“He’s started folks thinking--and talking,” said Wellman. “They’ll talk more every day. It’s right now or never with me!” “But it’s too late to make out that it’s an arrest,” Freel protested. “After all that’s been said.” “That’s what I know,” said Wellman. “So we’ll hurry it up and slip back into town. With all that fair crowd milling around, there won’t be one man that could testify we’d ever left town; and I can produce several that’ll swear positive that we’ve been there all along.” They rode on in silence and they had not covered a distance of three miles from town when Mattison rode into the county seat at the head of a half-dozen men,--men who, incidentally, knew nothing whatever of his mission except that they had been deputized to follow wherever he led. As the marshal entered the outskirts of town a figure detached itself from the shadows. Mattison joined the man who reported in tones that did not carry to the rest of the posse. “They’ve gone,” he informed. “I followed Freel every living minute till he and Wellman slipped out of town together a half-hour ago.” “Sure they didn’t change their plans and come back?” Mattison asked. “Dead sure,” the man stated positively. “Not a chance.” Mattison led his men direct to the county jail and left them just outside the office while he entered alone. The two Ralstons occupied the place at the time. “Where’s Freel?” the marshal demanded. “Couldn’t say,” one of the deputies answered. “Out around town somewheres likely.” His eyes rested apprehensively on the group of men standing just outside the door. “You wanting to see him?” “Yes. I was--somewhat,” Mattison admitted. “I surmise you all know what about.” The Ralstons denied this. “We’ll go out and look him up,” Mattison decided. “You two stay here. I might be wanting to question you later.” 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?”