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. 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. 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. 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. “Reckon she’s poor law--this way,” he reflected. “But she’s shore as hell good Rangerin’!” [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 1927 issue of _Frontier Stories_ magazine.]