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.