Where the old Ranger Trail, crossing the Blue Mesa, leaves the high mesa and meanders off into the desert, there is a fork which leads southwest, to the Apache country—a grim and waterless land—and finally swings south toward the border. Pete dismounted at this fork, pulled up his slackened cinches, and making certain that he was leaving a plain track, rode down the main trail for half a mile. Then he reined his pony to a bare spot on the grass-dotted tufa, and again dismounted. He looped Blue Smoke's fore feet, then threw him, and pulled his shoes with a pair of wire nippers, and stowed the shoes in his saddle-pockets.
He again rode directly down the trail, surmising that the occasional track of a barefoot horse would appear natural enough should the posse, whom he knew would follow him, split up and ride both trails. Farther on he again swung from the trail to the tufa, never slackening pace, and rode across the broken ground for several miles. He had often seen the unshod and unbranded ponies of the high country run along a trail for a mile or so and then dash off across the open. Of course, if the posse took the direct trail to the border, paying no attention to tracks, they would eventually overtake him. Pete was done with the companionship of men who allowed the wanton killing of a man like Annersley to go unpunished. He knew that if he were caught, he would most probably be hanged or imprisoned for the shooting of Gary—if he were not killed in being taken. The T-Bar-T interests ruled the courts. Moreover, his reputation was against him. Ever since the raid on Annersley's place Pete had been pointed out as the "kid who stood off the raiders and got two of them." And Pete knew that the very folk who seemed proud of the fact would be the first to condemn him for the killing of Gary. He was outlawed—not for avenging the death of his foster-father, but actually because he had defended his own life, a fact difficult to establish in court and which would weigh little against the evidence of the six or eight men who had heard him challenge Gary at the round-up. Jim Bailey had been right. Men talked too much as a usual thing. Gary had talked too much.
Pete realized that his loyalty to the memory of Annersley had earned him disrepute. He resented the injustice of this, and all his old hatred of the law revived. Yet despite all logic of justice as against law—he could see Gary's hand clutching against his chest, his staring eyes, and the red ooze starting through those tense fingers—Pete reasoned that had he not been so skilled and quick with a gun, he would be in Gary's place now. As it was, he was alive and had a good horse between his knees.
To ride an unshod horse in the southern desert is to invite disaster. Toward evening, Pete pulled up at a water-hole, straightened the nails in the horseshoes and tacked them on again with a piece of rock. They would hold until he reached the desert town of Showdown—a place of ill-repute and a rendezvous for outlawry and crime.
He rode on until he came within sight of the town—a dim huddle of low buildings in the starlight. He swung off the trail, hobbled his horse, fastened his rope to the hobbles, and tied that in turn to a long, heavy slab of rock, and turned in. He would not risk losing his horse in this desert land. At best a posse could not reach Showdown before noon the next day, and rather than blunder into Showdown at night and take unnecessary risks, he decided to rest, and ride in at sunup, when he would be able to see what he was doing and better estimate the possibilities of getting food for himself and his horse and of finding refuge in some out-of-the-way ranch or homestead. In spite of his vivid imaginings he slept well. At dawn he caught up his pony and rode into town.
Showdown boasted some fifteen or eighteen low-roofed adobes, the most pretentious being the saloon. These all faced a straggling road which ran east and west, disappearing at either end of the town as though anxious to obliterate itself in the clean sand of the desert. The environs of Showdown were garnished with tin cans and trash, dirt and desolation. Unlike the ordinary cow-town this place was not sprightly, but morose, with an aspect of hating itself for existing. Even the railroad swung many miles to the south as though anxious to leave the town to its own pernicious isolation.
The fixed population consisted of a few Mexicans and one white man, known as "The Spider," who ran the saloon and consequently owned Showdown body and—but Showdown had no soul.
Men arrived and departed along the several desert trails that led in and out of the town. These men seldom tarried long. And they usually came alone, perchance from the Blue, the Gila, the T-Bar-T, or from below the border, for their business was with the border rustlers and parasites. Sheriffs of four counties seldom disturbed the place, because a man who had got as far south as Showdown was pretty hard to apprehend. From there to the border lay a trackless desert. Showdown was a rendezvous for that inglorious legion, "The Men Who Can't Come Back," renegades who when below the line worked machine guns for whichever side of the argument promised the more loot. Horse- and cattle-thieves, killers, escaped convicts, came and went—ominous birds of passage, the scavengers of war and banditry.
The Spider was lean, with legs warped by long years in the saddle. He was called The Spider because of his physical attributes as well as because of his attitude toward life. He never went anywhere, yet he accumulated sustenance. He usually had a victim tangled in his web. It was said that The Spider never let a wounded outlaw die for lack of proper attention if he considered the outlaw worth saving—as an investment. And possibly this was the secret of his power, for he was ever ready to grub-stake or doctor any gentleman in need or wounded in a desert affair—and he had had a large experience in caring for gun-shot wounds.
Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, nodded casually to The Spider, and called for a drink. The Spider, who always officiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling of liquor, noticed that the young stranger's eyes were clear and steady—that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he had arrived in Showdown at sunup. As Pete drank, The Spider sized up his horse—which looked fresh. He had already noticed that Pete's gun hung well down and handy, and assumed correctly that it was not worn for ornament. The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality—that the stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense.
Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up and entered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riders were expected to reach Showdown that day—perhaps by noon. Then The Spider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched in a high key yet was little more than a whisper.
The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed him for a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like the rush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently left the room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glanced up, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swung around as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes shifted to Pete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would have read: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand." And Pete's eyes had retorted: "I sure do. I was waiting for you to say that."
Still The Spider had not addressed his new guest nor had Pete uttered a word. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power. Pete turned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely. The Spider pushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again. Pete shook his head. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and moving quickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patio set with tables and chairs. Pete nodded.
They were establishing a tentative understanding without speech. The test was hard for Pete. The Spider was uncanny—though quick of movement and shifty of eye—intensely alive withal.
As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased. This was but a youth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of a rendezvous. The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wall of the patio opened on a corral. The corral bars opened to the desert—Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than the patio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking. The Spider considered this highly commendable.
Pete knew at a glance that The Spider was absolutely without honor—that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and that he called no man friend and meant it.
And The Spider knew, without other evidence than his own eyes found, that this young stranger would not hesitate to kill him if sufficient provocation offered. Nor did this displease the autocrat of Showdown in the least. He was accustomed to dealing with such men. Yet one thing bothered him. Had the stranger made a get-away that would bring a posse to Showdown—as the Mexican had intimated? If so the sooner the visitor left, the better. If he were merely some cowboy looking for easy money and excitement, that was a different matter. Or perhaps he had but stolen a horse, or butchered and sold beef that bore a neighbor's brand. Yet there was something about Pete that impressed The Spider more deeply than mere horse- or cattle-stealing could. The youth's eye was not the eye of a thief. He had not come to Showdown to consort with rustlers. He was somewhat of a puzzle—but The Spider, true to his name, was silently patient.
Meanwhile the desert sun rolled upward and onward, blazing down on the huddled adobes, and slowly filtering into the room. With his back to the bar, Pete idly flicked bits of a broken match at a knot-hole in the floor. Tired of that, he rolled a cigarette with one hand, and swiftly. Pete's hands were compact, of medium size, with the finger joints lightly defined—the hands of a conjuror—or, as The Spider thought, of a born gunman. And Pete was always doing something with his hands, even when apparently oblivious to everything around him. A novice at reading men would have considered him nervous. He was far from nervous. This was proven to The Spider's satisfaction when Malvey entered—"Bull" Malvey, red-headed, bluff and huge, of a gaunt frame, with large-knuckled hands and big feet. Malvey tossed a coin on the bar noisily, and in that one act Pete read him for what he was—a man who "bullied" his way through life with much bluster and profanity, but a man who, if he boasted, would make good his boast. What appeared to be hearty good-nature in Malvey was in reality a certain blatantly boisterous vigor—a vigor utterly soulless, and masking a nature at bottom as treacherous as The Spider's—but in contrast squalid and mean. Malvey would steal five dollars. The Spider would not touch a job for less than five hundred. While cruel, treacherous, and a killer, The Spider had nothing small or mean about him. And subtle to a degree, he hated the blunt-spoken, blustering Malvey, but for reasons unadvertised, called him friend.
"Have a drink?"
"Thanks." And Pete poured himself a noticeably small quantity.
"This is Malvey—Bull Malvey," said The Spider, hesitating for Pete to name himself.
"Pete's my name. I left the rest of it to home."
Malvey laughed. "That goes. How's things over to the Concho?"
"I ain't been there since yesterday."
The Spider blinked, which was a sign that he was pleased. He never laughed.
Malvey winked at The Spider. "You ain't ridin' back that way to-day, mebby? I'd like to send word—"
Pete shook his head. "Nope. I aim to stay right here a spell."
"If you're intendin' tokeepthat horse out there, perhaps you'd like to feed him." And The Spider indicated the direction of the corral with a twist of the head.
"Which is correct," said Pete.
"Help yourself," said The Spider.
"I get you," said Pete significantly; and he turned and strode out.
"What in hell is he talkin' about?" queried Malvey.
"His horse."
Malvey frowned. "Some smooth kid, eh?"
The Spider nodded.
Pete appreciated that his own absence was desired; that these men were quietly curious to find out who he was—and what he had done that brought him to Showdown. But Malvey knew nothing about Pete, nor of any recent trouble over Concho way. And Pete, unsaddling his pony, knew that he would either make good with The Spider or else he would make a mistake, and then there would be no need for further subterfuge. Pete surveyed the corral and outbuildings. The whole arrangement was cleverly planned. He calculated from the position of the sun that it lacked about three hours of noon. Well, so far he had played his hand with all the cards on the table—card for card with The Spider alone. Now there would be a new deal. Pete would have to play accordingly.
When he again entered the saloon, from the rear, The Spider and Malvey were standing out in the road, gazing toward the north. "I see only three of them," he heard The Spider say in his peculiar, high-pitched voice. And Pete knew that the speech was intended for his ear.
"Nope. Four!" said Malvey positively.
Pete leaned his elbow on the bar and watched them. Malvey was obviously acting his part, but The Spider's attitude seemed sincere. "Pete," he called, "Malvey says there are four riders drifting in from the north. I make it three."
"You're both wrong and you got about three hours to find it out in," said Pete.
Malvey and The Spider glanced at one another. Evidently Pete was more shrewd than they had suspected. And evidently he would be followed to Showdown.
"It's a killing," whispered The Spider. "I thought that it was. How do you size him up?"
"Pretty smooth—for a kid," said Malvey.
"Worth a blanket?" queried The Spider, which meant, worth hiding from the law until such time as| a blanket was not necessary.
"I'd say so."
They turned and entered the saloon. The Spider crept from the middle of his web and made plain his immediate desire. "Strangers are welcome in Showdown, riding single," he told Pete. "We aren't hooked up to entertain a crowd. If you got friends coming—friends that are suffering to see you—why, you ain't here when they come.And you ain't been here. If nobody is following your smoke, why, take your time."
"I'll be takin' my hoss when he gits done feedin'," stated Pete.
The Spider nodded approval. Showdown had troubles of its own.
"Malvey, did you say you were riding south?"
"Uh-huh."
"Kind of funny—but I was headin' south myself," said Pete. "Bein' a stranger I might git lost alone."
"Which wouldn't scare you none," guffawed, Malvey.
"Which wouldn't scare me none," said Pete.
"But a crowd of friends—riding in sudden—" suggested The Spider.
"I 'd be plumb scared to death," said Pete.
"I got your number," asserted The Spider.
"Then hang her on the rack. But hang her on the right hook."
"One, two, or three?" queried The Spider.
"Make it three," said Pete.
The Spider glanced sharply at Pete, who met his eye with a gaze in which there was both a challenge and a confession. Yet there was no boastful pride in the confession. It was as though Pete had stated the simple fact that he had killed a man in self-defense—perhaps more than one man—and had earned the hatred of those who had the power to make him pay with his life, whether he were actually guilty or not.
If this young stranger had three notches in his gun, and thus far had managed to evade the law, there was a possibility of his becoming a satellite among The Spider's henchmen. Not that The Spider cared in the least what became of Pete, save that if he gave promise of becoming useful, it would be worth while helping him to evade his pursuers this once at least. He knew that if he once earned Pete's gratitude, he would have one stanch friend. Moreover, The Spider was exceedingly crafty, always avoiding trouble when possible to do so. So he set about weaving the blanket that was to hide Pete from any one who might become too solicitous about his welfare and so disturb the present peace of Showdown.
The Spider's plan was simple, and his instructions to Malvey brief. While Pete saddled his horse, The Spider talked with Malvey. "Take him south—to Flores's rancho. Tell Flores he is a friend of mine. When you get a chance, take his horse, and fan it over to Blake's. Leave the horse there. I want you to set him afoot at Flores's. When I'm ready, I'll send for him."
"What do I git out of it?"
"Why, the horse. Blake'll give you a hundred for that cayuse, if I am any judge of a good animal."
"He'll give me fifty, mebby. Blake ain't payin' too much for any hosses that I fetch in."
"Then I'll give you the other fifty and settle with Blake later."
"That goes, Spider."
The Spider and Malvey stepped out as Pete had it out with Blue Smoke in front of the saloon.
"We're ridin'," said Malvey, as Pete spurred his pony to the rail.
Pete leaned forward and offered his hand to The Spider. "I'll make this right with you," said Pete.
"Forget it," said The Spider.
Showdown dozed in the desert heat. The street was deserted. The Mexican who helped about the saloon was asleep in the patio. The Spider opened a new pack of cards, shuffled them, and began a game of solitaire. Occasionally he glanced out into the glare, blinking and muttering to himself. Malvey and Pete had been gone about an hour when a lean dog that had lain across from the hitching-rail, rose, shook himself, and turned to gaze up the street. The Spider called to the man in the patio. He came quickly. "I'm expecting visitors," said The Spider in Mexican. The other started toward the front doorway, but The Spider called him back with a word, and gestured to the door back of the bar—the doorway to The Spider's private room. The Mexican entered the room and closed the door softly, drew up a chair, and sat close to the door in the attitude of one who listens. Presently he heard the patter of hoofs, the grunt of horses pulled up sharply, and the tread of men entering the saloon. The Mexican drew his gun and rested his forearm across his knees, the gun hanging easily in his half-closed hand. He did not know who the men were nor how The Spider had known that they were coming. But he knew what was expected of him in case of trouble. The Spider sat directly across from the door behind the bar. Any one talking with him would be between him and the door.
"Guess we'll have a drink—and talk later," said Houck. The Spider glanced up from his card-game, and nodded casually.
The sound of shuffling feet, and the Mexican knew that the strangers were facing the bar. He softly holstered his gun. While he could not understand English, he knew by the tone of the conversation that these men were not the enemies of his weazened master.
"Seen anything of a kind of dark-complected young fella wearin' a black Stetson and ridin' a blue roan?" queried Houck.
"Where was he from?" countered The Spider.
"The Concho, and ridin' a hoss with the Concho brand."
"Wanted bad?"
"Yes—a whole lot. He shot Steve Gary yesterday."
"Gary of the T-Bar-T?"
"The same—and a friend of mine," interpolated the cowboy Simpson.
"Huh! You say he's young—just a kid?"
"Yes. But a dam' tough kid."
"Pete Annersley, eh? Not the Young Pete that was mixed up in that raid a few years ago?"
"The same."
"No—I didn't see anything of him," said The Spider.
"We trailed him down this way."
The Spider nodded.
"And we mean to keep right on ridin'—till we find him," blurted Simpson.
Houck realized that The Spider knew more than he cared to tell. Simpson had blundered in stating their future plans, Houck tried to cover the blunder. "We like to get some chuck—enough to carry us back to the ranch."
"I'm short on chuck," said The Spider. "If you men were deputies—sworn in regular—why, I'd have to give it to you."
Simpson was inclined to argue, but Houck stopped him.
"Guess we can make it all right," he said easily. "Come on, boys!"
Houck, wiser than his companions, realized the uselessness of searching farther, a fact obvious even to the hot-headed Simpson when at the edge of the town they tried to buy provisions from a Mexican and were met with a shrug and a reiterated "No sabe."
"And that just about settles it," said Houck as he reined his pony round and faced north.
Malvey, when not operating a machine gun for Mexican bandits, was usually busy evading a posse on the American side of the border. Needless to say, he knew the country well—and the country knew him only too well. He had friends—of a kind—and he had enemies of every description and color from the swart, black-eyed Cholas of Sonora to the ruddy, blue-eyed Rangers of Texas. He trusted no man—and no man who knew him trusted him—not even The Spider, though he could have sent Malvey to the penitentiary on any one of several counts.
Malvey had no subtlety. He simply knew the game and possessed a tremendous amount of nerve. Like most red-headed men, he rode rough-shod and aggressively to his goal. He "bulled" his way through, when more capable men of equal nerve failed.
Riding beside him across the southern desert, Young Pete could not help noticing Malvey's hands—huge-knuckled and freckled—and Pete surmised correctly that this man was not quick with a gun. Pete also noticed that Malvey "roughed" his horse unnecessarily; that he was a good rider, but a poor horseman. Pete wondered that desert life had not taught Malvey to take better care of his horse.
As yet Pete knew nothing of their destination—nor did he care. It was good to be out in the open, again with a good horse under him. The atmosphere of The Spider's saloon had been too tense for comfort. Pete simply wanted to vacate Showdown until such time as he might return safely. He had no plan—but he did believe that Showdown would know him again. He could not say why. And it was significant of Young Pete's descent to the lower plane that he should consider Showdown safe at any time.
Pete was in reality never more unsafe than at the present time. While space and a swift pony between his knees argued of bodily freedom, he felt uneasy. Perhaps because of Malvey's occasional covert glance at Blue Smoke—for Pete saw much that he did not appear to see. Pete became cautious forthwith, studying the lay of the land. It was a bad country to travel, being so alike in its general aspect of butte and arroyo, sand and cacti, that there was little to lay hold upon as a landmark. A faint line of hills edged the far southern horizon and there were distant hills to the east and west. They journeyed across an immense basin, sun-smitten, desolate, unpromising.
"Just plain hell," said Malvey as though reading Pete's thought.
"You act like you was to home all right," laughed Pete.
Malvey glanced quickly at his companion, alive to an implied insult, but he saw only a young, smooth-cheeked rider in whose dark eyes shone neither animosity nor friendliness. They jogged on, neither speaking for many miles. When Malvey did speak, his manner was the least bit patronizing. He could not quite understand Pete, yet The Spider had seemed to understand him. As Pete had said nothing about the trouble that had driven him to the desert, Malvey considered silence on that subject emanated from a lack of trust. He wanted to gain Pete's confidence—for the time being at least. It would make it that much easier to follow The Spider's instructions in regard to Pete's horse. But to all Malvey's hints Pete was either silent or jestingly unresponsive. As the journey thinned the possibilities of Pete's capture, it became monotonous, even to Malvey, who set about planning how he could steal Pete's horse with the least risk to himself. Aside from The Spider's instructions Malvey coveted the pony—a far better horse than his own—and he was of two minds as to whether he should not keep the pony for his own use. The Concho was a long cry from Showdown—while the horse Malvey rode had been stolen from a more immediate neighborhood. As for setting this young stranger afoot in the desert, that did not bother Malvey in the least. No posse would ride farther south than Showdown, and with Pete afoot at Flores's rancho, Malvey would be free to follow his own will, either to Blake's ranch or farther south and across the border. Whether Pete returned to Showdown or not was none of Malvey's affair. To get away with the horse might require some scheming. Malvey made no further attempt to draw Pete out—but rode on in silence.
They came upon the cañon suddenly, so suddenly that Pete's horse shied and circled. Malvey, leading, put his own pony down a steep and winding trail. Pete followed, fixing his eyes on a far green spot at the bottom of the cañon, and the thin thread of smoke above the trees that told of a habitation.
At a bend in the trail, Malvey turned in the saddle: "We'll bush down here. Friends of mine."
Pete nodded.
They watered their horses at the thin trickle of water in the cañon-bed and then rode slowly past a weirdly fenced field. Presently they came to a rude adobe stable and scrub-cedar corral. A few yards beyond, and hidden by the bushes, was the house. A pock-marked Mexican greeted Malvey gruffly. The Spider's name was mentioned, and Pete was introduced as his friend. The horses were corralled and fed.
As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman—Flores's wife—called to some one in an inner room. Presently Flores's daughter appeared, supple of movement and smiling. She greeted Malvey as though he were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete's direct gaze, and straightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of a song. The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking—quite worth changing her dress for. She hoped he would think her pretty. Most men admired her—she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way—and some of them had given her presents—a cheap ring, a handkerchief from Old Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb. Boca Dulzura—or "pretty mouth" of the Flores rancho—cared for no man, but she liked men, especially when they gave her presents.
When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of "fixing up" because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and her crimson sash. She affected scorn for his talk—but was naturally pleased. And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased her still more.
"This here hombre is Pete," said Malvey. "He left his other name to home." And he laughed raucously.
Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously.
Boca was piqued. This young caballero did not seem anxious to know her—like the other men. He did not smile.
"Pete," she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice. "Pete has not learned to talk yet—he is so young?"
Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed. Pete stood solemnly eying him for a moment. Then he turned to the girl. "I ain't used to talkin' to women—'specially pretty ones—like you."
Boca clapped her hands. "There! 'Bool' Malvey has never said anything so clever as that."
"Bool" Malvey frowned. But he was hungry, and Flores's wife was preparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes, which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone—very much of a stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chum Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. He wondered what they were doing—if they were talking about him—and Gary. It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the corner and pulled up his chair to the Concho table. He wished that he might talk with some one—he was thinking of Jim Bailey—and tell him just what there had been to the shooting. But with these folks…
The shadows were lengthening. Already the lamp on Flores's table was lighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with the old Mexican. Pete had forgotten Boca—almost forgotten where he was for the moment, when something touched his arm. He turned a startled face to the girl. She smiled and then whispered quickly, "It is that I hate that 'Bool' Malvey. He is bad. Of what are you thinking, señor?"
Pete blinked and hesitated. "Of my folks—back there," he said.
Boca darted from him as her mother called her to help set the table. Pete's lips were drawn in a queer line. He had no folks "back there"—or anywhere. "It was her eyes made me feel that way," he thought. And, "Doggone it—I'm livin'—anyhow."
From the general conversation at the table that evening Pete gathered that queer visitors came to this place frequently. It was a kind of isolated, halfway house between the border and Showdown. He heard the name of "Scar-Face," "White-Eye," "Sonora Jim," "Tio Verdugo," a rare assortment of border vagabonds known by name to the cowboys of the high country. The Spider was frequently mentioned. It was evident that he had some peculiar influence over the Flores household, from the respectful manner in which his name was received by the whole family. And Pete, unfamiliar with the goings and comings of those men, their quarrels, friendships, and sinister escapades, ate and listened in silence, realizing that he too had earned a tentative place among them. He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of a machine-gun duel between two white men,—renegades and leaders in opposing factions below the border,—and how one of them, shot through and through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemy sharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the other machine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turned the machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of his own company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him. "And he's in El Paso now," concluded Malvey, "at the hospital. He writ to The Spider for money—and The Spider sure sent it to him."
"Who was he fightin' for?" queried Pete, interested in spite of himself.
"Fightin' for? For hisself! Because he likes the game. You don't want to git the idea that any white man is down there fightin' just to help a lot of dirty Greasers—on either side of the scrap."
A quick and significant glance shot from Boca's eyes to her mother's. Old Flores ate stolidly. If he had heard he showed no evidence of it.
"'Bull' Malvey! A darn good name for him," thought Pete. And he felt a strange sense of shame at being in his company. He wondered if Flores were afraid of Malvey or simply indifferent to his raw talk. And Pete—who had never gone out of his way to make a friend—decided to be as careful of what he said as Malvey was careless. Pete had never lacked nerve, but he was endowed with considerable caution—a fact that The Spider had realized and so had considered him worth the trouble of hiding—as an experiment.
After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal—Malvey and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them—and Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the cañon at the faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores's manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness which in no way deceived Pete. And Malvey, whose intent was plainly to get drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line. He hinted that he had put more than one Mexican out of the way—and he slapped Flores on the back—and Flores laughed. He spoke of raids on the horse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired in his drink, openly asserted that he was the "slickest hoss-thief in Arizona," turning to Pete as he spoke.
"I'll take your word for it," said Pete.
"But what's the use of settin' out here like a couple of dam' buzzards when the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and be leered at Flores.
The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly. They entered the 'dobe, Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing.
"I can listen out here." Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct. As for old Flores, Pete despised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "a dirty bunch of Greasers," and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor sort of a man.
Disgusted with Malvey's loud talk and his raw attitude toward Boca, Pete sat in the moon-flung shadows of the portal and smoked and gazed at the stars. He was half-asleep when he heard Boca tell Malvey that he was a pig and the son of a pig. Malvey laughed. There came the sound of a scuffle. Pete glanced over his shoulder. Malvey had his arm around the girl and was trying to kiss her. Flores was watching them, grinning in a kind of drunken indifference.
Pete hesitated. He was there on sufferance—a stranger. After all, this was none of his business. Boca's father and mother were also there…
Boca screamed. Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete stepped up. "What's the idee, Malvey?"
"You don't draw no cards in this deal," snarled Malvey.
"Then we shuffle and cut for a new deal," said Pete.
Malvey's loose mouth hardened as he backed toward the corner of the room, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face. Suddenly the girl sprang up and caught Malvey's arm, "No! No!" she cried.
He flung her aside and reached for his gun—but Pete was too quick for him. They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled free and rose. In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey's brute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey—but he did not intend that Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. He saw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun—when something crashed down from behind. Pete dimly remembered Boca's white face—and the room went black.
Malvey strode forward.
Old Flores dropped the neck of the shattered bottle and stood gazing down at Pete. "The good wine is gone. I break the bottle," said Flores, grinning.
"To hell with the wine! Let's pack this young tin-horn out where he won't be in the way."
But as Malvey stooped, Boca flung herself in front of him. "Pig!" she flamed. She turned furiously on her father, whose vacuous grin faded as she cursed him shrilly for a coward.
Listless and heavy-eyed came Boca's mother. Without the slightest trace of emotion she examined Pete's wound, fetched water and washed it, binding it up with a handkerchief. Quite as listlessly she spoke to her husband, telling him to leave the wine and go to bed.
Flores mumbled a protest. Malvey asked him if he let the women run the place. Boca's mother turned to Malvey. "You will go," she said quietly. Malvey cursed as he stepped from the room. He could face Boca's fury, or face any man in a quarrel, but there was something in the deathlike quietness of the sad-eyed Mexican woman that chilled his blood. He did not know what would happen if he refused to go—yet he knew that something would happen. It was not the first time that Flores's wife had interfered in quarrels of the border outlaws sojourning at the ranch. In Showdown men said that she would as soon knife a man as not. Malvey, who had lived much in Old Mexico, had seen women use the knife.
He went without a word. Boca heard him speak sharply to his horse, as she and her mother lifted Pete and carried him to the bedroom.
Just before dawn Pete became conscious that some one was sitting near him and occasionally bathing his head with cool water. He tried to sit up. A slender hand pushed him gently back. "It is good that you rest," said a voice. The room was dark—he could not see—but he knew that Boca was there and he felt uncomfortable. He was not accustomed to being waited upon, especially by a woman.
"Where's Malvey?" he asked.
"I do not know. He is gone."
Again Pete tried to sit up, but sank back as a shower of fiery dots whirled before his eyes. He realized that he had been hit pretty hard—that he could do nothing but keep still just then. The hot pain subsided as the wet cloth again touched his forehead and he drifted to sleep. When he awakened at midday he was alone.
He rose, and steadying himself along the wall, finally reached the doorway. Old Flores was working in the distant garden-patch. Beyond him, Boca and her mother were pulling beans. Pete stepped out dizzily and glanced toward the corral. His horse was not there.
Pete was a bit hasty in concluding that the squalid drama of the previous evening (the cringing girl, the drunkenly indifferent father, and the malevolent Malvey) had been staged entirely for his benefit. The fact was that Malvey had been only too sincere in his boorishness toward Boca; Flores equally sincere in his indifference, and Boca herself actually frightened by the turn Malvey's drink had taken. That old Flores had knocked Pete out with a bottle was the one and extravagant act that even Malvey himself could hardly have anticipated had the whole miserable affair been prearranged. In his drunken stupidity Flores blindly imagined that the young stranger was the cause of the quarrel.
Pete, however, saw in it a frame-up to knock him out and make away with his horse. And back of it all he saw The Spider's craftily flung web that held him prisoner, afoot and among strangers. "They worked it slick," he muttered.
Boca happened to glance up. Pete was standing bareheaded in the noon sunlight. With an exclamation Boca rose and hastened to him. Young Pete's eyes were sullen as she begged him to seek the shade of the portal.
"Where's my horse?" he challenged, ignoring her solicitude.
She shook her head. "I do not know. Malvey is gone."
"That's a cinch! You sure worked it slick."
"I do not understand."
"Well, I do."
Pete studied her face. Despite his natural distrust, he realized that the girl was innocent of plotting against him. He decided to confide in her—even play the lover if necessary—and he hated pretense—to win her sympathy and help; for he knew that if he ever needed a friend it was now.
Boca steadied him to the bench just outside the doorway, and fetched water. He drank and felt better. Then she carefully unrolled the bandage, washed the clotted blood from the wound and bound it up again.
"It is bad that you come here," she told him.
"Well, I got one friend, anyhow," said Pete.
"Si, I am your friend," she murmured.
"I ain't what you'd call hungry—but I reckon some coffee would kind of stop my head from swimmin' round," suggested Pete.
"Si, I will get it."
Pete wondered how far he could trust the girl—whether she would really help him or whether her kindness were such as any human being would extend to one injured or in distress—"same as a dog with his leg broke," thought Pete. But after he drank the coffee he ceased worrying about the future and decided to take things an they came and make the best of them.
"Perhaps it is that you have killed a man?" ventured Boca, curious to know why he was there.
Pete hesitated, as he eyed her sharply. There seemed to be no motive behind her question other than simple curiosity. "I've put better men than Malvey out of business," he asserted.
Boca eyed him with a new interest. She had thought that perhaps this young señor had but stolen a horse or two—a most natural inference in view of his recent associate. So this young vaquero was a boy in years only?—and outlawed! No doubt there was a reward for his capture. Boca had lightly fancied Young Pete the evening before; but now she felt a much deeper interest. She quickly cautioned him to say nothing to her father about the real reason for his being there. Rather Pete was to say, if questioned, that he had stolen a horse about which Malvey and he had quarreled.
Pete scowled. "I'm no low-down hoss-thief!" he flared.
Boca smiled. "Now it is that I know you have killed a man!"
Pete was surprised that the idea seemed to please her.
"But my father"—she continued—"he would sell you—for money. So it is that you will say that you have stolen a horse."
"I reckon he would,"—and Pete gently felt the back of his head. "So I'll tell him like you say. I'm dependin' a whole lot on you—to git me out of this," he added.
"You will rest," she told him, and turned to go back to her work. "I am your friend," she whispered, pausing with her finger to her lips.
Pete understood and nodded.
So far he had done pretty well, he argued. Later, when he felt able to ride, he would ask Boca to find a horse for him. He knew that there must be saddle-stock somewhere in the cañon. Men like Flores always kept several good horses handy for an emergency. Meanwhile Pete determined to rest and gain strength, even while he pretended that he was unfit to ride. When hedidleave, he would leave in a hurry and before old Flores could play him another trick.
For a while Pete watched the three figures puttering about the bean-patch. Presently he got up and stepped into the house, drank some coffee, and came out again. He sat down on the bench and took mental stock of his own belongings. He had a few dollars in silver, his erratic watch, and his gun. Suddenly he bethought him of his saddle. The sun made his head swim as he stepped out toward the corral. Yes, his saddle and bridle hung on the corral bars, just where he had left them. He was about to return to the shade of the portal when he noticed the tracks of unshod horses in the dust. So old Flores had other horses in the cañon? Well, in a day or so Pete would show the Mexican a trick with a large round hole in it—the hole representing the space recently occupied by one of his ponies. Incidentally Pete realized that he was getting deeper and deeper into the meshes of The Spider's web—and the thought spurred him to a keener vigilance. So far he had killed three men actually in self-defense. But when he met up with Malvey—and Pete promised himself that pleasure—he would not wait for Malvey to open the argument. "Got to kill to live," he told himself. "Well, I got the name—and I might as well have the game. It's nobody's funeral but mine, anyhow." He felt, mistakenly, that his friends had all gone back on him—a condition of mind occasioned by his misfortunes rather than by any logical thought, for at that very moment Jim Bailey was searching high and low for Pete in order to tell him that Gary was not dead—but had been taken to the railroad hospital at Enright, operated on, and now lay, minus the fragments of three or four ribs, as malevolent as ever, and slowly recovering from a wound that had at first been considered fatal.
Young Pete was not to know of this until long after the knowledge could have had any value in shaping his career. Bailey, with two of his men, traced Pete as far as Showdown, where the trail went blind, ending with The Spider's apparently sincere assertion that he knew nothing whatever of Peters whereabouts.
Paradoxically, those very qualities which won him friends now kept Pete from those friends. The last place toward which he would have chosen to ride would have been the Concho—and the last man he would have asked for help would have been Jim Bailey. Pete felt that he was doing pretty well at creating trouble for himself without entangling his best friends.
"Got to kill to live," he reiterated.
"Como 'sta, señor?" Old Flores had just stepped from behind the crumbling 'dobe wall of the stable.
"Well, it ain't your fault I ain't a-furnishin' a argument for the coyotes."
"The señor would insult Boca. He was drunk," said Flores.
"Hold on there! Don't you go cantelopin' off with any little ole idea like that sewed up in your hat.Whichseñor was drunk?"
Flores shrugged his shoulders. "Who may say?" he half-whined.
"Well, I can, for one," asserted Pete. "Youwas drunk andMalveywas drunk, and the two of you dam' near fixed me. But that don't count—now. Where's my hoss?"
"Quien sabe?"
"You make me sick," said Pete in English. Flores caught the word "sick" and thought Pete was complaining of his physical condition.
"The señor is welcome to rest and get well. What is done is done, and cannot be mended. But when the señor would ride, I can find a horse—a good horse and not a very great price."
"I'm willin' to pay," said Pete, who thought that he had already pretty well paid for anything he might need.
"And a good saddle," continued Flores.
"I'm usin' my own rig," stated Pete.
"It is the saddle, there, that I would sell to the señor." The old Mexican gestured toward Pete's own saddle.
Pete was about to retort hastily when he reconsidered. The only way to meet trickery was with trickery. "All right," he said indifferently. "You'll sure get all that is comin' to you."