“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.” “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.” “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’----” “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!” * * * * * 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. 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. 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. 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. “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.” 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.