took none of the mechanical precautions of the wary peace officer confronting strangers. As Grimes stepped inside, Moore trailed him to the door and stood blinking. At Grimes’ entrance the trio at the counter whirled instinctively. For a long instant deputy sheriff and outlaws eyed each other. “I think you fellows got guns on,” said Grimes, a trifle belligerently. “I’m goin’ to search you,” he added, in the dead silence that greeted his speech. Something about the silent group must have struck a warning note within him. For now, gun hand going toward Colt butt, he began to back toward the door, where Moore still stood gaping at the play inside. “Sure, we got guns!” snarled Sam Bass suddenly. As if the phrase were a signal, his gun and Barnes’ and Jackson’s flashed out. There was a rolling roar, deafening in the confined space of Copprel’s store, as three Colts flung heavy bullets into the luckless deputy. Grimes staggered under the triple impact, but continued to back out. Moore had leaped aside and Grimes reached the sidewalk, to crash forward upon his face. After him sprang the outlaws, sensing a trap, scenting disaster. Moore was shot through the lungs as he snatched belatedly at his Colt. Ranger Dick Ware was sitting in the barber shop almost next door, waiting for a shave. The heavy three-in-one report from the store jerked him to his feet. Automatically his Colt came out and he stepped into the street, to come almost face to face with the outlaws, who stood staring down at the bodies upon the sidewalk.