Wanted—? · OmniClassics

WANTED--? By EUGENE CUNNINGHAM Author of “Beginners’ Luck,” “The Hermit of Tigerhead Butte,” etc. 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. 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. 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. 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. * * * * * 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. 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. 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. 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. 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 _ocotillos_. 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. “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!” 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. “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’?” “Do’ know,” shrugged Ware’s Kid. 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. “Do’ know,” repeated Ware’s Kid. “Sher’ff?” “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.” 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. 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. “Kind o’ interested in Bass,” he told the deputy, thoughtfully. “Ranger. Headquarters Troop. Name’s Ware.” “Ware?” cried the deputy, staring hard and somewhat unbelievingly. “Heerd about you-all! Glad to meet you!” 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. “Mind if I talk to him, private?” he asked apologetically. 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. 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. “My name’s Bos’ Johnson,” he remarked abruptly. “You-all make yo’se’f to home, here. I’ll be back, right soon.” 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. “A’right,” he grunted. “Le’s git yo’ hawse to the stable. Then I’ll buy you-all a drink.” 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. “Whisky,” said Bos’ Johnson, tonelessly. Ware’s Kid nodded agreement. * * * * * 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. “Bartender!” he bellowed suddenly and crashed a huge fist upon the polished bar. “Yes, sir!” replied the bartender. His pasty face was gray-hued. “Yes, sir!” “You-all know who I am, bartender? I ask you-all--don’ you-all know what I am, huh?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Branch. Course I do. Everybody knows Bull Branch! So’ do!” Bull Branch continued to glare menacingly at him. “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.” 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. “Where _I_ come from--” thus the Ranger in a soft drawl--“ever’ gent kills his own snakes.” “What?” roared Bull Branch, lowering big head on bull neck and glaring ferociously. “_Whut?_” “Pop yo’ whip, fella!” Ware’s Kid invited him, still in the bored drawl. 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. 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