Wanted—?

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.

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.

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; pantalones 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.

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.

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.

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.

“Sher’ff’s office?” inquired Ware’s Kid politely.

“Git to hell out o’ here an’ find out, if you-all’s so cur’us!” snarled the loafer.

“Sher’ff’s office?” repeated Ware’s Kid.

Finding icy greenish eyes boring into his face, eyes lit by an uncanny electric sparkling, the loafer sat suddenly stiff-backed.

“’Scuse me!” he cried shakily. “But I--I shore thought you-all was a greaser! Yo’ clothes an’ yo’--yo’----”

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.

“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!”

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.

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.

“Sher’ff?” grunted Ware’s Kid.

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.