From every town for miles around amateur detectives joined the hunt, but no trace could be found of Cutler beyond the Moulin River, a tiny stream only some twenty feet wide, so the rivulet was dammed and the water drained off for miles, so as to discover, if possible, whether Cutler had ridden up or down stream. While one party of men were doing this, others rode in all directions, searched the ranches, and notified every town by telegraph to keep a look-out for the slayer of Moses Goldman. More and more people joined in the hunt, but for some days, in the slang of the West, “there was nothing doing.” Then, early one morning, two horsemen came galloping towards Benson’s camp, and one of the men, dismounting, delivered a message to the effect that Cutler had been seen at McPherson’s ranch, some eleven miles north-west, where he had informed Mr. McPherson that he had not the slightest intention of taking further life unless driven to it, and that, if Benson would call in all his men, he (Cutler) would promise to give himself up in a fortnight’s time. (It was afterwards learned that he intended in the interval to communicate with Miss Thurloe and arrange a story, leaving her name entirely out of the matter.) Benson, however, was on his mettle, and so refused to parley with his quarry. “If Jim Cutler thinks he can defy the law and officers of this county, he is mightily mistaken,” he said, “and we’re going to take him, dead or alive.” This ultimatum duly reached Cutler through “non-combatant” friends, whereupon he smiled grimly. Being now outlawed, it was impossible for Cutler’s friends to assist him without making themselves amenable to the law, so the hunted man demanded and secured everything he required at the point of the pistol.