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diff --git a/76804-h/76804-h.htm b/76804-h/76804-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aaa04be --- /dev/null +++ b/76804-h/76804-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1323 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0"> + <title>WANTED——? | Project Gutenberg</title> + <style> + +body { + line-height: 1.1; + margin: 0 auto; + padding: 40px 8%; + color: #333; +} +h1 { + text-align: center; + font-weight: normal; + font-size: 1.4em; + margin-bottom: 0.7em; +} +p { + text-indent: 1.15em; + margin-top: 0.1em; + margin-bottom: 0.1em; + text-align: justify; +} +hr.tb { + border: none; + height: 1em; +} +hr + p { + text-indent: 0; +} +.tn { + font-size: 0.9em; + border: 1px solid silver; + margin-top: 1.8em; + margin-left: 8%; + width: 80%; + padding: 0.4em 2%; + background-color: #DDDDEE; +} +p.ni, .tn p { + text-indent:0; +} +p.i { + font-style:italic; +} +.wi001 { margin-left:10%; width:80% } +.x-ebookmaker .wi001 { margin-left:5%; width:90% } + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76804 ***</div> + +<div id='i001' class='wi001'> + <img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' alt='frontispiece' style='width:100%'> +</div> + +<h1>WANTED——?</h1> +<div style='text-align:center;'> +<div style='font-size:1.1em;'>By EUGENE CUNNINGHAM</div> +<div style='font-size:0.8em;'>Author of “Beginners’ Luck,” “The Hermit of Tigerhead Butte,” etc.</div> +</div> + +<blockquote> +<p class='i ni'>A bullet six inches from his head warned Ware’s Kid that +he was “warmer” in his search for the killer of Eph Carson, +but even then he did not suspect how soon he was to reach +the surprising end of the long trail.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p class='ni'>Ware’s Kid jogged into Dallas, coming from Austin pursuant to special +orders of the adjutant general, which covered the proposed capture or +burial of one Dell Spreen, who was charged with murder and robbery down +El Paso way.</p> + +<p>Horsemen passed him; farmers in wagons with their families about them. +All gave the smallish figure on the black stallion a more than usually +curious glance. He was dressed like a Mexican dandy—a huge black +sombrero, heavy with silver bullion, shading a lean brown face and +sun-narrowed gray-green eyes; a waist-length jumper of soft tanned +goatskin, fringed from shoulder to elbow and with a bouquet of scarlet +roses embroidered upon the back; <i>pantalones</i> of blue, with rows of +twinkling silver buttons on each side of the crimson insert in the outer +seam. Some of those who passed him would have instantly recognized his +name. For he had wiped out Black Alec Rawles’s gang two years before and +so had marked his entry into the Rangers. The tale was a classic over a +wide land.</p> + +<p>But the crowd passed on unwittingly. For his white-handled Colt hung +awkwardly high upon his belt and the canny readiness of sleek, brown +Winchester stock to his hand was not readily apparent. Too, he was +obviously no more than eighteen or nineteen years old.</p> + +<p>On the main street Ware’s Kid pulled up, this time to stare broodingly +up the shallow canyon of brick and wooden buildings, almost as if he +expected to see Dell Spreen—a small, deadly figure of smooth, fierce +brown face and murderous black eyes—step from a doorway.</p> + +<p>A drowsy idler upon a saloon porch, leaning comfortably against a post +with feet in the dust of the street, promised information. Ware’s Kid +spurred over and at sound of the stallion’s feet the lank one opened his +eyes lazily.</p> + +<p>“Sher’ff’s office?” inquired Ware’s Kid politely.</p> + +<p>“Git to hell out o’ here an’ find out, if you-all’s so cur’us!” snarled +the loafer.</p> + +<p>“Sher’ff’s office?” repeated Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>Finding icy greenish eyes boring into his face, eyes lit by an uncanny +electric sparkling, the loafer sat suddenly stiff-backed.</p> + +<p>“’Scuse <em>me</em>!” he cried shakily. “But I—I shore thought you-all was a +greaser! Yo’ clothes an’ yo’—yo’——”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid ignored the profuse flow of apologies. Having received his +directions, he rode on. The lounger mopped damp brow with a sleeve and +peered after the tall black and its small rider.</p> + +<p>“Gawd! He’s a mean n’, I bet you!” he said. “Gent what packs a +six-shooter, but reaches fer his carbeen when he’s riled—I bet you he’s +a wolf!”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid swung down before the sheriff’s office and hitched the +stallion to a splintered post. With carbine cuddled in his arm, he +crossed to stand in the doorway of the office. His roving eyes made out, +in the duskiest corner, a small figure squatting against the wall.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid went inside. The squatting one was a boy of fifteen, +barefooted, in faded overalls, gingham shirt, and ragged hat upon towy +hair. His round eyes were of the palest blue and he had neither brows +nor lashes, so that his gaze seemed unwinking, like a snake’s.</p> + +<p>“Sher’ff?” grunted Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>The boy jerked his head toward the street door and shrugged silently. +Ware’s Kid, after a long stare, lounged over to another corner and +himself squatted upon his heels.</p> + +<p>Presently he forgot the boy in the opposite corner. Slowly he produced +Durham and brown papers and methodically built a cigarette. This he laid +upon the floor before him and rolled another, then a third, fourth, +fifth, sixth. They laid in a neat row. He picked up one from the end of +the row and lit it.</p> + +<p>He wondered if he were really to find Dell Spreen here in Dallas. He had +not been in Carwell with Sergeant Ames, on the day three months past, +when Simeon Rutter and two O-Bar riders had spurred into the tiny, +sleepy village, with the word of the murder and robbery of Eph Carson, +Rutter’s partner.</p> + +<p>But the sour-faced ranger sergeant had told him of the crime and of his +investigations at El Castillo, the long, low rock wall from behind which +Eph Carson had been shot.</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>Piecing together the testimony of Rutter and the punchers and adding the +result of his own observation, Ames had made a fairly complete story. +Carson had been on his way back to the O-Bar with about seven thousand +dollars of his and Rutter’s money. During his absence, up Crow Point +way, this gunman Spreen had ridden up to the O-Bar and asked for Carson. +Told that he was absent, Spreen had said grimly that he would wait.</p> + +<p>But shortly after breakfast on the day of the murder, while the ranch +house was deserted except for two Mex’ cooks, Spreen had disappeared. +None had since seen him. Spreen knew that Carson was to return with a +large sum of money. The whole ranch had known it.</p> + +<p>Evidently, said Ames, Spreen had ridden up the Crow Point trail to +ambush him where it ran along the rock wall in the desert—El Castillo. +He had not waited long—there were but two cigarette stubs in the +trampled sand. Eph Carson had come squarely into range of the steadied +rifle. Then—two shots and the wizened little cowman had side-slipped +from the saddle to sprawl face downward, dead. Having robbed the body, +Spreen had vanished as if the ground had swallowed him.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid went over the details of his own investigation. He had +located the niche in the wall which had held the murderer’s .44 rifle. +He had re-created the murder; had interviewed Rutter and the O-Bar boys.</p> + +<p>The dark, bitter-tongued rancher had told how he had ridden with the +punchers up the trail toward Crow Point, when Carson’s failure to return +had alarmed him. Told how they had found Carson sprawled upon the sand, +found his horse a quarter-mile away with bridle reins caught in the +<i>ocotillos</i>.</p> + +<p>Two weeks after the murder a peremptory summons had come to Ware’s Kid +from headquarters in Austin. He had found the adjutant general +determined to stamp out the wave of crime then sweeping the border +country. He wanted this Spreen killed or taken. Preferably the latter, +that he might be hanged upon the scene of his crime.</p> + +<p>“You wiped out Black Alec’s gang,” the adjutant general had said to +Ware’s Kid. “So I’m giving you this commission: get Dell Spreen! I don’t +care where you have to go to get him, either!”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid, who was now smoking the fifth cigarette from his layout, was +aroused from his thoughts by footsteps. A stocky man clumped inside the +office and sat down at the battered desk.</p> + +<p>“Mawnin’,” nodded the stocky man. The rigidity of his angular face was +broken up by curiosity, as with, alert brown eyes roved over the Mexican +finery. “Somethin’?”</p> + +<p>“Do’ know,” shrugged Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>He noted that the man wore a deputy sheriff’s badge upon his open vest. +He was, perhaps, twenty-nine or thirty, though dark mustache and tiny +goatee made him seem older. He was dusty as from long riding. Now he +reached down stiffly and took off his spurs.</p> + +<p>“Do’ know,” repeated Ware’s Kid. “Sher’ff?”</p> + +<p>“Sher’ff’s up to Austin, a-powwowin’ with the gov’nor. Art +Willeke—Art’s chief dep’ty—he’s ramblin’ ’round the ellum-bottoms, +Denton way, huntin’ Sam Bass.”</p> + +<p>Mention of the notorious outlaw, who was just then keeping Rangers and +peace officers frantic, solved a part of Ware’s Kid’s puzzle. He had +been wondering whether or not to take the local officers into his +confidence; tell them frankly whom he sought.</p> + +<p>He decided to forego any help these easterners could give in locating +Spreen—an East Texas man and, perhaps, one known to them—to gain the +greater advantage of working without danger of warning being passed to +Spreen by some friend.</p> + +<p>“Kind o’ interested in Bass,” he told the deputy, thoughtfully. “Ranger. +Headquarters Troop. Name’s Ware.”</p> + +<p>“Ware?” cried the deputy, staring hard and somewhat unbelievingly. +“Heerd about you-all! Glad to meet you!”</p> + +<p>He shook hands and sat down again, still eyeing Ware’s Kid doubtfully. +Then the boy in the corner came silently to the desk. The deputy nodded +to him, hesitated and turned to Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>“Mind if I talk to him, private?” he asked apologetically.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid went outside to lean against the wall. He could hear the +boy’s excited whispering; an occasional explosive grunt from the deputy. +Then he was called inside. The boy was gone.</p> + +<p>The deputy sat scowling down at the desk, tap-tapping the curving black +butt of the long-barreled Colt at his hip. He glanced up at Ware’s Kid +with the odd, appraising stare he had given the small figure at first +mention of his name.</p> + +<p>“My name’s Bos’ Johnson,” he remarked abruptly. “You-all make yo’se’f to +home, here. I’ll be back, right soon.”</p> + +<p>He was gone fifteen or twenty minutes and when he came in again, his +face wore that expression of grim rigidity which Ware’s Kid had marked +upon him when first he had come into the office.</p> + +<p>“A’right,” he grunted. “Le’s git yo’ hawse to the stable. Then I’ll buy +you-all a drink.”</p> + +<p>They saw to the stallion’s stabling, then crossed the street to a low, +brick saloon. There were not many in it—a cowboy or two, a knot of +farmers standing together far down the bar. But, drinking alone, was a +huge man with sullen, red face and close-set black eyes. He turned at +the pair’s entrance, staring.</p> + +<p>“Whisky,” said Bos’ Johnson, tonelessly. Ware’s Kid nodded agreement.</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>The big man watched, tugging at long mustaches and snorting loudly as if +at his private thoughts. He watched belligerently while the bartender +poured the drinks for Ware’s Kid and Bos’ Johnson.</p> + +<p>“Bartender!” he bellowed suddenly and crashed a huge fist upon the +polished bar.</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir!” replied the bartender. His pasty face was gray-hued. “Yes, +sir!”</p> + +<p>“You-all know who I am, bartender? I ask you-all—don’ you-all know what +I am, huh?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir, Mr. Branch. Course I do. Everybody knows Bull Branch! So’ +do!”</p> + +<p>Bull Branch continued to glare menacingly at him.</p> + +<p>“Bartender!” he growled. “Since when is Mexicans ’lowed to come +a-shovin’ in yere a-drinkin’ with white men? You-all git down there an’ +take that-’ere drink away from that Mex’! Then you-all chase him out’n +here ’fore I git mad.”</p> + +<p>Slowly the bartender inched toward Ware’s Kid—who had not yet seemed +even to glance in Bull Branch’s direction. When he was still six feet +away, the Ranger turned his head a trifle—and regarded the bartender. +The unhappy man stopped instantly, shrinking back before the uncanny +electric sparkling in the gray-green eyes. Slowly, then, Ware’s Kid +wheeled to face Bull Branch.</p> + +<p>“Where <em>I</em> come from—” thus the Ranger in a soft drawl—“ever’ gent +kills his own snakes.”</p> + +<p>“What?” roared Bull Branch, lowering big head on bull neck and glaring +ferociously. “<em>Whut?</em>”</p> + +<p>“Pop yo’ whip, fella!” Ware’s Kid invited him, still in the bored drawl.</p> + +<p>Bull Branch gaped amazedly. Deliberately, he pushed back his coat flaps +and put huge hands upon his hips. The pearl-gripped butts of two Colts +showed, almost under his fingers. Then he bore slowly down upon the +Ranger, who stood sideway to the bar with left elbow resting on its +edge. Bos’ Johnson moved unobtrusively away from the bar and out of +possible line of fire. But Bull Branch made no move to draw his guns: +merely came on ponderously.</p> + +<p>What followed was blurred like the action of a rattler’s head as it +strikes. The left hand of Ware’s Kid moved—so rapidly that none there +actually saw it move. It caught up the whisky glass from the bar and +flipped the stinging liquor squarely into Bull Branch’s face.</p> + +<p>As the huge figure reeled, hands going to tortured eyes, Ware’s Kid shot +forward. He twitched Branch’s Colts from their holsters and hurled them +into a corner. He rained blows upon Bull Branch’s face —leaping clear +off the floor to reach that height.</p> + +<p>It was cat-and-mastiff. Blindly, Bull Branch tried to push him off, but +those hard fists, landing with force terrifically out of proportion to +the small body behind them, cut his face to ribbons, closed his eyes to +puffy-lidded slits, drove sickeningly into his mid-section. He staggered +about the barroom, grunting, whining, helpless. At last some instinct +seemed to show him the door. He broke for it at a staggering run and +Ware’s Kid, with a Comanche yell, leaped upon his back and spurred him +through it, catching hold of the lintel and swinging down to the floor +as Bull Branch lurched through and fell sprawling upon the veranda floor +outside.</p> + +<p>When he came back, the bartender was half-crouched against the back-bar, +with eyes bulging. Bos’ Johnson and the other patrons were clinging to +the bar, some whooping feebly, others too weak to do more than shed +happy tears. Bos’ Johnson waggled a hand at the bartender.</p> + +<p>“Set ’em up, bartender!” he gasped. “This ’n’s on the house. Ware! Mebbe +they won’t neveh hi’st no monument to you-all here, but Bull +Branch—he’ll re-membeh you-all plenty!”</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>Back in the sheriff’s office, Johnson turned suddenly serious again. He +sat staring at the wall, his harsh face rigid as if set in bronze. “I +got you-all into that trouble with Bull Branch,” Johnson said suddenly. +“Done it a-purpose.”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid merely waited, brown face, gray-green eyes, revealing nothing +of his thoughts.</p> + +<p>“Wondered if you-all really was Ware an’, if you was, how much o’ the +talk was so. Because—I shore do need some help!”</p> + +<p>“Fer what?”</p> + +<p>“To go out with me tonight an’ stand up to Sam Bass’s gang!”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid studied the grimly earnest face. From the beginning he had +sensed something unusual about him. He thought that Johnson was usually +a happy-go-lucky cowpuncher and a man efficient with either hands or +weapons. He was used to judging men quickly and he began to like this +stocky deputy.</p> + +<p>“A’ right!” he grunted curtly.</p> + +<p>“You-all willin’?” cried Johnson. “Then here’s the layout. They’re goin’ +to stick up the east-bound T & P ag’in at Eagle Ford. Figger folks won’t +be expectin’ lightnin’ to hit twict in the same place. Me ’n’ you, we’ll +be in the weeds ’long the track.”</p> + +<p>“How-come just us two?”</p> + +<p>“I could raise a posse,” Johnson admitted. “But—how’m I goin’ to know +the fellas I line up ain’t in with Bass? No! I’m goin’ to line my sights +on Simp Dunbar an’ before I let some dam’ spy carry word, I’ll go it by +myse’f!”</p> + +<p>“Simp Dunbar? Who’s he?”</p> + +<p>“He’s the skunk that killed my cousin, Billy Tucker! Two weeks ago, oveh +in Tarrant. Man! I’d give a black land farm to git me Simp Dunbar oveh +my front sight. An’ I shore will! ’T was like this. Bass’s outfit loped +up to a saloon on the aidge o’ Fort Worth, where Billy, he was havin’ a +drink. The’ was some kind o’ wranglin’, Billy bein’ the kind as won’t +back down fer no man livin’. Simp Dunbar—I’ve knowed him all my life +fer a useless cus an’ Billy knowed him, too—he shot from off to one +side. Billy an’ me, we helled around togetheh when we was kids. Punched +cows togetheh, out Menard-way. I—I thought a heap o’ Billy——”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid nodded silently. Here was a man he understood. Understood his +vindictiveness, for it was in his own fierce Texan blood; understood his +willingness to take a hundred-to-one chance to face his enemy. More and +more, he liked Bos’ Johnson.</p> + +<p>“A’ right. We’ll hunt ’em up,” he grunted. “How-come yuh know they’re +goin’ to be at Eagle Ford?”</p> + +<p>“My spy told me. Had him a-watchin’ fer ’em last two weeks. That boy.”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid stared silently at Johnson.</p> + +<p>“What’s name that other little station—east o’ here?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Mesquite?”</p> + +<p>“Didn’t even know there was one,” shrugged Ware’s Kid, with a ghost of a +grin. “Johnson, we’ll be at Mesquite, not Eagle Ford, tonight. Boy’s +lyin’. In with Bass, likely. Feelin’ I got, an’ mostly my feelin’s is +right.”</p> + +<p>Johnson was won over to acceptance of the altered plan, if but +half-willingly. He admitted that he knew nothing much of the boy, who +had appeared in the office a month before offering to spy upon the Bass +gang.</p> + +<p>“In with Bass!” repeated the Ranger. “Hell! He could’ve brought yuh lots +o’ news, ’fore this.”</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>They waited until nearly dark, then ate at a Chinese restaurant. It was +pitch-dark when they went swiftly to the stable where Johnson’s horse, +with the big stallion, had been fed an hour before. They saddled, +talking a little for the benefit of any ears that might be stretched +toward them, of the western road; that toward Eagle Ford.</p> + +<p>For a couple of miles they rode swiftly eastward, then turned south on +the road to Mesquite. They were close to the railroad always, riding +through woodland. Johnson led, because of his knowledge of the country. +Soon he checked his mount and jerked the Winchester from its scabbard. +Ware’s Kid already cuddled his carbine in the crook of his arm. They +rode on again, slower, now.</p> + +<p>Suddenly, not fifty yards ahead, a man scratched a match. The Ranger +jerked his carbine up. Gently he kneed the stallion around, feeling, +rather than seeing, that Johnson was doing likewise. There was no alarm +while they moved back a hundred yards and slipped off their animals.</p> + +<p>“Let’s hitch the hawses an’ sneak up!” whispered Johnson.</p> + +<p>They returned to the point from which they had seen the flare of that +match, the stocky deputy making no more sound than a shadow—than the +Ranger himself. Then they halted, squatting on their heels, to listen. +There was the sound of men moving, of horses, the hum of low-voiced, +jerky conversation.</p> + +<p>“Late again!” a boyish voice complained. “Hell! You’d think we were +passengers, Sam, way the dam’ railroad’s treating us!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t ye fret, Bub,” a harsh voice answered the youngster. “She’ll be +a-ramblin’ along right soon. Ingineer, he’ll see that log an’ he’ll jerk +her back onto her tail right suddent!”</p> + +<p>“Ever’body lined up?” inquired a pleasant voice—Bass’s, Ware’s Kid +surmised. “Yuh-all know where yuh work?”</p> + +<p>As the voices answered in affirmative grunts, the Ranger began moving +soundlessly to circle them to get nearer to the point where the train +would stop. Johnson followed until they were squatting in a little open +perhaps fifty feet from the track, sheltered by a fallen tree.</p> + +<p>“You-all was shore right!” breathed Johnson. “Wouldn’t be nowheres else +in the world!”</p> + +<p>Minutes ticked off, then there was the sound of the train, far away. The +rails before them began to hum. The train was upon robbers and officers +with a roar. Came a frantic squealing of brakes and the scream of the +whistle.</p> + +<p>The train had barely halted when there was a rattle of shots along the +track. It was so dark that there was no clue to the robbers’ positions +save the orange flames that stab-stabbed the night. Ware’s Kid was +conscious that Johnson was gone from beside him. He wasted no time +thinking of that, but ran crouched over up to the track, where he could +fire at the robbers’ shot-flashes. From here he went into action with +coldly precise fire from the carbine.</p> + +<p>“Who’s that dam’ jughead?” someone roared. Evidently, thought Ware’s +Kid, he was believed to be some misguided member of the gang, firing +into his own people.</p> + +<p>From between the cars came shots to answer the gang, now. It was +pandemonium, there in the pitchy night, with the heavy roar of Colts and +the sharp, whiplike reports of rifles. A man could but guess, by the +relative positions of the flashes, at whom he shot.</p> + +<p>The Ranger hardly expected to do much execution—his position made that +a matter of chance. But he was worrying the Bass men.</p> + +<p>Suddenly a high, clear voice rang out, crying a name over and over +again, penetrating even the staccato din of the firing. “Simp Dunbar! +Where you-all? Simp Dunbar——”</p> + +<p>A voice answered, but there was no diminution in the firing. Ware’s Kid +crawled down the track, having reloaded his carbine. With his first shot +a man cried out shrilly. He pumped the lever and—his carbine jammed. He +spat a bitter curse. He knew instantly what had happened—he had slipped +a .45 pistol cartridge into a .44 carbine.</p> + +<p>A huge shape hurled itself at him. Mechanically, he threw up his carbine +and the oncoming man ran into it. Then Ware’s Kid, tugging at the butt +of his seldom-used Colt, leaped aside. A roar sounded, almost in his +ear. Then a hand caught his shoulder. Instinctively he stepped close to +his assailant, turned like a flash when a pistol brushed him; dropped +his Colt and caught the fellow’s gunhand with both of his and hung on +grimly.</p> + +<p>“Somethin’s wrong, boys! Let’s git out o’ yere!” a cool, half-laughing +voice was shouting, down the track—not the voice which had called Simp +Dunbar’s name.</p> + +<p>The fellow with whom Ware’s Kid grappled was swinging terrific blows at +his lighter opponent. But the Ranger’s head was against his chest; the +big fellow’s fists but grazed their mark. But he was tiring with his +bulldog grip on the other’s gunhand. Suddenly he released his hold and +tried to leap backward. A heel caught on a bunch of grass and he +stumbled. A flash and roar from in front of him; a stinging pain across +his head. He crashed flat.</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>He came to, conscious of a dull headache and, next, of a dim light over +his head. After a moment of blinking, he perceived that he was sitting +in a chair of a railway coach. Next he realized that the train was +moving.</p> + +<p>“How d’ you-all feel, now?” inquired an anxious voice.</p> + +<p>Painfully he turned his head and saw Bos’ Johnson’s worried face +opposite him.</p> + +<p>“Right puny!” he grunted truthfully.</p> + +<p>Johnson grinned widely, relief in his brown eyes.</p> + +<p>“What happened?” demanded Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>“Bullet creased you-all. You-all been pickin’ daisies might’ nigh a +hour.”</p> + +<p>“The hell! Where we goin’? Gang git away?”</p> + +<p>“Goin’ into Dallas. Yeh, gang high-tailed it—all but Simp Dunbar,” said +Johnson. “Reckon they’ll most all be a-lickin’ some sore spots, though. +Me ’n’ you-all did right smart o’ shootin’! I hollered fer Simp an’ like +a dam’ jughead, he spoke right up. I snuck up onto him an’ told him who +I was.”</p> + +<p>He lifted his arm and in the loose flannel of his shirt beneath it, +showed a great hole with charred edges.</p> + +<p>“Might’ nigh got me, first crack! But I worked buttonholes up an’ down +his front ’fore he could shoot ag’in!”</p> + +<p>“How-come yuh found me?”</p> + +<p>“By lookin’ around,” shrugged Johnson affectionately. “You dam’ red-eyed +li’l runt! You-all think I’d hike out an’ leave you-all out there, +some’r’s, fer the gang, mebbe, to find? I come runnin’ up about the time +you-all tumbled; see that hairpin right on top me—an’ me with an empty +gun! I yelled like a Comanche an’ damned if he neveh broke an’ run.”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid eyed him steadily. He knew that only Johnson’s arrival had +kept his assailant from putting another bullet into him as he lay +unconscious.</p> + +<p>He leaned back wearily in the seat. Johnson stretched his bowed legs +comfortably and took off his Stetson.</p> + +<p>“Wisht I had a chaw,” he grumbled.</p> + +<p>“Got the makin’s.” Ware’s Kid fumbled in his jumper pocket.</p> + +<p>“Don’t use her thet-a-way. I neveh could learn to smoke, some way.”</p> + +<p>He threw his head back and closed his eyes. And the Ranger, watching +him, turned suddenly cold all over. For upon the brown, sinewy neck that +had been always hidden heretofore by the silken neckerchief, shone a +long white scar that stretched evenly three quarters of the way around +it.</p> + +<p>A stocky, dark-faced, dark-eyed man, with a white scar circling evenly +around his neck—so Simeon Rutter and the O-Bar hands had described Dell +Spreen. True, they had seen him clean-shaven, and, believing him guilty +of murder, they remembered his features and eyes as murderous. But there +was no doubt about it—Dell Spreen sat there across from him with closed +eyes. And to Dell Spreen he owed his life that night!</p> + +<p>“Dell Spreen!” he called in a low voice.</p> + +<p>Bos’ Johnson moved like a cat, to half-draw his Colt. Then he saw the +derringer that covered him with twin barrels. For an instant he +hesitated, then shoved the Colt back into its holster and slumped.</p> + +<p>“So you-all come afteh <em>me</em>,” he said. “I been lookin’ fer somebody to +show up. That’s why I got me a job as dep’ty. Figgered whoever come’d +spill his tale in the office an’, seein’ me wearin’ a badge, wouldn’t +suspicion me. Specially since I neveh used my own name in the O-Bar +country. But you-all shore fooled me.”</p> + +<p>“Hate like hell to do it!” Ware’s Kid wriggled miserably. “But I’m a +Ranger. Do anything I can to help yuh, Johnson. Much as I’d do fer my +own blood kin. But I got to take yuh back.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t blamin’ you-all. But—might’s well shoot me right now as to put +me up ’fore a jury in that country. Ever’thing’s ag’inst me—specially +bein’ a strangeh. That’s why I high-tailed it, soon’s I heerd he’d been +found.</p> + +<p>“I ain’t denyin’ I went to the O-Bar fig-gerin’ I’d mebbe have to kill +Carson. I was goin’ to git back the money he stole off’n my brotheh an’ +sisteh. Goin’ to git it back or try the case before Jedge Colt. But if +I’d killed him, it’d been from the front. He’d have been give a chanct +to fill his hand.”</p> + +<p>“Yuh—yuh mean yuh never killed him?” cried Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>Then the old surge of hope died. Of course Johnson would say that.</p> + +<p>“D’ you-all figger me that-a-way? Knowin’ no more about me than you do?” +Johnson asked.</p> + +<p>Slowly, the Ranger shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Looky yere!” argued the deputy. “Eph’ Carson an’ my brotheh. Sam, they +was ranchin’ it oveh on the Brazos. Carson’s a tough <i>hombre</i>, remember. +He’s gamblin’ a lot. Well, he sells ever’ last head o’ stuff on the +place while Sam’s down in Fort Worth. Time Sam gits back with my +kid-sisteh that’s got a share in the ranch, Carson’s done gambled away +the money. The’s a row, o’ course. Sam, he’s got more guts than +gun-sense. Carson nigh kills him.</p> + +<p>“Time I come into it, Carson’s rattled his hocks. Two years afteh, I’m +ridin’ down in the El Paso country. Hear about Eph’ Carson o’ the O-Bar. +I go high-tailin’ it oveh an’ hang around four-five days, but Carson +don’t come. Then I start out fer Crow Point a-huntin’ him.</p> + +<p>“Then, hell bent, comes the Mex’ cooks’ helper-boy. I kept a cowboy from +beatin’ him to death, one day. Says Carson’s killed an’ robbed an’ +ever’body says I must’ve killed him! Well, whut do I do? Try to tell +them red-eyed O-Bar boys as how I was intendin’ to kill Eph’ Carson, +mebbe, but neveh got no chanct? Like hell! I figger the job I come to do +is done. I leave that-’ere country in a mile-high cloud o’ dust.”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid slumped lower in the seat, going over and over his mental +picture of the scene of the crime.</p> + +<p>Bos’ Johnson rose to cup his hands against the window glass and peer out +into the night. Missing no slightest movement of his prisoner, the +Ranger studied again the wide, powerful shoulders, the handy legs of the +man who has ridden almost since birth. Johnson turned slowly.</p> + +<p>“Dallas! Be in soon,” he said. “Then—I ain’t blamin’ you-all none, +Ware. But just—well sort o’ between us. I wisht I could make you +believe I never done it. I sort o’ took to you-all from the beginnin’ +an——”</p> + +<p>“’T ain’t a bit o’ use,” interrupted Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>A tiny smile was born far back in the gray-green eyes; seemed to spread +over the habitually blank brown face and come finally to rest upon the +thin-lipped mouth.</p> + +<p>“’T ain’t a bit o’ use,” he repeated. “’Cause—I know yuh never done +it!”</p> + +<p>Ostentatiously he returned the derringer to his jumper pocket.</p> + +<p>“’S all right, Bos’. Yuh got to go down to Austin with me. Got to +exhibit yuh some to the adj’tant gin’ral, to make him <i>sabe</i>. But +that’ll be all. Listen: I went snoopin’ around some myself, down at +Carwell. Found where the fella that killed Eph’ Carson had waited. Point +one: there was two brown cigarette stubs on the ground. Yuh-all say yuh +don’t smoke, an’ the’s no stain on yo’ fingers.</p> + +<p>“I found where this fella’s stood with his rifle in a sort o’ notch. His +foot-prints was still pretty plain. Well, yo’ feet, Bos’ point in, like +a pigeon’s. This fella’s showed in the soft dirt under the rock +overhang, a-pointin’ out!</p> + +<p>“But point three’s the big ’n’: I stand five foot seven, an’ that notch +he rested his Winchester in was level with my eyes. Short as yuh-all +are, it’d be mighty near over yo’ head! Now, he never stood on nothin’, +’cause the’ ain’t nothin’ the’ to stand on. An’ he never fired from no +saddle. ’Cause I found where his hawse’d been tied back in the brush.”</p> + +<p>“Man, but you-all shore wiped some cold sweat off’n me!” cried Bos’ +Johnson. “I knowed I neveh done it, but provin’ it, the way you-all just +done, neveh would’ve come to me. I reckon.”</p> + +<p>“Took a bigger man than ary one of us. That’s what we’re goin’ to show +the adj’tant gin’ral. Then I’m goin’ to ask him to let me go back to +Carwell to find the fella that really done the killin’. He’ll let me go. +An’——”</p> + +<p>“If he does,” cried Bos’ Johnson very earnestly, “man! The’s shore some +six-footehs down in that Carwell country as’ll be up in the air two ways +to onct!”</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>Up out of the glaring yellow sand, the long, low, narrow barrier of +black rock jutted abruptly. “El Castillo”—the Castle, the Mexicans had +named it, long ago. The name such names fitted as well as such names +usually do. Actually it more resembled a stone fence fifty yards long, +which, in height, varied from three to ten feet and, in thickness, from +a foot to four, even five, feet. The top was jagged—sharp saw teeth of +slick, inky rock. A sinister pile, even in the white sunlight of a +desert forenoon.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid squatted on spurred heels at the Castle’s western end, where +the trail forked to run on either side of the wall. Not much of a trail, +this—the deep, loose, perpetually-drifting sand soon effaced +impressions; but generations of travel had made a lane between walls of +greasewood and cat-claw and cactus.</p> + +<p>It was near the Ranger’s position, on this dimly-marked track, that Eph +Carson had died—shot from the saddle without a chance to return the +murderer’s fire.</p> + +<p>Having left Dell Spreen in the care of the adjutant general in Austin +and returned swiftly to Carwell, Ware’s Kid had come without being +observed to the scene of the murder. Now that he knew Spreen had not +committed the killing, he must decide who did.</p> + +<p>“Satisfied the adj’tant gin’ral Spreen neveh done it,” reflected the +Ranger. “But I got to figure out who did. Spreen’s too little. Good-size +hombre plugged Eph Carson.”</p> + +<p>He got up and the great, black stallion, which had stood behind him as +he squatted, now followed like a dog to the spot where Eph Carson’s +murderer had lain in wait. Ware’s Kid knew the place well.</p> + +<p>“Fella leaned up agin’st the rock, right here,” he re-enacted the scene +mentally. “Lined his sights on Carson. Carson was comin’ up t’ other +side from over Crow Point way. Fella drilled him plumb center. Went out +an’ took seven thousand out o’ Carson’s saddle bags. Stood right here. +Standin’ on the ground. No hawss-tracks closer’n that cat-claw yonder. +Good-size’ fella. Had to be, to rest his rifle in that crotch.”</p> + +<p>Mechanically he studied the rock wall and the sand that swept away from +its foot. Something bright in the sand, in the very spot where they had +found the murderer’s tracks. He stooped. But it was only a glassy bit of +rock. He held it, staring absently, his mind upon the mystery. From the +little sand dunes behind him, to northward, came the flat, vicious +report of a rifle. A bullet slapped the rock wall almost in his face. It +had passed within six inches of his head. Instantly, another followed.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid moved like a rattler striking. He moved automatically, but +with a precision, an economy, of movement that could not have been +bettered by rehearsals times without number. He was sheltered from the +bullets within two steps, standing behind his stallion’s bulk. His hand +slapped the saddle horn; he was in the saddle without touching stirrups +and lying flat upon the black’s neck. The great rowels dug the +stallion’s flanks; he surged forward magnificently; within two strides +he was galloping. The Ranger, chased by bullets that buzzed spitefully +about his ears, swung the black around the end of the Castle.</p> + +<p>Half-way down the length of the stone wall he slid the stallion to a +halt. Here was a place where he could peer across the top between two +teeth of rock. His great sombrero hung down his back by the chinstrap; +from the scabbard beneath the left fender had leaped a sleek Winchester +carbine. He cuddled the carbine in the crook of his arm as, with +green-gray eyes squinting coldly, he studied the sand dunes behind which +his antagonist lay hidden.</p> + +<p>A thin smoke-cloud was drifting upward above the dunes. Ware’s Kid +rested the carbine in the crotch of the wall-top. He sighted carefully +and drove three .44’s to dust along the crest of the dunes, some fifteen +inches apart. Instantly the other rifleman replied with a rolling +quartette of bullets that bunched most efficiently beneath the Ranger’s +carbine-muzzle.</p> + +<p>He watched narrowly without replying in kind. At last he shrugged and +whirled the stallion, to ride off south and east toward the O-Bar +ranch-house.</p> + +<p>He could have stalked the sand dunes from which the unknown bushwhacker +had fired. There was cover of a sort up to the very base of the dunes. +But the ambusher’s fire had been entirely too craftsmanlike, too nearly +deadly, to make the prospect of scaling the low slope before him seem +anything but the brief preliminary to a funeral. Ware’s Kid preferred to +ride off with a whole skin and calculate upon another meeting under +conditions more equal. They said of him, in the Rangers, that for a +youngster no more than nineteen he had a mighty level head.</p> + +<p>A half-mile, perhaps, he galloped without turning. Then, reaching for +the field glasses, he checked the stallion. Far behind him, a horseman +streaked it eastward. The Ranger studied rider and brown horse through +the glasses.</p> + +<p>“Mebbe he’s tall,” he grunted at last. “But—mebbe he’s just a-forkin’ a +little pony.”</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>For ten miles he kept the stallion at a mile-eating running walk. He had +never been at the O-Bar house, but he knew its location from hearsay, +and so, when the black began climbing a steady incline, studded by +boulders and covered with taller-than-ordinary mesquite, he nodded to +himself. This was the way, all right.</p> + +<p>The stallion made the incline’s top and paused for a moment, expelling +its breath in a great snort. At the sound, the flaxen-haired girl on the +lookout rock turned sharply. She and Ware’s Kid stared, one at another, +her great, dark eyes meeting his narrowed gaze levelly.</p> + +<p>“Howdy!” he drawled, after a—to him—long and uncomfortable silence. He +was always ill at ease with women. They usually wanted a man to make +some sort of damned fool of himself to suit a feminine whim.</p> + +<p>“Good morning,” she replied, still examining him calmly.</p> + +<p>“Trail to the O-Bar?” he grunted awkwardly, after another silence.</p> + +<p>“Yes. The house is a mile away. But there’s nobody there except the cook +and his helper. Do you want to see my father, Sim Rutter?”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid stared. He recalled nothing about a daughter on the O-Bar. +And that Simeon Rutter, huge, gaunt, black-haired, black-eyed, +black-bearded, grim and taciturn, should have such a daughter as this +slim, fair-skinned creature seemed somehow unbelievable. She seemed to +read his thoughts.</p> + +<p>“I’ve been away at school—Las Cruces—convent, you know,” she +enlightened. “But I’m not going back—I hope.”</p> + +<p>“Stay here, huh?”</p> + +<p>“I hope not! This is just as bad. Oh, I hate this bare, desolate +country! Don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t know,” shrugged Ware’s Kid. He had never thought about the +matter, one way or the other. “Don’t know—as I do.”</p> + +<p>“I want to go back East! To New York—Philadelphia—Boston—oh, all the +places I’ve read about. Europe, too. I’m trying to get my father to sell +the ranch and go traveling with me. All over the world. I’ve been trying +to persuade him for two years. But I think he’ll do it now—maybe. His +partner was killed, you know. He’s all broken up over that. He doesn’t +say much, but it was an awful blow just the same. I think he’ll sell +out.”</p> + +<p>“Got to be goin’,” grunted Ware’s Kid. All this talk of travel was over +his head. Nor had it anything to do with his particular business—the +capture of Eph Carson’s murderer.</p> + +<p>“I’ll ride with you. Will you get my horse? He’s tied to a cat-claw over +yonder.”</p> + +<p>The Ranger got the pony and brought it back. He sat his stallion, +holding her animal’s reins. She waited for an instant, but he was blind +to her expectation that he would help her into the saddle. So she swung +up unaided and jerked the reins from his hand.</p> + +<p>As they rode almost stirrup-to-stirrup toward the ranch-house, Ware’s +Kid studied her covertly from beneath half-lowered sombrero brim. It +dawned upon him suddenly that not yet had he seen her smile. The large, +blue eyes were somber, always; she seemed to brood upon something. They +rode in silence until, a half-mile or so ahead, the clutter of buildings +which constituted the O-Bar holding showed against the desert shrubbery.</p> + +<p>“I hate it!” she burst out. “Oh, how I hate it!”</p> + +<p>Then they rode on silently again, the creak of saddle-leather, the +scuffing of the animals’ hoofs, the only sound, until they dismounted in +the ranch yard.</p> + +<p>There was but one horse in the cottonwood-log corral, a black gelding as +large as the mount of Ware’s Kid. The girl glanced at it, then toward +the house.</p> + +<p>“My father’s home,” she said tonelessly.</p> + +<p>“Come in.”</p> + +<p>They went around the house and, upon the rough veranda that shaded its +front, found Simeon Rutter with feet cocked upon the rail, big, shaggy +head upon his chest. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps and +sun-narrowed black eyes softened amazingly as he saw his daughter.</p> + +<p>“Hello, Baby!” he rumbled. “Wonderin’ where yuh was.” Then, to Ware’s +Kid, “Howdy, Kid. What’re yuh doin’ down here ag’in? Thought they sent +yuh up to Austin, or some’r’s.”</p> + +<p>“Did. But sent me back. I got Dell Spreen.”</p> + +<p>“Yuh did! That’s shore good hearin’, Kid!” He came swiftly to his feet, +with great hands hard-clenched.</p> + +<p>The girl had gone indoors and bitterly, yet with a certain grim +repression, Simeon Rutter cursed Dell Spreen.</p> + +<p>“Where’s Spreen, now?” he demanded, breaking off suddenly. “Carwell? El +Paso?”</p> + +<p>“Austin. Lookin’ up more evidence.”</p> + +<p>Simeon Rutter cursed the law’s dawdling ways; its coddling of an +assassin. Ware’s Kid but half-listened. He was thinking of the efficient +rifleman of the morning, who had bushwhacked him from the sand dunes.</p> + +<p>“How many big men in this country?” he asked abruptly. “<em>Big</em> men?”</p> + +<p>Rutter stopped short to stare at him. Then he considered the question, +eyes narrowed thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“Don’t know. Me, o’ course. An’ Curly Gonzales over Crow Point way. +Lamson—that crazy puncher on the D-5—an’ Slim Nichols on the Flyin’ A. +All I think of. Why?”</p> + +<p>The Ranger hesitated. Knowing Rutter’s bitterness toward Dell Spreen, he +wondered if the dour ranchman could be made to believe his own theory: +that Spreen had not, could not have, committed the murder. Wondered, +too, if Rutter would be silent about the theory.</p> + +<p>“Spreen says he never killed Carson,” he said slowly.</p> + +<p>“Yeh. An’ what?”</p> + +<p>“An’ if he did—well, I don’t know how he done it!”</p> + +<p>“What’re yuh drivin’ at? Yuh got the name o’ bein’ level-headed, Kid, +but—what’re yuh drivin’ at?”</p> + +<p>“How could a little fella—littler’n me—shoot Carson, restin’ his gun +in a crotch near as high as he could reach?”</p> + +<p>Scowling, Simeon Rutter considered this problem.</p> + +<p>“That <em>was</em> a high crotch—one that we found his tracks under,” he +admitted. “But, hell! He was sittin’ on a hawss, or else standin’ on +somethin’. Not good enough, Kid! By God, not half good enough to make me +believe Dell Spreen never shot old Eph Carson from hidin’. O’ course he +denies it! ’Spect him to own right up?”</p> + +<p>“Yeh. Course, he’d say he never. But I been thinkin’. Wasn’t no +hawss-tracks under the crotch. Nothin’ to stand on. Nothin’ we could +see, anyhow. So’ wondered who’d be tall enough to shoot out o’ that +crotch, standin’ on the sand. An’ too——”</p> + +<p>He hesitated for an instant before he decided to tell of the morning.</p> + +<p>“An’, too, somebody bushwhacked me, out at the Castle, today!”</p> + +<p>“Bushwhacked yuh! What for? Who’d be a-bushwhackin’ yuh?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t know. Fella on a dun. Good shot, too. Purty good, that is.”</p> + +<p>“Here!” cried Rutter suddenly. “Too much funny business about this. I +want to see that place ag’in. Git yo’ hawss, Kid. Let’s take a <i>pasear</i> +out to the Castle an’ look around.”</p> + +<p>He went swiftly down to the corral and got the lariat from his saddle. +The black gelding retreated to a corner, snorting, whirling. Rutter sent +the loop spinning over its head and hauled the animal to him by sheer +brute force.</p> + +<p>“So dam’ many hawsses none gits rid enough!” he rumbled irritably. +“Wilder’n antelope, all of ’em.”</p> + +<p>He saddled swiftly and swung up. Ware’s Kid was already mounted. They +turned past the front veranda and Rutter waved to his daughter, who had +come outside again. He seemed another person when near her. The grim +shell of him cracked and a tenderness odd in a man so apparently +harsh-grained showed for a moment.</p> + +<p>“Goin’ out to El Castillo!” he shouted at the girl. “Back when I git +back, Baby.”</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>They rode silently for miles. Rutter was one after the Ranger’s own +heart, taciturn, efficient in his business. Staring at his companion’s +broad back, Ware’s Kid nodded approval. He thought of what the girl had +said—of her father’s repressed sorrow over his partner’s death. He +could understand Rutter’s vengefulness toward Dell Spreen, but he hoped, +before the day’s end, to show the O-Bar owner his error, to prove that +Spreen could not have murdered Eph Carson.</p> + +<p>“If yuh’re right about this height business,” Rutter growled suddenly, +“I don’t know what we’re goin’ to do about it. Too long ago, now. Not +that I’m admittin’ yuh’re right! But just in case yuh are, how can we +find out where these fellas—Curly Gonzales an’ Lamson an’ Nichols—was +that day? Fella don’t always recollect just what he was doin’ three +months ago. By George!”</p> + +<p>He whirled sideway in the saddle.</p> + +<p>“That mornin’, me an’ August Koenig—one o’ my hands—was ridin’ nawth +o’ the house nine-ten mile. An’ we met Lamson headin’ for Elizario! +Recollect, now. August an’ Lamson come near mixin’ it, ’count August he +was askin’ about some widder that lives in Elizario an’ Lamson flew off +the handle! By George!”</p> + +<p>“What kind o’ fella’s Lamson?” inquired Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>“Oh, same’s most. Gits kind o’ crazy spells. Been kicked on the head a +long time ago by a bronc’ an’ once in a while he flies up. But he’s a +good puncher an’ I don’t know why anybody’ll think he’d shoot Eph +Carson. Lamson’s seen trouble—seen it fair an’ square, through the +smoke. No-o, I wouldn’t put him down for that kind o’ killer.”</p> + +<p>“Yuh found Carson right after noon, didn’t yuh?”</p> + +<p>“Yeh. I got fidgety, him not comin’ in the day I figgered. So when me +an’ August got back to the house, an’ Eph hadn’t come in yet, I took +August an’ Yavapai Wiggins an’ we rode out. Found Eph ’long about two +o’clock, lyin’ in the trail. Seven thousand, about, he was packin’. All +gone.”</p> + +<p>“Mostly yo’s, they say.”</p> + +<p>“’Bout four thousand,” Rutter nodded gloomily. “But ’t wasn’t the money +riled me so. Old Eph, he never knowed what hit him. Never had a chanct. +Nary chanct to git his six-shooter out. Like I told yuh then, right +after it happened. I figgered Dell Spreen ’cause he’d hung around the +ranch three days, waitin’ for Eph. Wouldn’t tell nobody what he wanted. +Just looked mean. An’ packed his cantinas an’ hightailed it that very +mawnin’. I gethered yuh never found the money on him?”</p> + +<p>“Fo’ dollars, ’bout,” shrugged Ware’s Kid.</p> + +<p>They came to the Castle and reined in the animals on the spot where the +murderer of Eph Carson had waited. Silently, Simeon Rutter stared at the +crotch in the rock wall in which the assassin had rested his +rifle-barrel. Slowly, as unwilling even now to concede weight to the +theory the Ranger had advanced tentatively, he nodded.</p> + +<p>“The’ wasn’t no hawss-tracks closer’n that cat-claw yonder,” he +admitted.</p> + +<p>He swung down and pulled his Winchester from its scabbard, then moved +over to the crotch in the wall. Even for one of his height it was a +strain to level the barrel with butt at shoulder. He nodded again and +set the rifle down. From a shirt pocket he brought Durham and papers and +shook tobacco onto the brown leaf, somber black eyes roving.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid slipped from the saddle and came swiftly over to where Rutter +stood. He stopped and dug into the sand at the rancher’s feet, then +straightened.</p> + +<p>“What’s it?” asked Rutter.</p> + +<p>It was a large, pearl-handled pocketknife, tarnished from much carrying, +with four good blades and one broken blade stump. Rutter licked his +cigarette, jambed it into his mouth and took the knife from the Ranger’s +hand, staring thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“See it before?” asked Ware’s Kid. Rutter shook his head.</p> + +<p>“Umm—no, reckon not. Not many like that carried in this country. But +somebody ought to know it. We’ll ride into Carwell pretty soon. See. But +right now I want to ride Eph Carson’s back-trail. Got a idee. Mebbe she +won’t pan out.”</p> + +<p>They could only guess that Eph Carson had come along the regular trail +and follow through the dim lane between the greasewood and cacti. They +rode silently, with eyes roving from trail to skyline and back again. +The afternoon wore on; evening came. To westward, up-thrusting hulls, +jagged, fantastic, drew nearer.</p> + +<p>“Huecos!” grunted Rutter, and Ware’s Kid nodded. He knew this ancient +watering place of the desert people red and brown and white. A good many +times, with a Ranger detachment from Ysleta, hunting Apache sign, he had +camped there.</p> + +<p>“Guess we better hole up there t’night,” Rutter grunted, staring across +the flat to the beginning of that welter of arroyo-cut hillocks. +“Mawnin’ we can head back to Carwell an’ see ’bout that frogsticker. Or, +we can look over some more trail.”</p> + +<p>“Yo’ idee?” queried Ware’s Kid. “Yuh said yuh had one.”</p> + +<p>“Tell yuh about it come mawnin’,” said Rutter. Far back in the grim +black eyes lurked a shadowy amusement. “Ain’t quite ready to back her up +clean to the tailgate. Got anything to eat?”</p> + +<p>“Dried beef, <i>tortillas</i>, coffee, can o’ plums.”</p> + +<p>“Dried beef an’ <i>tortillas</i> is a meal,” grinned Rutter. “Le’s head for +the Tanks an’ camp.”</p> + +<p>“Better hole up in the old Butterfield station,” counseled Ware’s Kid. +“Healthier’n sleepin’ ’longside the main <i>tinaja</i> (Tank). Apaches don’t +stick no closer to the reservation than ever, I reckon.”</p> + +<p>“Not so close, by God!” swore Rutter. “Yuh’re right, Kid. Them dam’ +feather dusters stops here or at Crow Springs or the Comudas, reg’lar, +comin’ from Mescalero to Chihuahua. Stage station she is. We’ll make +it.”</p> + +<p>They nodded mutual agreement and spurred the horses on through the dark. +At the deserted stage station—a rude dwelling made by walling in the +mouth of a natural cavern—they swung down. The Ranger sniffed like a +hunting dog.</p> + +<p>“Some seep water up the canyon a piece,” he muttered. “Good enough for +the hawsses. But I’ll take the canteen an’ git some real water at the +Tank, for us.”</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>He unsaddled the black stallion and swiftly Rutter followed his example. +Rutter got out the food and coffee pot from the Ranger’s saddle bags +while the latter, bearing a canteen, started up the canyon to the main +“tank.”</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid moved silently, for all his high-heeled boots. The canyon +floor was of hard-packed earth, but studded with loose stones and he +placed his feet carefully. One never knew who might be using the Tanks. +From time immemorial it had been one of the favorite watering places of +this region. Wild animals and wild men, red and brown and white, came +there furtively.</p> + +<p>He passed close along the left-hand wall, decorated with Indian +pictographs and the names of pioneers, and so came to the low cavern in +which was the spring-fed well, or “tank.” More cautiously than ever he +moved now. The rock apron before the cavern was pitted with +<i>metate</i>-holes, where prehistoric tribes had ground their corn; rude +mortars still used by the Apaches who camped there. It was tricky +footing and trickier still inside, where one approached the well-lip +over a stone floor worn slick as glass by countless feet.</p> + +<p>Inside the cavern mouth he squatted for a moment and listened. He heard +nothing from without or within and slid his feet carefully forward, +balancing himself with left hand upon a rounded slab that divided the +cavern in two sections.</p> + +<p>So he was awkwardly balanced when a sinewy arm shot around his throat +from behind and a <i>hough</i> sounded in his ear.</p> + +<p>A smallish, rather insignificant-seeming figure was Ware’s Kid. But “all +whalebone and whang-leather,” as the Rangers who had wrestled with him +remarked amazedly; a hundred and ten pounds of wiry, dashingly quick, +steel-strong body.</p> + +<p>Now he moved automatically, fairly shouting, “Indians!” Sideways he +whirled, and so the Apache’s knife went wide in its downward drive. Back +shot the Ranger’s head, to smash into the Indian’s face. It broke his +strangling hold and Ware’s Kid, turning half in air, his feet were +sliding so, shot a vicious fist into the Apache’s midriff, then had the +buck by the throat and was gripping him about the body with legs closing +like scissor-blades and fending off flailing arms with elbows spread.</p> + +<p>The Apache was powerful, but before he had much opportunity to struggle +Ware’s Kid had banged his back-head against the rock. He managed a long, +loud, gasping groan. Feebly his knifehand rose. The Ranger loosed the +throat for an instant and fumbled for the weapon. It sliced his palm. +Then he seized it and buried it in the Indian’s body.</p> + +<p>When the Apache was limp—wise men made very sure that Apaches were +really dead—the Ranger stood up shakily and groped for the entrance. A +stone slid down into the canyon and he hurled himself forward out of the +cavern. As he gained the middle of the canyon, running like a +quarter-horse, there was thud after thud of feet dropping from the rocks +to the hard ground.</p> + +<p>He ran on his toes, hoping that he could make camp sufficiently ahead of +these fleet Indians to warn Rutter; hoping, too, that Rutter had the +horses together, had not taken them out onto the flat to graze. He ran +as he never had run in his life.</p> + +<p>At last he sensed the camp just ahead. And from it came a rifle-shot, +then another. The bullets sang past him perilously close.</p> + +<p>“It’s—Ware’s Kid!” he gasped. “Injuns—comin’!”</p> + +<p>“Thought yuh was one of ’em!” grunted Rutter, with no particular alarm +evident in his heavy voice. “How close?”</p> + +<p>“Right behind! No time to saddle! Fork ’em bareback!”</p> + +<p>He paused only to snatch his precious carbine from its scabbard on the +saddle, then scooped up the bight of the lariat with which the stallion +was picketed. He vaulted upon the stallion’s back. Muffled sound in the +darkness nearby told that Rutter was following his example.</p> + +<p>Up the canyon the darkness was suddenly punctuated in a half-dozen +places by orange flames. Bullets thudded into the ground, into rock +walls, around the white men. The firing was a continuous roll, its +rumbling multiplied by the canyon walls. As usual the Apaches had rifles +as good as any in that country, better than those of the Army. Rutter +swore venomously.</p> + +<p>Ware’s Kid had slashed the lariat with his belt knife. Rutter, +apparently, had done the same. For when the black stallion surged ahead, +toward the safety of the open land, Rutter was close behind. They +galloped furiously for perhaps half an hour. The moon came out and +flooded the desert with a white light that reminded the Ranger of Billy +Conant’s New Fashion Saloon in El Paso when the electric lights were +turned on.</p> + +<p>Being lighter and, perhaps, the better rider, Ware’s Kid led. He had +lost a hundred-dollar saddle, but he was phlegmatic about that. It was +all in the game. They were lucky—he especially—to be riding away with +their hair. A sudden groan from Rutter aroused him from his thoughts and +he looked backward under his arm in time to see the big man slide +sideways off his gelding and roll over upon his side.</p> + +<hr class='tb'> + +<p>Mechanically Ware’s Kid whirled the stallion and glared half-a-dozen +ways at once in search of the assassin. But the broad expanse of +greasewood and cacti lay quiet in the incandescent moonlight. So he rode +back to Rutter and slid to the sand.</p> + +<p>“Got me!” Rutter gasped. “Back yonder. Thought I—could make it—back to +the ranch—see—my girl—but——”</p> + +<p>“Let’s see,” grunted Ware’s Kid practically.</p> + +<p>He explored the blood-caked shirt-front and lifted a shoulder-point in a +little gesture of fatalistic resignation. There was a .44 hole in +Rutter’s chest. How he had ridden this far was the marvel! The Ranger +squatted there broodingly, watching mechanically along the back-trail, +in case the Indians appeared.</p> + +<p>“Want me to—sign a paper?”</p> + +<p>At the painful whisper, Ware’s Kid looked down curiously into Rutter’s +grim-lined face.</p> + +<p>“Shore,” he nodded, after a moment, thinking to humor a delirious man. +“If it’ll ease yuh.”</p> + +<p>“Knowed yuh—had the deadwood on me—when yuh—found my knife! But I +—wasn’t goin’ to—let yuh see Carwell ag’in—ever! Yuh tried to—make +out yuh never—suspicioned. But I knowed! I’d’ve got yuh—’fore mawnin’. +Dam’ near got yuh—yeste’day mawnin’—at the Castle. Seen yuh—pokin’ +round—pick up somethin’—skeered me an’—I whanged away. Hadn’t +missed—wouldn’t be here. ’Twas on the—cards—I reckon.”</p> + +<p>He stopped wearily, breathing in labored wheezes. Ware’s Kid squatted +beside him, staring down with expressionless face. Suddenly Rutter’s +wheezes became louder, quicker. After a moment the Ranger understood +that it was horrible laughter.</p> + +<p>“Reckon my gal—will do her travelin’—now. Always after me—to sell +out. I done for Eph Carson—’count o’ that. None o’ that—money was +mine. All his’n. I wanted it. I——”</p> + +<p>His voice trailed off into incoherent mumbling. Ware’s Kid bethought +himself suddenly of what Rutter had said about signing a paper. He +fumbled in his jumper pocket and found a letter of the adjutant general, +the letter which had summoned him to Austin three months ago and so had +brought him, indirectly, to sit here tonight. A stub of pencil was +there, too.</p> + +<p>“A’ right!” he snapped. “Sign the paper!”</p> + +<p>He supported the murderer’s head and shoulders and crooked his knee so +that Rutter could lay the paper upon it. It was slow, painful work, but +at last he held the curt scrawl up in the moonlight and painfully +spelled it out:</p> + +<blockquote> +<p>Dell spreen never killed eph Carson I done it and robbed +him—Simeon Rutter.</p> +</blockquote> + +<p>Presently Rutter died—without pain, apparently. Ware’s Kid rolled a +cigarette and lit it, staring blankly straight ahead.</p> + +<p>“He shore fooled me!” he grunted admiringly. “He shore did! An’ like to +killed me twict! At the Castle an’ tonight. He never took me for no +Injun. He was aimin’ to down me. Just fools’ luck I’m here, alive an’ +kickin’, an’ with this-here paper.”</p> + +<p>He got up, thinking to ride for Carwell and tell his story: show the +confession. Suddenly he thought of the girl, the wistful-eyed, sad-faced +girl at the O-Bar ranch-house. He squatted again and made another +cigarette.</p> + +<p>Slowly but surely, he mulled the business over. It came to him finally +that there were really but two persons to be considered—Dell Spreen, +sitting around the adjutant general’s office up at Austin, and that girl +of Rutter’s. Absolute vindication of Spreen was easy; the means lay in +his hand, here. But that would mean a blow at a girl who had had no part +in her father’s cold-blooded deed. He pondered the problem. At last, he +nodded.</p> + +<p>He would ride back to Carwell, but the paper would remain in his jumper +pocket. He would tell of Rutter’s death; lead a posse after the Apaches. +He would also show the townsfolk the spot from which Eph Carson had been +shot and explain the impossibility of Dell Spreen—a man shorter, even, +than himself—committing the murder. This might not clear up the mystery +to everyone’s satisfaction, but Dell Spreen had no intention of coming +back to this part of the country anyway. When the adjutant general saw +the confession it would clear Spreen officially.</p> + +<p>Then the girl would not be branded—openly, at least—as the daughter of +a brutal, callous murderer. She would have no ordeal to face while the +O-Bar was being sold. She would carry away no bitter memories to mark +her in after-years.</p> + +<p>Something like this Ware’s Kid thought out. He got up again and snapped +his fingers to the black stallion, caught the trailing lariat and again +threw a hackamore around the black’s nose, then vaulted upon it with +carbine across his arm.</p> + +<p>“Reckon she’s poor law—this way,” he reflected. “But she’s shore as +hell good Rangerin’!”</p> + +<div class='tn'> +Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 1927 issue of +<i>Frontier Stories</i> magazine. +</div> + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76804 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + + diff --git a/76804-h/images/cover.jpg b/76804-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..51e78b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/76804-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76804-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg b/76804-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1acb7c --- /dev/null +++ b/76804-h/images/illus-fpc.jpg |
