Malvey, loafing at the ranch of Mescalero, received The Spider's message about the posse with affected indifference. He had Pete's horse in his possession, which in itself would make trouble should he be seen. When he learned from the messenger that Young Pete was in Showdown, he fumed and blustered until evening, when he saddled Blue Smoke and rode south toward the Flores rancho. From Flores's place he would ride on south, across the line to where he could always find employment for his particular talents. Experience had taught him that it was useless to go against The Spider, whose warning, whether it were based on fact or not, was a hint to leave the country.
The posse from Concho, after circling the midnight desert and failing to find any trace of Pete, finally drew together and decided to wait until daylight made it possible to track him. As they talked together, they saw a dim figure coming toward them. Swinging from their course, they rode abruptly down a draw. Four of them dismounted. The fifth, the chief deputy, volunteered to ride out and interview the horseman. The four men on foot covered the opening of the draw, where the trail passed, and waited.
The deputy sat his horse, as though waiting for some one. Malvey at once thought of Young Pete—then of The Spider's warning—and finally that the solitary horseman might be some companion from below the border, cautiously awaiting his approach. Half-inclined to ride wide, he hesitated—then loosening his gun he spurred his restless pony toward the other, prepared to "bull" through if questioned too closely.
Within thirty feet of the deputy Malvey reined in. "You're ridin' late," he said, with a forced friendliness in his voice.
"This the trail to Showdown?" queried the deputy.
"This is her. Lookin' for anybody in particular?"
"Nope. And I reckon nobody is lookin' for me. I'm ridin my own horse."
It was a chance shot intended to open the way to a parley—and identify the strange horseman by his voice, if possible. It also was a challenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such. Malvey's slow mind awakened to the situation. A streak of red flashed from his hand as he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle and began firing over it, shielded by his pony. A rifle snarled in the draw. Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him. Another slug shattered his thigh. Cursing, he lunged sideways, as Blue Smoke bucked. Malvey toppled and fell—an inert bulk in the dim light of the stars.
The chief deputy struck a match and stooped. "We got the wrong man," he called to his companions.
"It's Bull Malvey," said one of the deputies as the match flickered out. "I knew him in Phoenix."
"Heard of him. He was a wild one," said another deputy.
"Comin' and goin'! One of The Spider's bunch, and a hoss-thief right! I reckon we done a good job."
"He went for his gun," said the chief.
"We had him covered from the start," asserted a deputy. "He sure won't steal no more hosses."
"Catch up his cayuse," commanded the chief deputy.
Two of them, after a hard ride, finally put Blue Smoke within reach of a rope. He was led back to where Malvey lay.
"Concho brand!" exclaimed the chief.
"Young Pete's horse," asserted another.
"There'll be hell to pay if Showdown gets wise to what happened to Bull Malvey," said the deputy, who recognized the dead outlaw.
Dawn was just breaking when the chief deputy, disgusted with what he termed their "luck," finally evolved a plan out of the many discussed by his companions. "We got the cayuse—which will look good to the T-Bar-T boys. We ain't down here for our health and we been up against it from start to finish—and so far as I care, this is the finish. Get it right afore we start. Young Pete is dead. We got his horse." He paused and glanced sharply at Blue Smoke. "He's got the Concho brand!" he exclaimed.
"Young Pete's horse was a blue roan," said a deputy. "I guess this is him—blue roan with a white blaze on his nose—so Cotton told me."
"Looks like it!" said the chief deputy. "Well, say we got his horse, then. We're in luck for once."
"Now it's easy diggin' down there in the draw. And it's gettin' daylight fast. I reckon that's Malvey's saddle and bridle on the blue roan. We'll just cover up all evidence of who was ridin' this hoss, drift into Showdown and eat, and then ride along up north and collect that reward. We'll split her even—and who's goin' to say we didn't earn it?"
"Suits me," said a deputy. His companions nodded.
"Then let's get busy. The sand's loose here. We can drag a blanket over this—and leave the rest to the coyotes."
They scraped a long, shallow hole in the arroyo-bed and buried Malvey along with his saddle and bridle.
The Spider smiled as he saw them coming. He was still smiling as he watched them ride up the street and tie their tired ponies to the hitching-rail. He identified the led horse as the one Malvey had stolen from Pete.
"I see you got him," he said in his high-pitched voice.
The chief deputy nodded. "He's planted—out there."
"I meant the horse," said The Spider.
Ordinarily, The Spider was a strange man. The posse thought him unusually queer just then. His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiar faint, bluish film. His manner was over-deliberate. There was something back of it all that they could not fathom. Moreover, the place was darkened. Some one had hung blankets over the windows. The deputies—four of them—followed The Spider into the saloon.
"I guess you boys want to eat," said The Spider.
"We sure do."
"All right. I'll have Manuelo get you something." And he called to the Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room—The Spider's own room, back of the bar. While the Mexican prepared breakfast, the posse accepted their chief's invitation to have a drink, which they felt they needed. Presently The Spider led the way to his room. The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold as they peered in. A lamp was burning on the table. There were plates, knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon… Beyond the lamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them. His eyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep.
The Spider held up his hand. "You're planted—out there. These gentlemen say so. So you ain't here!"
Pete's belt and gun lay on the floor. The Spider was in his shirt-sleeves and apparently unarmed.
The chief deputy sized up the situation in a flash and pulled his gun. "I guess we got you—this trip, Pete."
"No," said The Spider. "You're wrong. He's planted—out there. What you staring at, boys? Pete, stand over there. Come right in, boys! Come on in! I got something to show you."
"Watch the door, Jim," said the chief. "Ed, you keep your eye on The Spider." The chief deputy stepped to the table and peered across it at a huddled something on the couch, over which was thrown a shimmering serape. He stepped round the table and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's sightless eyes stared up at him.
"Christ!" he whispered. "It's the girl!" And even as he spoke he knew what had happened—that he and his men were responsible for this. His hand shook as he turned toward The Spider.
"She—she ran into it when she— It's pretty tough, but—"
"Your breakfast is waiting," said The Spider.
"This was accidental," said the deputy, recovering himself, and glancing from one to another of his men. Then he turned to Pete. "Pete, you'll have to ride back with us."
"No," said The Spider with a peculiar stubborn shrug of his shoulders. "He's planted out there. You said so."
"That's all right, Spider. We made a mistake. This is the man we want."
"Then who is planted out there?" queried The Spider in a soft, sing-song voice, high-pitched and startling.
"That's our business," stated the deputy.
"No—mine!" The Spider glanced past the deputy, who turned to face a Mexican standing in the doorway. The Mexican's hands were held belt high and they were both "filled."
"Get the first man that moves," said The Spider in Mexican. And as he spoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the stroke of a snake. Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, as cold as the eyes of a rattler. The deputy read his own doom and the death of at least two of his men should he move a muscle. He had Young Pete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed. The deputy lowered his gun.
Pete blinked and drew a deep breath. "Give me a gun, Spider—and we'll shoot it out with 'em, right here."
The Spider laughed. "No. You're planted out there. These gents say so. I'm working this layout."
"Put up your gun, Ed," said the chief, addressing the deputy who had The Spider covered. "He's fooled us, proper."
"Let 'em out, one at a time," and The Spider gestured to the Mexican, Manuelo. "And tell your friends," he continued, addressing the chief deputy, "that Showdown is run peacefuland that I run her."
When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete. "Want to ride back to Concho?"
Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hear the question. Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which he had dipped in a water-bucket—as casually busy as though he had never had a gun in his hand. Something in the Mexican's supreme indifference touched Pete's sense of humor. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Who's goin' to tell her father?" he queried, gesturing toward the inner room.
"He knows," said The Spider, who stood staring at the Mexican.
"You're drunk," said Pete.
"Maybe I'm drunk," echoed The Spider. "But I'm her father."
Pete stepped forward and gazed into The Spidery scarred and lined face. "Hell!" Then he thrust out his hand. "Spider, I reckon I'll throw in with you."
The Spider's system of bookkeeping was simple, requiring neither pen nor paper, journal nor day-book. He kept a kind of mental loose-leaf ledger with considerable accuracy, auditing his accounts with impartiality. For example, Scar-Face and three companions just up from the border recently had been credited with twenty head of Mexican cattle which were now grazing on The Spider's border ranch, the Olla. Scar-Face had attempted to sell the cattle to the leader of a Mexican faction whose only assets at the time were ammunition and hope. Scar-Face had met this chieftain by appointment at an abandoned ranch-house. Argument ensued. The Mexican talked grandiloquently of "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality." Scar-Face held out for cash. The Mexican leader needed beef. Scar-Face needed money. As he had rather carelessly informed the Mexican that he could deliver the cattle immediately, and realizing his mistake,—for he knew that the Mexican would straightway summon his retainers and take the cattle in the name of "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality,"—Scar-Face promptly shot this self-appointed savior of Mexico, mortally wounded one of his two companions, and finally persuaded the other to help drift the cattle north with a promise of a share of the profits of the enterprise.
The surviving Mexican rode to Showdown with Scar-Face and his companions, received his share of the sale in cash,—which he squandered at The Spider's place,—and straightway rode back across the border to rejoin his captainless comrades and appoint himself their leader, gently insinuating that he himself had shot the captain whom he had apprehended in the treachery of betraying them to a rival aggregation of ragged Liberties, Fraternities, and Equalities.
The Spidery mental ledger read: "Scar-Face—Debit, chuck, liquor, and lodging"—an account of long standing—"and forty dollars in cash. Credit—twenty head of cattle, brand unknown."
Scar-Face's account was squared—for the time being.
Pete was also on The Spider's books, and according to The Spider's system of accounts, Pete was heavily in debt to him. Not that The Spider would have ever mentioned this, or have tried to collect. But when he offered Pete a job on his ranch he shrewdly put Pete in the way of meeting his obligations.
Cattle were in demand, especially in Mexico, so ravaged by lawless soldiery that there was nothing left to steal. One outlaw chieftain, however, was so well established financially that his agents were able to secure supplies from a mysterious source and pay for them with gold, which also came from an equally mysterious source—and it was with these agents that The Spider had had his dealings. His bank account in El Paso was rolling up fast. Thus far he had been able to supply beef to the hungry liberators of Mexico; but beef on the hoof was becoming scarce on both sides of the border. Even before Pete had come to Showdown, The Spider had perfected a plan to raid the herds of the northern ranches. Occasional cowboys drifting to Showdown had given him considerable information regarding the physical characteristics of the country roundabout these ranches, the water-holes, trails, and grazing.
The Spider knew that he could make only one such raid, with any chance of success. If he made a drive at all, it would be on a big scale. The cattlemen would eventually trail the first stolen herd to his ranch. True, they would not find it there. He would see to it that the cattle were pushed across the border without delay. But a second attempt would be out of the question. The chief factor in the success of the scheme would be the prompt handling of the herd upon its arrival. He had cowboys in his employ who would steal the cattle. What he needed was a man whom he could rely upon to check the tally and turn the herd over to the agents of the Mexican soldiery and collect the money on the spot, while his cowboys guarded the herd from a possible raid by the Mexicans themselves. He knew that should the northern ranchmen happen to organize quickly and in force, they would not hesitate to promptly lynch the raiders, burn his buildings, take all his horses worth taking, and generally put the ranch out of business.
Thus far the ranch had paid well as a sort of isolated clearing-house for The Spider's vicarious accounts. The cowboys who worked there were picked men, each of whom received a straight salary, asked no questions, and rode with a high-power rifle under his knee and a keen eye toward the southern ranches.
Pete, riding south, bore an unsigned letter from The Spider, with instructions to hand it to the foreman of "The Olla" and receive further instructions from that gentleman. Pete knew nothing of the contemplated raid, The Spider shrewdly surmising that Pete would balk at the prospect of stealing cattle from his own countrymen. And it was because of this very fact that The Spider had intrusted Pete—by letter to the foreman—with the even greater responsibility of receiving the money for the cattle and depositing it in a certain bank in El Paso. Heretofore, such payments had been made to The Spider's representative in that city—the president of the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank—who had but recently notified The Spider that he could no longer act in the capacity of agent on account of local suspicion, already voiced in the current newspapers. Hereafter The Spider would have to deal directly with the Mexican agents. And The Spider unhesitatingly chose Pete as his representative, realizing that Pete was shrewdly capable, fearless, and to be trusted.
Toward evening of the third day out of Showdown, Pete came upon a most unexpected barrier to his progress—a wire fence stretching east and west; a seemingly endless succession of diminishing posts. He estimated that there must he at least forty thousand acres under fence. According to location, this was The Spider's ranch—the Olla—Pete reined around and rode along the fence for a mile or so, searching for a gateway; but the taut barbed wire ran on and on, toward a sun that was rounding swiftly down to the western horizon. He dismounted and pulled the staples from several lengths of wire until he had enough slack to allow the top wire to touch the ground. He stood on the wires and jockeyed Blue Smoke across, tied him to a post, and tacked the wire back in place.
Headed south again, he had just passed a clump of chaparral when up from the draw came a tall, muscular cowboy, riding a big horse—and a fast one, thought Pete.
"Evenin'," drawled the cowboy—a slow-speaking Texan, who was evidently waiting for Pete to explain his presence.
"How!—Is this here the Olla ranch?"
"One end of her."
"I'm lookin' for the foreman."
"What name did you say?"
"I didn't say."
"What's your business down this way?" queried the cowboy.
"It's mine. I dunno as it's any of yours."
"So? Now, that's mighty queer! Lookin' for the fo'man, eh? Well, go ahead and look—they's plenty of room."
"Too much," laughed Pete. "Reckon I got to bush here and do my huntin' in the mornin'—only"—and Pete eyed the other significantly—"I kind of hate to bush on the ground. I was bit by a spider onct—"
"A spider, eh? Now that's right comical. What kind of a spider was it that bit you?"
"Trap-door spider. Only this here one was always home."
"So?" drawled the Texan. "Now, that's right funny. I was bit by a rattler once. Got the marks on my arm yet."
"Well, if it comes to a showdown, that there spider bite—"
"The ranch-house is yonder," said the Texan. "Just you ride along the way you're headed. That's a pretty horse you're settin' on. If it wa'n't so dark I'd say he carried the Concho brand."
"That's him," said Pete.
"He's a long jump from home, friend."
"And good for twice that distance, neighbor."
"You sure please me most to death," drawled the Texan.
"Then I reckon you might call in that there coyote in the brush over there that's been holdin' a gun on me ever since we been talkin',"—and Pete gestured with his bridle hand toward the clump of chaparral.
"Sam," called the Texan, "he says he don't like our way of welcomin' strangers down here. He's right friendly, meetin' one man at a time—but he don't like a crowd, nohow."
A figure loomed in the dusk—a man on foot who carried a rifle across his arm. Pete could not distinguish his features, but he saw that the man was tall, booted and spurred, and evidently a line-rider with the Texan.
"This here young stinging-lizard says he wants to see the fo'man, Sam. Kin you help him out?"
"Go ahead and speak your piece," said the man with the rifle.
"She's spoke," said Pete.
"I'm the man you're huntin'," asserted the other.
"You foreman?"
"The same."
"Thought you was jest a hand—ridin' fence, mebby." And as Pete spoke he rolled a cigarette. His pony shied at the flare of the match, but Pete caught an instant glimpse of a lean-faced, powerfully built man of perhaps fifty years or more who answered The Spider's description of the foreman. "I got a letter here for Sam Brent, foreman of the Olla," said Pete.
"Now you're talkin' business."
"His business," laughed the Texan.
"Nope—The Spider's," asserted Pete.
"Your letter will keep," said the foreman. "Ed, you drift on along down the fence till you meet Harper. Tell him it's all right." And the foreman disappeared in the dusk to return astride a big cowhorse. "We'll ride over to the house," said he.
Pete estimated that they had covered three or four miles before the ranch-buildings came in sight—a dim huddle of angles against the starlit sky. To his surprise the central building was roomy and furnished with a big table, many chairs, and a phonograph, while the floor was carpeted with Navajo blankets, and a big shaded hanging lamp illumined the table on which were scattered many dog-eared magazines and a few newspapers. Pete had remarked upon the stables while turning his own horse into the corral. "We got some fast ones," was all that the foreman chose to say, just then.
Pete and the foreman had something to eat in the chuck-house, and returned to the larger building. Brent read The Spider's letter, rolled the end of his silver-gray mustache between his thumb and forefinger, and finally glanced up. "So, you're Pete Annersley?"
"That's my name."
"Have a chair. You're right young to be riding alone. How did you come to throw in with The Spider?"
Pete hesitated. Why should he tell this man anything other than that he had been sent by The Spider with the letter which—he had been told—would explain his presence and embody his instructions?
"Don't he say in that letter?" queried Pete.
"He says you were mixed up in a bank robbery over to Enright," stated the foreman.
"That's a dam' lie!" flared Pete.
"I reckon you'll do," said Brent, as he folded the letter. The Spider had made that very statement in his letter to Brent for the purpose of finding out, through the foreman, whether or not Pete had taken it upon himself to read the letter before delivering it. And Brent, aware of The Spider's methods, realized at once why his chief had misstated the facts. It was evident that Pete had not read the letter, otherwise he would most probably have taken his cue from The Spider's assertion about the bank robbery and found himself in difficulties, for directly after the word "Enright" was a tiny "x"—a code letter which meant "This is not so."
"Reckon I'll do what?" queried Pete. "Let The Spider or anybody like him run a whizzer on me after I run a good hoss ragged to git here with his doggone letter—and then git stuck up like I was a hoss-thief? You got another guess, uncle."
The old cowman's eyes twinkled. "You speak right out in meetin', don't you, son?" His drawl was easy and somehow reminded Pete of Pop Annersley. "Now there's some wouldn't like that kind of talk—even from a kid."
"I'd say it to The Spider as quick as I would to you," asserted Pete.
"Which might be takin' a chance, both ways."
"Say"—and Pete smiled—"I guess I been talkin' pretty fast, I was some het up. The Spider used me as white as he could use anybody, I reckon. But ever since that killin' up to his place, I been sore at the whole doggone outfit runnin' this here world. What does a fella git, anyhow, for stickin' up for himself, if he runs against a killer? He gits bumped off—or mebby he kills the other fella and gits run out of the country or hung. Pardners stick, don't they? Well, how would it git you if you had a pardner that—well, mebby was a girl and she got killed by a bunch of deputies jest because she was quick enough to spoil their game? Would you feel like shakin' hands with every doggone hombre you met up with, or like tellin' him to go to hell and sendin' him there if he was lookin to argue with you? I dunno. Mebby I'm wrong—from the start—but I figure all a fella gits out of this game is a throwdown, comin' or goin'—'for the deck is stacked and the wheel is crooked."
"I was fifty-six last February," said Brent.
"And how many notches you got on your gun?" queried Pete.
"Oh, mebby two, three," drawled the foreman.
"That's it! Say you started in callin' yourself a growed man when you was twenty. Every ten years you had to hand some fella his finish to keep from makin' yours. 'Got to kill to live,' is right!"
"Son, you got a good horse, and yonder is the whole State of Texas, where a man can sure lose himself without tryin' hard. There's plenty of work down there for a good cow-hand. And a man's name ain't printed on his face. Nobody's got a rope on you."
"I git you," said Pete. "But I throwed in with The Spider—and that goes."
"That's your business—and as you was sayin' your business ain't mine. But throwin' a fast gun won't do you no good round here."
"Oh, I don't claim to be so doggone fast," stated Pete.
"Faster than Steve Gary?"
Pete's easy glance centered to a curious, tense gaze which was fixed on the third button of Brent's shirt. "What about Steve Gary?" asked Pete, and even Brent, old hand as he was, felt the sinister significance in that slow question. The Spider's letter had said to "give him a try-out," which might have meant almost anything to a casual reader, but to Brent it meant just what he had been doing that evening—seeking for a weak spot in Pete's make-up, if there were such, before hiring him.
"My gun is in the bedroom," said Brent easily.
"Well, Gary's wasn't," said Pete.
"We ain't had a gun-fight on this ranch since I been foreman," said Brent. "And we got some right fast men, at that. Seein' you're goin' to work for me a spell, I'm goin' to kind of give you a line on things. You can pick your own string of horses—anything that you can get your rope on that ain't branded 'J.E.', which is pet stock and no good at workin' cattle. You met up with Ed Brevoort this evenin'. Well, you can ride fence with Ed and he'll show you the high spots and hollows—and the line—south. If you run onto any strangers ridin' too close to the line, find out what they want. If you can't find out, get word to me. That goes for strangers. But if you get to arguin' with any of my boys—talk all you like—but don't start a smoke—for you won't get away with it. The Spider ain't payin' guns to shoot up his own outfit. If you're lookin' for real trouble, all you got to do is to ride south acrost the line—and you'll find it. And you're gettin' a straight hundred a month and your keep as long as you work for the Olla."
"Which is some different from takin' my hoss and fannin' it easy for Texas," said Pete, grinning.
"Some different," said Brent.
Few cattle grazed across the Olla's well-fenced acres—and these cattle were of a poor strain, lean Mexican stock that would never run into weight as beef. Pete had expected to see many cattle—and much work to be done. Instead, there were few cattle; and as for work—he had been put to riding line with big Ed Brevoort. For two weeks he had done nothing else. Slowly it dawned upon Pete that The Spider's ranch was little more than a thoroughfare for the quick handling of occasional small bands of cattle from one questionable owner to another. He saw many brands, and few of them were alike, and among them none that were familiar. Evidently the cattle were from the south line. The saddle-stock was branded "J.E." and "The Olla." These brands appeared on none of the cattle that Pete had seen. About a month after his arrival, and while he was drifting slowly along the fence with Brevoort, Pete caught sight of a number of horsemen, far out beyond the ranch-line, riding slowly toward the north. He spoke to Brevoort, who nodded. "We're like to be right busy soon."
Brevoort and Pete rode to the ranch-house that evening to get supplies for their line shack. The place was all but deserted. The cook was there—and the Mexican José who looked after the "fast ones" in the stables; but Brent, Harper, Sandy Bell, and the rest of the men were gone. Pete thought of the horsemen that he had seen—and of Brevoort's remark, that they would "be right busy soon." Pete wondered how soon, and how busy.
The day after the departure of the men, Brevoort told Pete that they would take turn about riding the north line, in an eight-hour shift, and he cautioned Pete to be on the lookout for a messenger riding a bay horse—"Not a cow-horse, but a thoroughbred."
This was at the line shack.
Several nights later, as Pete was riding his line, he noticed that Blue Smoke occasionally stopped and sniffed, and always toward the north. Near the northwestern angle of the fence, Pete thought he could hear the distant drumming of hoofs. Blue Smoke fretted and fought the bit. Pete dismounted and peered into the darkness. The rhythmic stride of a running horse came to him—not the quick patter of a cow-pony, but the long, sweeping stride of a racer.
Then out of the night burst a rider on a foam-flecked horse that reared almost into the gate, which Pete unlooped and dragged back.
"That you, Brevoort?" called the horseman.
"He's at the shack," Pete shouted, as the other swept past.
"Looks like we're goin' to be right busy," reflected Pete as he swung to the saddle. "We'll jest jog over to the shack and report."
When he arrived at the line shack, Brevoort was talking with the hard-riding messenger. Near them stood the thoroughbred, his flanks heaving, his neck sweat-blackened, his sides quivering with fatigue. He had covered fifty miles in five hours.
"—and countin' the Concho stuff—I'd say something like two hundred head," the messenger was saying. "Brent'll be in to-morrow, long 'bout noon. So far, she worked slick. No trouble and a show of gettin' through without any trouble. Not much young stock, so they're drivin' fast."
Brevoort turned to Pete. "Take this horse over to the corral. Tell Moody that Harper is in, and that the boys will be here in a couple of days. He'll know what to do."
Pete rode at a high lope, leading the thoroughbred, and wondering why the messenger had not gone on to the corral. Moody, the cook, a grizzled, heavy-featured man, too old for hard riding, expressed no surprise at Pete's message, but awakened the Mexican stableman and told him to fetch up a "real one," which the Mexican did with alertness, returning to the house leading another sleek and powerful thoroughbred. "Take him over to the shack," said Moody. "Harper wants him." And he gave Pete a package of food which he had been preparing while the Mexican was at the stable.
When Pete returned to the line shack he found Brevoort sitting in the doorway smoking, and the messenger asleep on the ground, his head on his saddle.
"Here's your horse," said Brevoort, "and some chuck."
Harper sat up quickly, too quickly for a man who had ridden as far as he had. Pete wondered at the other's hardihood and grit, for Harper was instantly on his feet and saddling the fresh horse, and incidentally cursing the Olla, Brent, and the universe in general, with a gusto which bespoke plenty of unspoiled vigor.
"Tell Brent the coast is clear," said Brevoort as Harper mounted.
They could hear his horse getting into his stride long before the sound of his hoofbeats was swallowed up in the abyss of the night.
Pete turned in. Brevoort rode out to drift along the line fence until daylight.
And Pete dreamed strange dreams of night-riders who came and went swiftly and mysteriously; and of a dusty, shuffling herd that wound its slow way across the desert, hazed by a flitting band of armed riders who continually glanced back as though fearful of pursuit. Suddenly the dream changed. He was lying on a bed in a long, white-walled room, dimly lighted by a flickering gas-jet, and Boca stood beside him gazing down at him wistfully. He tried to speak to her, but could not. Nor did she speak to him, but laid her hand on his forehead, pressing down his eyelids. Her hand was dry and hot. Pete tried to open his eyes—to raise his hand, to speak. Although his eyes were closed and Boca's hot hand was pressed down on them, Pete knew that round-about was a light and warmth of noonday… Boca's hand drew back—and Pete lay staring straight into the morning sun which shone through the open doorway. In the distance he could see Brevoort riding slowly toward him. Pete raised on his elbow and threw back the blankets. As he rose and pulled on his overalls he thought of the messenger. He knew that somewhere back on the northern trail the men of the Olla were pushing a herd of cattle slowly south,—cattle from the T-Bar-T, the Blue, and … he suddenly recalled Harper's remark—"And countin' the Concho stuff…" Pete thought of Jim Bailey and Andy White, and of pleasant days riding for the Concho. But after all, it was none of his affair. He had had no hand in stealing the cattle. He would do well enough to keep his own hide whole. Let the cattlemen who lived under the law take care of their own stock and themselves. And curiously enough, Pete for the first time wondered what had become of Malvey—if the posse had actually shot him, or if they had simply taken the horse and let Malvey go. The arrival of Brevoort put an end to his pondering.
"Brent will be in to-day," said Brevoort. "You stick around here; and call me about noon."
"The old man ain't takin' chances," remarked Pete.
"You're wrong there," asserted Brevoort. "He's takin' the long chance every time, or he wouldn't be foreman of this outfit. You'll find that out if you stick round here long enough. If you don't call it takin' a chance pullin' off a trick like this one that's comin', jest try it yourself."
"He handles men easy," asserted Pete, recalling Brent's rather fatherly advice in regard to Texas and the opportunity for a young man to go straight.
"You sure please me most to death," drawled Brevoort. "You been a right quiet little pardner, and smilin', so I'm going to tell you somethin' that you can keep right on bein' quiet about. Sam Brent would send you or me or any man into a gun-fight, or a posse, or a jail, and never blink his eye, if he thought it was good business for him. He'd do it pleasant, too, jest like he was sendin' you to a dance, or a show. But he'd go jest as quick hisself, if he had to."
"Then I guess we got no kick," said Pete.
"I ain't kickin'. I'm jest puttin' you wise."
"I ain't forgittin', Ed."
Pete turned, following Brevoort's gaze. The man they were talking about was in sight and riding hard. Presently Brent was close enough to nod to them. Although he had ridden far and fast, he was as casual as sunshine. Neither in his voice nor his bearing was the least trace of fatigue.
"I'm goin' to need you," he told Pete. "We're short of hands right now. If you need anything over in the line shack, go git it and come along down after Ed and me."
Pete took the hint and left Brevoort and Brent to ride to the house together while he rode over to the shack and warmed up some coffee and beans. In an hour he was at the house. A thoroughbred stood at the hitching-rail. Pete noticed that the animal carried Brevoort's saddle. Evidently there was to be more hard riding. As Pete entered the big room, he also noticed that Brevoort was heavily armed, and carried an extra belt of cartridges. Brent was examining a rifle when Pete stepped in. "You may need this," said Brent, handing the rifle and scabbard to Pete. "Go over to the bunk-house and get another belt and some shells."
When Pete returned, Blue Smoke was in the corral and his own saddle was on a big bay that looked like a splendid running-mate for Brevoort's mount. Pete busied himself slinging the rifle, curious as to what his new venture would or could be, yet too proud to show that he was interested.
Brevoort, hitching up his belt, swung to his horse. Without hesitation Pete followed. Well-fed, eager and spirited, the horses lunged out into the open and settled into a long, swinging stride—a gait that was new to Pete, accustomed as he was to the shorter, quick action of the cow-pony.
They rode south, across the sunlit expanse of emptiness between the hacienda and the line. A few hundred yards beyond the fence, Brevoort reined in. "Mexico," he said, gesturing round about. "Our job is to ride to the Ortez rancho and get that outfit movin' up this way."
"Goin' to turn the cattle over to 'em?" queried Pete.
"Yes—and that quick they won't know they got 'em. It's a big deal, if she goes through. If she don't, it's like to be the finish of the Olla."
"Meanin' if the T-Bar-T and the Concho gits busy, there's like to be some smoke blowin' down this way?"
"The same. Recollect what I was tellin' you this mornin'."
"About Brent sendin' a man into a fight?"
"Yes. But I wasn't figurin' on provin' it to you so quick," drawled the Texan. "Hold your horse down to a walk. We'll save speed for a spell. No, I wasn't figurin' on this. You see, when I hired out to Brent, I knew what I was doin'—so I told him I'd jest earn my pay on the white side of the border—but no Mexico for mine. That was the understandin'. Now he goes to work and sends you and me down into this here country on a job which is only fit for a Greaser. I'm goin' to see it through, but I done made my last ride for the Olla."
"Brent was sayin' he was short of hands," suggested Pete.
"Which is correct. But there's that José who knows every foot of the dry-spot clean to the Ortez—and he knows every hoss-thief in this sun-blasted country. Does he send José? No. He sends two white men, tellin' me that it is too big a deal to trust the Mexican with."
"And a fine chance of gittin' bumped off by a lousy bunch of Cholas callin' themselves soldiers, eh?"
"You said it."
"Well, we got good hosses, anyway. And I sabe the Mexican talk."
"Guess that's why Brent sent you along. He knows I talk mighty little Mexican." And Brevoort gazed curiously at Pete.
"Seein' as you feel that way about it, Ed, I got somethin' I been millin' over in my head. Now, when The Spider sent me down here he said he had some important business he wanted me to handle. Brent was to tell me. Now I don't see anything important about ridin' line or chasin' into Mexico to wake up a bunch of Greasers and tell 'em to get busy. Uncle Sammy Brent's got somethin' hid up his sleeve, Ed."
Brevoort, riding slowly beside Pete, turned from gazing across the desert and looked Pete over from spur to sombrero with a new interest. He thought he knew now why The Spider had sent Pete to the ranch and why Brent, in turn, had sent Pete on this dangerous mission. "Is The Spider much of a friend of yours?" queried Brevoort suddenly.
"Why, I dunno. 'Course he acted like he was—but you can't tell about him. He—he helped me out of a hole onct."
"Did you ever help him out?"
"Me? No, I never had the chanct."
"Uh-huh. Well, just you pull in your hoss and run your good eye over this a minute." And Brevoort drew a folded slip of paper from his shirt-pocket and handed it to Pete. It was a brief note addressed to Brevoort and signed "J.E." It instructed Brevoort to accompany Pete Annersley to El Paso after the sale of the cattle and to see to it that the money which Annersley would have with him was deposited to the credit of James Ewell in the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank.
Pete had difficulty in reading the note and took some time to read it, finally handing it back to Brevoort in silence. And then, "Where did you git it? Who is 'J.E.'?"
"From Harper. 'J.E.' is Jim Ewell—The Spider."
"So Harper rode to Showdown and back?"
"He took word from Brent to The Spider that the boys had started," said Brevoort.
"And Brent—" Pete hesitated for fear of committing himself even though he trusted Brevoort. But Brevoort had no hesitation. He anticipated Pete's thought and spoke frankly.
"Brent figured it fine. I knew why he sent you and me on this ride—but I was tryin' to find out if you was wise—or ridin' blind. If we come back, Brent won't show his hand. If we don't come back he'll collect the dough and vamoose. Kin you see a hole in the fence?"
"You're whistlin', Ed! It's one crook tryin' to git the best of another crook. But I would 'a' said Brent was straight. I say The Spider's money goes into that there bank."
"Same here. I ain't so dam' honest that it hurts me, but I quit when it comes to stealin' from the man that's payin' my wages."
"Then I reckon you and me is pardners in this deal," and Pete, boyishly proffered his hand.
Big Ed Brevoort grasped Pete's hand, and held it till the horses shied apart. "To the finish," he said.
"To the finish," echoed Pete, and with one accord they slackened rein. The thoroughbreds reached out into that long, tireless running stride that brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and the Mexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly in need of beef.