His side was as stiff as a Bostonian’s neck, but he felt pretty good. He thought about Billy Gage and his manager, Harry Shultz, and he wondered if Gage had been the man behind him during the attack in his room. He’d rather not believe that, because he had liked the man, but he knew it was possible. It was the kind of thing life produced to bewilder a man. Well, Clanton lay ahead and he might find out there. When he was a day out of Abbotsville, going along gently enjoying the spring, he came on cattle and started to idly note their brands. Most of them were marked with a Double B and seemed to be eastern barnyard stock crossed lightly with Texas longhorn. They carried more beef than the wild Texas cattle and, being a good deal tamer, merely stood and watched McAllister bovinely as he passed. To camp, he found a sheltered spot, for a cool wind had blown up that would freshen as the night progressed. There was no timber in evidence nor water so he made a dry camp. There were buffalo chips in plenty, but he didn’t bother to build a fire, but ate the contents of a tin of tomatoes which rode easily on the stomach that had been punished a little with the drink he had taken on board at Abbotsville.
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