[Frontispiece: The Ridin' Kid]

THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER

_By_

HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

1919

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY HENRY HERBERT KNIBBS

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS

 I. YOUNG PETE II. FIREARMS AND NEW FORTUNES III. A WARNING IV. JUSTICE V. A CHANGE OF BASE VI. NEW VISTAS VII. PLANS VIII. SOME BOOKKEEPING IX. ROWDY--AND BLUE SMOKE X. "TURN HIM LOOSE!" XI. POP ANNERSLEY'S BOY XII. IN THE PIT XIII. GAME XIV. THE KITTY-CAT XV. FOUR MEN XVI. THE OPEN HOLSTER XVII. A FALSE TRAIL XVIII. THE BLACK SOMBRERO XIX. THE SPIDER XX. BULL MALVEY XXI. BOCA DULZURA XXII. "A DRESS--OR A RING--PERHAPS" XXIII. THE DEVIL-WIND XXIV. "A RIDER STOOD AT THE LAMPLIT BAR" XXV. "PLANTED--OUT THERE" XXVI. THE OLLA XXVII. OVER THE LINE XXVIII. A GAMBLE XXIX. QUERY XXX. BRENT'S MISTAKE XXXI. FUGITIVE XXXII. EL PASO XXXIII. THE SPIDER'S ACCOUNT XXXIV. DORIS XXXV. "CAUGHT IT JUST IN TIME" XXXVI. WHITE-EYE XXXVII. "CLOSE THE CASES" XXXVIII. GETTING ACQUAINTED XXXIX. A PUZZLE GAME XL. THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS XLI. "A LAND FAMILIAR" XLII. "OH, SAY TWO THOUSAND" XLIII. A NEW HAT--A NEW TRAIL XLIV. THE OLD TRAIL XLV. HOME FOLKS XLVI. THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE RIDIN' KID . . . . _Colored Frontispiece_

_Drawn by Stanley L. Wood_

"SAY, AIN'T WE PARDNERS?"

PETE

COTTON HEARD PETE'S HAND STRIKE THE BUTT OF HIS GUN AS THE HOLSTER TILTED UP

"OF A TRUTH, NO!" SAID BOCA, AND SHE SWUNG THE BOTTLE

_Drawn by R. M. Brinkerhoff_

The Ridin' Kid from Powder River

CHAPTER I

YOUNG PETE

With the inevitable pinto or calico horse in his string thehorse-trader drifted toward the distant town of Concho, accompanied bya lazy cloud of dust, a slat-ribbed dog, and a knock-kneed foal thatinsisted on getting in the way of the wagon team. Strung out behindthis indolently moving aggregation of desert adventurers plodded anindifferent lot of cayuses, their heads lowered and their eyes filledwith dust. 

Young Pete, perched on a saddle much too large for him, hazed the tiredhorses with a professional "Hi! Yah! Git in there, you doggone, onnery, three-legged pole-cat you!" A gratuitous command, for thethree-legged pole-cat referred to had no other ambition than to shufflewearily along behind the wagon in the hope that somewhere ahead wasgood grazing, water, and chance shade. 

The trader was lean, rat-eyed, and of a vicious temper. Comparatively, the worst horse in his string was a gentleman. Horse-trading andwhiskey go arm-in-arm, accompanied by their copartners, profanity andtobacco-chewing. In the right hand of the horse-trader is guile and inhis left hand is trickery. And this squalid, slovenly-booted, andsombrero'd gentleman of the outlands lived down to and even beneath allthe vicarious traditions of his kind, a pariah of the waste places, tolerated in the environs of this or that desert town chiefly becauseof Young Pete, who was popular, despite the fact that he barteredprofanely for chuck at the stores, picketed the horses in pasturagealready preempted by the natives, watered the horses where water wasscarce and for local consumption only, and lied eloquently as to thequalities of his master's caviayard when a trade was in progress. Forthese manful services Young Pete received scant rations and much abuse. 

Pete had been picked up in the town of Enright, where no one seemed tohave a definite record of his immediate ancestry. He was quite willingto go with the trader, his only stipulation being that he be allowed tobring along his dog, another denizen of Enright whose ancestry was asvague as were his chances of getting a square meal a day. Yet the dog, despite lean rations, suffered less than Young Pete, for the dogtrusted no man. Consequently he was just out of reach when the traderwanted to kick something. Young Pete was not always so fortunate. Buthe was not altogether unhappy. He had responsibilities, especiallywhen the trader was drunk and the horses needed attention. Petelearned much profanity without realizing its significance. He alsolearned to chew tobacco and realized its immediate significance. Hemastered the art, however, and became in his own estimation a mangrown--a twelve-year-old man who could swear, chew, and show horses toadvantage when the trader could not, because the horses were not afraidof Young Pete. 

When Pete got kicked or cuffed he cursed the trader heartily. Once, after a brutal beating, Young Pete backed to the wagon, pulled therifle from beneath the seat, and threatened to kill the trader. Afterthat the rifle was never left loaded. In his tough little heart Petehated his master, but he liked the life, which offered much variety andpromised no little romance of a kind. 

Pete had barely existed for twelve years. When the trader came alongwith his wagon and ponies and cajoled Pete into going with him, Petegladly turned his face toward wider horizons and the great adventure. Yet for him the great adventure was not to end in the trading of horsesand drifting from town to town all his life. 

Old man Annersley held down a quarter-section on the Blue Mesa chieflybecause he liked the country. Incidently he gleaned a living by hardwork and thrift. His homestead embraced the only water for miles inany direction, water that the upland cattlemen had used from timeimmemorial. When Annersley fenced this water he did a most natural andnecessary thing. He had gathered together a few head of cattle, somechickens, two fairly respectable horses, and enough timber to build acomfortable cabin. He lived alone, a gentle old hermit whose hand wasclean to every man, and whose heart was tender to all living thingsdespite many hard years in desert and range among men who dispensedsuch law as there was with a quick forefinger and an uncompromisingeye. His gray hairs were honorable in that he had known no wastrelyears. Nature had shaped him to a great, rugged being fitted for thesimplicity of mountain life and toil. He had no argument with God andno petty dispute with man. What he found to do he did heartily. Thehorse-trader, camped near Concho, came to realize this. 

Old man Annersley was in need of a horse. One of his team had diedthat winter. So he unhooked the pole from the buckboard, rigged a pairof shafts, and drove to Concho, where he heard of the trader andfinally located that worthy drinking at Tony's Place. Young Pete, asusual, was in camp looking after the stock. The trader accompaniedAnnersley to the camp. Young Pete, sniffing a customer, wasimmediately up and doing. Annersley inspected the horses and finallychose a horse which Young Pete roped with much swagger and unnecessarylanguage, for the horse was gentle, and quite familiar with YoungPete's professional vocabulary. 

"This here animal is sound, safe, and a child could ride him, " assertedYoung Pete as he led the languid and underfed pony to the wagon. "He'sgot good action. " Pete climbed to the wagon-wheel and mountedbareback. "He don't pitch, bite, kick, or balk. " The horse, used tobeing shown, loped a few yards, turned and trotted back. "Heneck-reins like a cow-hoss, " said Pete, "and he can turn in a ten-centpiece. You can rope from him and he'll hold anything you git your ropeon. "

"Reckon he would, " said Annersley, and his eyes twinkled. "'Speciallya hitchin'-rail. Git your rope on a hitchin'-rail and I reckon thathitchin'-rail would never git away from him. "

"He's broke right, " reasserted Young Pete. "He's none of your ornery, half-broke cayuses. You ought to seen him when he was a colt! Say, 'twa'n't no time afore he could outwork and outrun any hoss in our bunch. "

"How old be you?" queried Annersley. 

"Twelve, goin' on thirteen. "

"Uh-huh. And the hoss?"

"Oh, he's got a little age on him, but that don't hurt him none. "

Annersley's beard twitched. "He must 'a' been a colt for quite aspell. But I ain't lookin' for a cow-hoss. What I want is a hoss thatI can work. How does he go in harness?"

"Harness! Say, mister, this here hoss can pull the kingpin out of awagon without sweatin' a hair. Hook him onto a plough and he sure canmake the ole plough smoke. "

Annersley shook his head. "That's a mite too fast for me, son. I'dhate to have to stop at the end of every furrow and pour water on thatthere plough-point to keep her cool. "

"'Course if you're lookin' for a _cheap_ hoss, " said Young Pete, nothing abashed, "why, we got 'em. But I was showin' you the best inthe string. "

"Don't know that I want him. What you say he was worth?"

"He's worth a hundred, to any man. But we're sellin' him cheap, forcash--forty dollars. "

"Fifty, " said the trader, "and if he ain't worth fifty, he ain't worthputtin' a halter on. Fifty is givin' him to you. "

"So? Then I reckon I don't want him. I wa'n't lookin' for a present. I was lookin' to buy a hoss. "

The trader saw a real customer slipping through his fingers. "You canput a halter on him for forty--cash. "

"Nope. Your pardner here said forty, "--and Annersley smiled at YoungPete. "I'll look him over ag'in for thirty. "

Young Pete knew that they needed money badly, a fact that the traderwas apt to ignore when he was drinking. "You said I could sell him forforty, or mebby less, for cash, " complained Young Pete, slipping fromthe pony and tying him to the wagon-wheel. 

"You go lay down!" growled the trader, and he launched a kick thatjolted Pete into the smouldering camp-fire. Pete was used to beingkicked, but not before an audience. Moreover, the hot ashes had burnedhis hands. Pete's dog, hitherto asleep beneath the wagon, rosebristling, anxious to defend his young master, but afraid of thetrader. The cowering dog and the cringing boy told Annersley much. 

Young Pete, brushing the ashes from his over-alls, rose and shakingwith rage, pointed a trembling finger at the trader. "You're a doggoneliar! You're a doggone coward! You're a doggone thief!"

"Just a minute, friend, " said Annersley as the trader started towardthe boy. "I reckon the boy is right--but we was talkin' hosses. I'llgive you just forty dollars for the hoss--and the boy. "

"Make it fifty and you can take 'em. The kid is no good, anyhow. "

This was too much for Young Pete. He could stand abuse and scantrations, but to be classed as "no good, " when he had worked so hard andlied so eloquently, hurt more than mere kick or blow. His facequivered and he bit his lip. Old man Annersley slowly drew a walletfrom his overalls and counted out forty dollars. "That hoss ain'tsound, " he remarked and he recounted the money. He's got a couple ofwind-puffs, and he's old. He needs feedin' and restin' up. That boyyour boy?"

"That kid! Huh! I picked him up when he was starvin' to death over toEnright. I been feedin' him and his no-account dog for a year, andneither of 'em is worth what he eats. "

"So? Then I reckon you won't be missin' him none if I take him alongup to my place. "

The horse-trader did not want to lose Young Pete, but he did wantAnnersley's money. "I'll leave it to him, " he said, flattering himselfthat Pete dare not leave him. 

"What do you say, son?"--and old man Annersley turned to Pete. "Wouldyou like to go along up with me and help me to run my place? I'm kindo' lonesome up there, and I was thinkin' o' gettin' a pardner. "

"Where do you live?" queried Pete, quickly drying his eyes. 

"Why, up in those hills, which don't no way smell of liquor and aretellin' the truth from sunup to sunup. Like to come along and give mea hand with my stock?"

"You bet I would!"

"Here's your money, " said Annersley, and he gave the trader fortydollars. "Git right in that buckboard, son. "

"Hold on!" exclaimed the trader. "The kid stays here. I said fiftyfor the outfit. "

"I'm goin', " asserted Young Pete. "I'm sick o' gettin' kicked andcussed every time I come near him. He licked me with a rawhide lastweek. "

"He did, eh? For why?"

"'Cause he was drunk--that's why!"

"Then I reckon you come with me. Such as him ain't fit to raise young'uns. "

Young Pete was enjoying himself. This was indeed revenge--to hear someone tell the trader what he was, and without the fear of a beating. "I'll go with you, " said Pete. "Wait till I git my blanket. "

"Don't you touch nothin' in that wagon!" stormed the trader. 

"Git your blanket, son, " said Annersley. 

The horse-trader was deceived by Annersley's mild manner. As YoungPete started toward the wagon, the trader jumped and grabbed him. Theboy flung up his arms to protect his face. Old man Annersley saidnothing, but with ponderous ease he strode forward, seized the traderfrom behind, and shook that loose-mouthed individual till his teethrattled and the horizon line grew dim. 

"Git your blanket, son, " said Annersley, as he swung the trader round, deposited him face down in the sand, and sat on him. "I'm waitin'. "

"Goin' to kill him?" queried Young Pete, his black eyes snapping. 

"Shucks, no!"

"Kin I kick him--jest onct, while you hold him down?"

"Nope, son. That's too much like his way. You run along and git yourblanket if you're goin' with me. "

Young Pete scrambled to the wagon and returned with a tattered blanket, his sole possession, and his because he had stolen it from a Mexicancamp near Enright. He scurried to the buckboard and hopped in. 

Annersley rose and brought the trader up with him as though the latterwere a bit of limp tie-rope. 

"And now we'll be driftin', " he told the other. 

Murder burned in the horse-trader's narrow eyes, but immediate physicalambition was lacking. 

Annersley bulked big. The horse-trader cursed the old man in twolanguages. Annersley climbed into the buckboard, gave Pete thelead-rope of the recent purchase, and clucked to his horse, paying noattention whatever to the volley of invectives behind him. 

"He'll git his gun and shoot you in the back, " whispered Young Pete. 

"Nope, son. He'll jest go and git another drink and tell everybody inConcho how he's goin' to kill me--some day. I've handled folks likehim frequent. "

"You sure kin fight!" exclaimed Young Pete enthusiastically. 

"Never hit a man in my life. I never dast to, " said Annersley. 

"You jest set on 'em, eh?"

"Jest set on 'em, " said Annersley. "You keep tight holt to that rope. That fool hoss acts like he wanted to go back to your camp. "

Young Pete braced his feet and clung to the rope, admonishing the horsewith outland eloquence. As they crossed the arroyo, the led horsepulled back, all but unseating Young Pete. 

"Here, you!" cried the boy. "You quit that--afore my new pop takes youby the neck and the--pants and sits on you!"

"That's the idea, son. Only next time, jest tell him without cussin'. "

"He always cusses the hosses, " said Young Pete. "Everybody cusses 'em. "

"'Most everybody. But a man what cusses a hoss is only cussin'hisself. You're some young to git that--but mebby you'll recollect Isaid so, some day. "

"Didn't you cuss him when you set on him?" queried Pete. 

"For why, son?"

"Wa'n't you mad?"

"Shucks, no. "

"Don't you ever cuss?"

"Not frequent, son. Cussin' never pitched any hay for me. "

Young Pete was a bit disappointed. "Didn't you never cuss in yourlife?"

Annersley glanced down at the boy. 

"Well, if you promise you won't tell nobody, I did cuss onct, when Istruck the plough into a yellow-jacket's nest which I wa'n't aimin' tohit, nohow. Had the reins round my neck, not expectin' visitors, whenthem hornets come at me and the hoss without even ringin' the bell. That team drug me quite a spell afore I got loose. When I got enoughdirt out of my mouth so as I could holler, I set to and said what Ithought. "

"Cussed the hosses and the doggone ole plough and them hornets--andeverything!" exclaimed Pete. 

"Nope, son, I cussed myself for hangin' them reins round my neck. Whatyou say your name was?"

"Pete. "

"What was the trader callin' you--any other name besides Pete?"

"Yes, I reckon he was. When he is good 'n' drunk he would be callin'me a doggone little--"

"Never mind, I know about that. I was meanin' your other name. "

"My other name? I ain't got none. I'm Pete. "

Annersley shook his head. "Well, pardner, you'll be Pete Annersleynow. Watch out that hoss don't jerk you out o' your jacket. This herehill is a enterprisin' hill and leads right up to my place. Hang on!As I was sayin', we're pardners, you and me. We're goin' up to myplace on the Blue and tend to the critters and git washed up and havesupper, and mebby after supper we'll mosey around so you kin gitacquainted with the ranch. Where'd you say your pop come from?"

"I dunno. He ain't my real pop. "

Annersley turned and looked down at the lean, bright little face. "Youhungry, son?"

"You bet!"

"What you say if we kill a chicken for supper--and celebrate. "

"G'wan, you're joshin' me!"

"Nope. I like chicken. And I got one that needs killin'; a no-accountole hen what won't set and won't lay. "

"Then we'll ring her doggone head off, eh?"

"Somethin' like that--only I ain't jest hatin' that there hen. Sheain't no good, that's all. "

Young Pete pondered, watching Annersley's grave, bearded face. Suddenly he brightened. "I know! Nobody kin tell when you're joshin''em, 'cause your whiskers hides it. Guess I'll grow some whiskers andthen I kin fool everybody. "

Old man Annersley chuckled, and spoke to the horses. Young Pete, happier than he had ever been, wondered if this good luck wouldlast--if it were real, or just a dream that would vanish, leaving himshivering in his tattered blanket, and the horse-trader telling him toget up and rustle wood for the morning fire. 

The buckboard topped the rise and leveled to the tree-girdled mesa. Young Pete stared. This was the most beautiful spot he had ever seen. Ringed round by a great forest of spruce, the Blue Mesa lay shimmeringin the sunset like an emerald lake, beneath a cloudless sky tinged withcrimson, gold, and amethyst. Across the mesa stood a cabin, the onlydwelling in that silent expanse. And this was to be his home, and thebig man beside him, gently urging the horse, was his partner. He hadsaid so. Surely the great adventure had begun. 

Annersley glanced down. Young Pete's hand was clutched in the oldman's coat-sleeve, but the boy was gazing ahead, his bright black eyesfilled with the wonder of new fortunes and a real home. Annersleyblinked and spoke sharply to the horse, although that good animalneeded no urging as he plodded sturdily toward the cabin. 

CHAPTER II

FIREARMS AND NEW FORTUNES

For a few days the old man had his hands full. Young Pete, used tothinking and acting for himself, possessed that most valuable but oftendangerous asset, initiative. The very evening that he arrived at thehomestead, while Annersley was milking the one tame cow out in thecorral, Young Pete decided that he would help matters along by catchingthe hen which Annersley had pointed out to him when he drove into theyard. Milking did not interest Young Pete; but chasing chickens did. 

The hen, a slate-colored and maternal-appearing biddy, seemed torealize that something unusual was afoot. She refused to be driveninto the coop, perversely diving about the yard and circling theout-buildings until even Young Pete's ambition flagged. Out of breathhe marched to the house. Annersley's rifle stood in the corner. YoungPete eyed it longingly, finally picked it up and stole gingerly to thedoorway. The slate-colored hen had cooled down and was at the momentcontemplating the cabin with head sideways, exceedingly suspicious andruffled, but standing still. Just as Young Pete drew a bead on her, the big red rooster came running to assure her that all was well--thathe would protect her; that her trepidation was unfounded. He blusteredand strutted, declaring himself Lord High Protector of the hen-yard andjust about the handsomest thing in feathers--_Bloom_! Young Peteblinked, and rubbed his shoulder. The slate-colored hen sprinted forparts unknown. The big red rooster flopped once or twice and then gaveup the ghost. He had strutted across the firing line just as YoungPete pulled the trigger. The cow jumped and kicked over the milk-pail. Old Annersley came running. But Young Pete, the lust of the chasespurring him on, had disappeared around the corner of the cabin afterthe hen. He routed her out from behind the haystack, herded herswiftly across the clearing to the lean-to stable, and corralled her, so to speak, in a manger. Just as Annersley caught up with him, Peteleveled and fired--at close range. What was left of the hen--which waschiefly feathers, he gathered up and held by the remaining leg. "I gother!" he panted. 

Annersley paused to catch his breath. "Yes--you got her. Gosh-A'mighty, son--I thought you had started in to clean out theranch! You downed my rooster and you like to plugged me an' thatheifer there. The bullit come singin' along and plunked into therain-bar'l and most scared me to death. What in the ole scratchstarted you on the war-path, anyhow?"

Pete realized that he had overdone the matter slightly. "Why, nothin'--only you said we was to eat that hen for supper, an' Icouldn't catch the dog-gone ole squawker, so I jest set to and pluggedher. This here gun of yourn kicks somethin' fierce!"

"Well, I reckon you was meanin' all right. But Gosh-A'mighty! Youmight 'a' killed the cow or me or somethin'!"

"Well, I got her, anyhow. I got her plumb center. "

"Yes--you sure did. " And the old man took the remains of the hen fromPete and "hefted" those remains with a critical finger and thumb. "Onelaig left, and a piece of the breast. " He sighed heavily. Young Petestared up at him, expecting praise for his marksmanship and energy. The old man put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "It's all right thistime, son. I reckon you wasn't meanin' to murder that rooster. I onlygot one, and--"

"He jest run right in front of the hen when I cut loose. He might 'a'knowed better. "

"We'll go see. " And Annersley plodded to the yard, picked up thedefunct rooster and entered the cabin. 

Young Pete cooled down to a realization that his new pop was notaltogether pleased. He followed Annersley, who told him to put the gunback in the corner. 

"Got to clean her first, " asserted Young Pete. 

"You look out you don't shoot yourself, " said Annersley from thekitchen. 

"Huh, " came from the ambitious, young hunter of feathered game, "I knowall about guns--and this here ole musket sure needs cleanin' bad. Sheliked to kicked my doggone head off. "

They ate what was left of the hen, and a portion of the rooster. Aftersupper Annersley sat outside with the boy and talked to him kindly. Slowly it dawned upon Young Pete that it was not considered good formin the best families of Arizona to slay law-abiding roosters withoutexplicit directions and permission from their owners. The old manconcluded with a promise that if Young Pete liked to shoot, he shouldsome day have a gun of his own if he, in turn, would agree to do noshooting without permission. The promise of a real gun of his owntouched Young Pete's tough little heart. He stuck out his hand. Thecompact was sealed. 

"Git a thirty-thirty, " he suggested. 

"What do you know about thirty-thirties?"

"Huh, I know lots. My other pop was tellin' me you could git a manwith a thirty a whole heap farther than you could with any oleforty-four or them guns. I shot heaps of rabbits with his. "

"Well, we'll see. But you want to git over the idee of gettin' a manwith any gun. That goes with horse-tradin' and liquor and such. Butwe sure aim to live peaceful, up here. "

Meanwhile, Young Pete, squatting beside Annersley, amused himself byspitting tobacco juice at a procession of red ants that trailed fromnowhere in particular toward the doorstep. 

"Makes 'em sick, " he chuckled as a lucky shot dissipated the procession. 

"It's sure wastin' cartridges on mighty small game, " remarked Annersley. 

"Don't cost nothin' to spit on 'em, " said Young Pete. 

"Not now. But when you git out of chewin'-tobacco, then where yougoin' to git some more?"

"To the store, I reckon. "

"Uh-huh. But where you goin' to git the money?"

"He was givin' me all the chewin' I wanted, " said Pete. 

"Uh-huh. Well, I ain't got no money for chewin'-tobacco. But I tellyou what, Pete. Now, say I was to give you a dollar a week for--foryour wages. And say I was to git you one of them guns like you said;you couldn't shoot chewin'-tobacco in that gun, could you?"

"Most anybody knows that!" laughed Pete. 

"But you could buy cartridges with that dollar--an' shoot lots. "

"Would you lick me if I bought chewin'?"

"Shucks, no! I was jest leavin' it to you. "

"When do I git that dollar--the first one?"

Annersley smiled to himself. Pete was shrewd and in no way inclined tocommit himself carelessly. Horse-trading had sharpened his wits to arazor-edge and dire necessity and hunger had kept those wits keen. Annersley was amused and at the same time wise enough in his patient, slow way to hide his amusement and talk with Pete as man to man. "Why, you ain't been workin' for me a week yet! And come to think--thatrooster was worth five dollars--every cent! What you say if I was tocharge that rooster up to you? Then after five weeks you was to git adollar, eh?"

Pete pondered this problem. "Huh!" he exclaimed suddenly. "You etmore 'n half that rooster--and some of the hen. "

"All right, son. Then say I was to charge you two dollars for what youet?"

"Then, I guess beans is good enough for me. Anyhow, I never stole yourrooster. I jest shot him. "

"Which is correct. Reckon we'll forgit about that rooster and startfresh. " The old man fumbled in his pocket and brought up a silverdollar. "Here's your first week's wages, son. What you aim to do withit?"

"Buy cartridges!" exclaimed Pete. "But I ain't got no gun. "

"Well, we'll be goin' to town right soon. I'll git you a gun, andmebby a scabbard so you can carry it on the saddle. "

"Kin I ride that hoss I seen out there?" queried Pete. 

"What about ridin' the hoss you sold me? From what you said, I reckonthey ain't no hoss can touch him, in this country. "

Pete hesitated on the thin edge of committing himself, tottered andalmost fell, but managed to retain his balance. "Sure, he's a goodhoss! Got a little age on him, but that don't hurt none. I wasthinkin' mebby you'd like that other cayuse of yours broke right. Looks to me like he needs some handlin' to make a first-classsaddle-hoss. "

The old man smiled broadly. Pete, like a hungry mosquito, was hard tocatch. 

"You kin ride him, " said Annersley. "'Course, if he pitches you--"And the old man chuckled. 

"Pitch me? Say, pardner, I'm a ridin' son-of-a-gun from Powder Riverand my middle name is 'stick. ' I kin ride 'm comin' and goin'--crawl'm on the run and bust 'm wide open every time they bit the dirt. Turnme loose and hear me howl. Jest give me room and see me split the air!You want to climb the fence when I 'm a-comin'!"

"Where did you git that little song?" queried Annersley. 

"Why--why, that's how the fellas shoot her over to the round-up atMagdalena and Flag. Reckon I been there!"

"Well, don't you bust ole Apache too hard, son. He's a mightyforgivin' hoss--but he's got feelin's. "

"Huh! You're a-joshin' me agin. I seen your whiskers kind o' wiggle. You think I'm scared o' that hoss?"

"Just a leetle mite, son. Or you wouldn't 'a' sung that therehigh-chin song. There's some good riders that talk lots. But the bestriders I ever seen, jest rode 'em--and said nothin'. "

"Like when you set on my other pop, eh?"

"That's the idee. "

Pete, used to a rough-and-tumble existence, was deeply impressed by theold man's quiet outlook and gentle manner. While not altogether inaccord with Annersley's attitude in regard to profanity and chewingtobacco--still, Young Pete felt that a man who could down thehorse-trader and sit on him and suffer no harm was somehow worthlistening to. 

CHAPTER III

A WARNING

That first and unforgettable year on the homestead was the happiestyear of Pete's life. Intensely active, tireless, and resourceful--asare most youngsters raised in the West--he learned to milk the tamecow, manipulate the hay-rake, distinguish potato-vines from weeds andhoe accordingly, and through observation and Annersley's thriftyexample, take care of his clothing and few effects. The old man taughtPete to read and to write his own name--a painful process, for YoungPete cared nothing for that sort of education and suffered only that hemight please his venerable partner. When it came to the plaiting ofrawhide into bridle-reins and reatas, the handling of a rope, packingfor a hunting trip, reading a dim trail when tracking a stray horse, orany of the many things essential to life in the hills, Young Pete tookhold with boyish enthusiasm, copying Annersley's methods to the letter. Pete was repaid a thousand-fold for his efforts by the old man'soccasional:

"Couldn't 'a' done it any better myself, pardner. "

For Annersley seldom called the boy "Pete" now, realizing that"pardner" meant so much more to him. 

Pete had his rifle--an old carbine, much scratched and battered by thebrush and rock--a thirty-thirty the old man had purchased from a cowboyin Concho. 

Pete spent most of his spare time cleaning and polishing the gun. Hehad a fondness for firearms that almost amounted to a passion. Evenings, when the work was done and Annersley sat smoking in thedoorway, Young Pete invariably found excuse to clean and oil his gun. He invested heavily in cartridges and immediately used up hisammunition on every available target until there was not an unpuncturedtin can on the premises. He was quick and accurate, finally scorningto shoot at a stationary mark and often riding miles to get to thevalley level where there were rabbits and "Jacks, " that he occasionallybowled over on the run. Once he shot a coyote, and his cup ofhappiness brimmed--for the time being. 

All told, it was a most healthful and happy life for a boy, and YoungPete learned, unconsciously, to "ride, shoot, and Tell the Truth, " asagainst "Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic, " for which he cared nothing. Pete might have gone far--become a well-to-do cattleman or rancher--hadnot Fate, which can so easily wipe out all plans and precautions in aflash, stepped in and laid a hand on his bridle-rein. 

That summer occasional riders stopped at the cabin, were fed and housedand went on their way. They came chiefly from the T-Bar-T ranch--somefew from Concho, a cattle outfit of the lower country. Peteintuitively disliked these men, despite the fact that they rodeexcellent horses, sported gay trappings, and "joshed" with him asthough he were one of themselves. His instinct told him that they werenot altogether friendly to Annersley. They frequently drifted intowarm argument as to water-rights and nesters in general--matters thatdid not interest Young Pete at the time, who failed, naturally, tograsp the ultimate meaning of the talk. But the old man never seemedperturbed by these arguments, declining, in his good-natured way, totake them seriously, and feeling secure in his own rights, as ahard-working citizen, to hold and cultivate the allotment he had earnedfrom the Government. 

The T-Bar-T outfit especially grudged him the water that they hadpreviously used to such good advantage. This water was now underfence. To make this water available to cattle would disrupt thehomestead. It was at this time that Young Pete first realized thesignificance of these hard-riding visitors. He was cleaning hismuch-polished carbine, sitting cross-legged round the corner of thecabin, when two of the chance visitors, having washed and discardedtheir chaps, strolled out and squatted by the doorway. Old manAnnersley was at the back of the cabin preparing supper. 

One of the riders, a man named Gary, said something to his companionabout "running the old man out of the country. "

Young Pete paused in his task. 

"You can't bluff him so easy, " offered the companion. 

"But a thirty-thirty kin talk business, " said the man Gary, and helaughed. 

Pete never forgot the remark nor the laugh. Next day, after the ridershad departed, he told his pop what he had heard. The old man made himrepeat the conversation. He shook his head. "Mostly talk, " he said. 

"They dassent to start runnin' _us_ off--dast they?" queried Young Pete. 

"Mostly talk, " reiterated Annersley; but Pete saw that his pop wastroubled. 

"They can't bluff us, eh, pop?"

"I reckon not, son. How many cartridges you got?"

Young Pete thrilled to the question. "Got ten out of the last box. You got any?"

"Some. Reckon we'll go to town to-morrow. "

"To git some cartridges?"

"Mebby. "

This was Young Pete's first real intimation that there might be troublethat would occasion the use of cartridges. The idea did not displeasehim. They drove to town, bought some provisions and ammunition, andincidentally the old man visited the sheriff and retailed theconversation that Pete had overheard. 

"Bluff!" said the sheriff, whose office depended upon the vote of thecattlemen. "Just bluff, Annersley. You hang on to what you got andthey won't be no trouble. I know just how far those boys will go. "

"Well, I don't, " said Annersley. "So I was jest puttin' what you callbluff on record, case anything happened. "

The sheriff, secretly in league with the cattlemen to crowd Annersleyoff the range, took occasion to suggest to the T-Bar-T foreman that theold man was getting cold feet--which was a mistake, for Annersley hadsimply wished to keep within the law and avoid trouble if possible. Thus it happened that Annersley brought upon himself the very troublethat he had honorably tried to avoid. Let the most courageous man evenseem to turn and run and how soon his enemies will take up the chase!

But nothing happened that summer, and it was not until the followingspring that the T-Bar-T outfit gave any hint of their real intent. Theanonymous letter was a vile screed--because it was anonymous and alsobecause it threatened, in innuendo, to burn out a homestead held by oneman and a boy. 

Annersley showed the letter to Pete and helped him spell it out. Thenhe explained gravely his own status as a homesteader, the law whichallowed him to fence the water, and the labor which had made the landhis. It was typical of Young Pete that when a real hazard threatenedhe never said much. In this instance the boy did not know just what todo. That evening Annersley missed him and called, "What you doin', pardner?"

From the cabin--Annersley, as usual, was seated outside, smoking--camethe reply: "Countin' my cartridges. "

Annersley knew that the anonymous letter would be followed by somehostile act if he did not vacate the homestead. He wasted no timeworrying as to what might happen--but he did worry about Young Pete. If the cattlemen raided his place, it would be impossible to keep thatyoung and ambitious fire-eater out of harm's way. So the old manplanned to take Pete to Concho the next morning and leave him with thestorekeeper until the difficulty should be solved, one way or the other. 

This time they did not drive to Concho, but saddled up and rode downthe hill trail. And during the journey Young Pete was unusuallysilent, wondering just what his pop planned to do. 

At the store Annersley privately explained the situation to thestorekeeper. Then he told Young Pete that he would leave him there fora few days as he was "goin' over north a spell. "

Young Pete studied the old man with bright, blinking eyes thatquestioned the truth of this statement. His pop had never lied to him, and although Pete suspected what was in the wind, he had no ground forargument. Annersley was a trifle surprised that the boy consented tostay without demur. Annersley might have known that Young Pete's verysilence was significant; but the old man was troubled and only too gladto find his young partner so amenable to his suggestion. WhenAnnersley left the store Young Pete's "So-long, pop, " was as casual assunshine, but his tough little heart was thumping with restrainedexcitement. He knew that his pop feared trouble and wished to face italone. 

Pete allowed a reasonable length of time to elapse and then approachedthe storekeeper. "Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, " he said, fishing upsome silver from his overall pocket. 

"Where'd you get all that money, Pete?"

"Why, I done stuck up the fo'man of the T-Bar-T on pay-day and made himshell out, " said Pete. 

The storekeeper grinned. "Here you be. Goin' huntin'?"

"Uh-huh. Huntin' snakes. "

"Honest, now! Where'd you git the change?"

"My wages!" said Young Pete proudly. "Pop is givin' me a dollar a weekfor helpin' him. We're pardners. "

"Your pop is right good to you, ain't he?"

"You bet! And he can lick any ole bunch of cow-chasers in thiscountry. Somebody's goin' to git hurt if they monkey with him!"

"Where 'd you get the idea anybody was going to monkey with your dad?"

Young Pete felt that he had been incautious. He refused to talkfurther, despite the storekeeper's friendly questioning. Instead, theboy roamed about the store, inspecting and commenting upon saddlery, guns, canned goods, ready-made clothing, and showcase trinkets, hisears alert for every word exchanged by the storekeeper and a chancecustomer. Presently two cowboys clumped in, joshed with thestore-keeper, bought tobacco and ammunition--a most usual procedure, and clumped out again. Young Pete strolled to the door and watchedthem enter the adobe saloon across the way--Tony's Place--therendezvous of the riders of the high mesas. Again a group of cowboysarrived, jesting and roughing their mounts. They entered the store, bought ammunition, and drifted to the saloon. It was far from pay-day, as Pete knew. It was also the busy season. There was some ulteriorreason for so many riders assembling in town. Pete decided to find outjust what they were up to. 

After supper he meandered across to the saloon, passed around it, andhid in an empty barrel near the rear door. He was uncomfortable, butnot unhappy. He listened for a chance word that might explain thepresence of so many cowboys in town that day. Frequently he heardGary's name mentioned. He had not seen Gary with the others. But thetalk was casual, and he learned nothing until some one remarked that itwas about time to drift along. They left in a body, taking the mesatrail that led to the Blue. This was significant. They usually leftin groups of two or three, as their individual pleasure dictated. Andthere was a business-like alertness about their movements that did notescape Young Pete. 

The Arizona stars were clear and keen when he crept round to the frontof the saloon and pattered across the road to the store. Thestorekeeper was closing for the night. Young Pete, restlessly anxiousto follow the T-Bar-T men, invented an excuse to leave the storekeeper, who suggested that they go to bed. 

"Got to see if my hoss is all right, " said Pete. "The ole fool's liketo git tangled up in that there drag-rope I done left on him. ReckonI'll take it off. "

"Why, your dad was tellin' me you was a reg'lar buckaroo. Thought youknew better than to leave a rope on a hoss when he's in a corral. "

"I forgot, " invented Pete. "Won't take a minute. "

"Then I'll wait for you. Run along while I get my lantern. "

The storekeeper's house was but a few doors down the street, which, however, meant quite a distance, as Concho straggled over considerableterritory. He lighted the lantern and sat down on the steps waitingfor the boy. From the corral back of the store came the sound oftrampling hoofs and an occasional word from Young Pete, who seemed tobe a long time at the simple task of untying a drag-rope. Thestore-keeper grew suspicious and finally strode back to the corral. His first intimation of Pete's real intent was a glimpse of the boyastride the big bay and blinking in the rays of the lantern. 

"What you up to?" queried the storekeeper. 

Young Pete's reply was to dig his heels into the horse's ribs. Thestorekeeper caught hold of the bridle. "You git down and come homewith me. Where you goin' anyhow?"

"Take your hand off that bridle, " blustered Young Pete. 

The trader had to laugh. "Got spunk, ain't you? Now you git down andcome along with me, Pete. No use you riding back to the mesa to-night. Your dad ain't there. You can't find him to-night. "

Pete's lip quivered. What right had the store-keeper, or any man, totake hold of his bridle?

"See here, Pete, where do you think you're goin'?"

"Home!" shrilled Pete as he swung his hat and fanned the horse's ears. It had been many years since that pony had had his ears fanned, but heremembered early days and rose to the occasion, leaving the storekeeperin the dust and Young Pete riding for dear life to stay in the saddle. Pete's hat was lost in the excitement, and next to his rifle, the oldsombrero inherited from his pop was Pete's dearest possession. Buteven when the pony had ceased to pitch, Pete dared not go back for it. He would not risk being caught a second time. 

He jogged along up the mesa trail, peering ahead in the dusk, half-frightened and half-elated. If the T-Bar-T outfit were going torun his pop out of the country, Young Pete intended to be in at therunning. The feel of the carbine beneath his leg gave him courage. Upto the time Annersley had adopted him, Pete had had to fight and schemeand dodge his way through life. He had asked no favors and expectednone. His pop had stood by him in his own deepest trouble, and hewould now stand by his pop. That he was doing anything especiallyworthy did not occur to him. Partners always "stuck. "

The horse, anxious to be home, took the long grade quickly, restrainedby Pete, who felt that it would be poor policy to tread too closelyupon the heels of the T-Bar-T men. That they intended mischief was nowonly too evident. And Pete would have been disappointed had they not. Although sophisticated beyond his years and used to the hazards of arough life, _this_ adventure thrilled him. Perhaps the men would setfire to the outbuildings and the haystack, or even try to burn thecabin. But they would have a sorry time getting to the cabin if hispop were really there. 

Up the dim, starlit trail he plodded, shivering and yet elate. As hetopped the rise he thought he could see the vague outlines of horsesand men, but he was not certain. That soft glow against the distanttimber was real enough, however! There was no mistaking that! The logstable was on fire!

The horse fought the bit as Young Pete reined him into the timber. 

Pete could see no men against the glow of the burning building, but heknew that they were there somewhere, bushed in the brush and waiting. Within a few hundred yards of the cabin he was startled by the flatcrack of a rifle. He felt frightened and the blood sang in his ears. But he could not turn back now! His pop might be besieged in thecabin, alone and fighting a cowardly bunch of cow-punchers who dare notface him in the open day. But what if his pop were not there? Thethought struck him cold. What would he do if he made a run for thecabin and found it locked and no one there? All at once Pete realizedthat it was _his_ home and _his_ stock and hay that were in danger. Was he not a partner in pop's homestead? Then a thin red flash fromthe cabin window told him that Annersley was there. Following theflash came the rip and roar of the old rifle. Concealed in the timber, Pete could see the flames licking up the stable. Presently a longtongue of yellow shot up the haystack. "The doggone snakes done firedour hay!" he cried, and his voice caught in a sob. This was too much. Hay was a precious commodity in the high country. Pete yanked out hiscarbine, loosed a shot at nothing in particular, and rode for the cabinon the run. "We're coming pop, " he yelled, followed by his shrill"Yip! Yip! We're all here!"

Several of the outlying cow-punchers saw the big bay rear and stop atthe cabin as Young Pete flung out of the saddle and pounded on thedoor. "It's me, pop! It's Pete! Lemme in!"

Annersley's heart sank. Why had the boy come? How did he know? Howhad he managed to get away?

He flung open the door and dragged Pete in. 

"What you doin' here?" he challenged. 

"I done lost my hat, " gasped Pete. "I--I was lookin' for it. "

"Your hat? You gone loco? Git in there and lay down!" And though itwas dark in the cabin Young Pete knew that his pop had gestured towardthe bed. Annersley had never spoken in that tone before, and YoungPete resented it. 

Pete was easily led, but mighty hard to drive. 

"Nothin' doin'!" said Pete. "You can't boss me 'round like that! Yousaid we was pardners, and that we was both boss. I knowed they wascomin' and I fanned it up here to tell you. I reckon we kin lick thehull of 'em. I got plenty cartridges. "

Despite the danger, old man Annersley smiled as he choked back a wordof appreciation for Pete's stubborn loyalty and grit. When he spokeagain Pete at once caught the change in tone. 

"You keep away from the window, " said Annersley. "Them coyotes outthere 'most like aim to rush me when the blaze dies down. Reckonthey'll risk settin' fire to the cabin. I don't want to killnobody--but--you keep back--and if they git me, you stay right still inhere. They won't hurt you. "

"Not if I git a bead on any of 'em!" said Young Pete, taking couragefrom his pop's presence. "Did you shoot any of 'em yet, pop?"

"I reckon not. I cut loose onct or twict, to scare 'em off. You keepaway from the window. "

Young Pete had crept to the window and was gazing out at the sinkingflames. "Say, ain't we pardners?" he queried irritably. "You said wewas when you brung me up here. And pardners stick, don't they? Ireckon if it was my shack that was gittin' rushed, you 'd stick, andnot go bellyin' under the bunk and hidin' like a dog-gone prairie-dog. "

[Illustration: "Say, ain't we pardners?"]

"That's all right, " said Annersley. "But there's no use takin'chances. You keep back till we find out what they're goin' to do next. "

Standing in the middle of the room, well back from the southern window, the old man gazed out upon the destruction of his buildings andcarefully hoarded hay. He breathed hard. The riders knew that he wasin the cabin--that they had not bluffed him from the homestead. Probably they would next try to fire the cabin itself. They couldcrawl up to it in the dark and set fire to the place before he wasaware of it. Well, they would pay high before they got him. He hadfed and housed these very men--and now they were trying to run him outof the country because he had fenced a water-hole which he had everyright to fence. He had toiled to make a home for himself, and the boy, he thought, as he heard Young Pete padding about the cabin. Thecattlemen had written a threatening letter hinting of this, yet theyhad not dared to meet him in the open and have it out face to face. Hedid not want to kill, yet such men were no better than wolves. And aswolves he thought of them, as he determined to defend his home. 

Young Pete, spider-like in his quick movements, scurried about thecabin making his own plan of battle. It did not occur to him that hemight get hurt--or that his pop would get hurt. They were safe enoughbehind the thick logs. All he thought of was the chance of a shot atwhat he considered legitimate game. While drifting about the countryhe had heard many tales of gunmen and border raids, and it was quiteevident, even to his young mind, that the man who suffered attack by agun was justified in returning the compliment in kind. And to this endhe carefully arranged his cartridges on the floor, knelt and raised thewindow a few inches and cocked the old carbine. Annersley realizedwhat the boy was up to and stepped forward to pull him away from thewindow. And in that brief moment Young Pete's career wasshaped--shaped beyond all question or argument by the wanton bulletthat sung across the open, cut a clean hole in the window, and droppedAnnersley in his tracks. 

The distant, flat report of the shot broke the silence, fired more inthe hope of intimidating Annersley than anything else, yet the man whohad fired it must have known that there was but one place in the brushfrom where the window could be seen--and to that extent the shot waspremeditated, with the possibility of its killing some one in the cabin. 

Young Pete heard his pop gasp and saw him stagger in the dim light. Ina flash Pete was at his side. "You hit, pop?" he quavered. There cameno reply. Annersley had died instantly. Pete fumbled at his chest inthe dark, called to him, tried to shake him, and then, realizing whathad happened threw himself on the floor beside Annersley and sobbedhopelessly. Again a bullet whipped across the clearing. Glass tinkledon the cabin floor. Pete cowered and hid his face in his arms. Suddenly a shrill yell ripped the silence. The men were rushing thecabin! Young Pete's fighting blood swelled his pulse. He and pop hadbeen partners. And partners always "stuck. " Pete crept cautiously tothe window. Halfway across the clearing the blurred hulk of runninghorses loomed in the starlight. Young Pete rested his carbine on thewindow-sill and centered on the bulk. He fired and thought he saw ahorse rear. Again he fired. This was much easier than shooting deer. He beard a cry and the drumming of hoofs. Something crashed againstthe door. Pete whirled and fired point-blank. Before he knew what hadhappened men were in the cabin. Some one struck a match. Young Petecowered in a corner, all the fight oozing out of him as the lamp waslighted and he saw several men masked with bandannas. "The old man'sdone for, " said one of them, stooping to look at Annersley. Anotherpicked up the two empty shells from Annersley's rifle. "Where's thekid?" asked another. "Here, in the corner, " said a cowboy. "Must 'a'been him that got Wright and Bradley. The old man only cut loosetwict--afore the kid come. Look at this!" And dragging Young Pete tohis feet, the cowboy took the carbine from him and pointed to the threethirty-thirty shells on the cabin floor. 

The men were silent. Presently one of them laughed. Despite Pete'sterror, he recognized that laugh. He knew that the man was Gary, hewho had once spoken of running Annersley out of the country. 

"It's a dam' bad business, " said one of the men. "The kid knows toomuch. He'll talk. "

"Will you keep your mouth shut, if we don't kill you?" queried Gary. 

"Cut that out!" growled another. "The kid's got sand. He downed twoof us--and we take our medicine. I'm for fannin' it. "

Pete, stiff with fear, saw them turn and clump from the cabin. 

As they left he heard one say something which he never forgot. "Must'a' been Gary's shot that downed the o1e man. Gary knowed the layoutand where he could get a line on the window. "

Pete dropped to the floor and crawled over to Annersley. "Pop!" hecalled again and again. Presently he realized that the kindly old manwho had made a home for him, and who had been more like a real fatherthan his earlier experiences had ever allowed him to imagine, wouldnever again answer. In the yellow haze of the lamp, Young Pete roseand dragging a blanket from the bed, covered the still form and theupturned face, half in reverence for the dead and half in fear thatthose dead lips might open and speak. 

CHAPTER IV

JUSTICE

Dawn bared the smouldering evidence of that dastardly attack. Thestable and the lean-to, where Annersley had stored his buckboard and afew farm implements when winter came, the corral fence, the haystack, were feathery ashes, which the wind stirred occasionally as a raw redsun shoved up from behind the eastern hills. The chicken-coop, nearthe cabin, had not been touched by the fire. Young Pete, who hadfallen asleep through sheer exhaustion, was awakened by the cackling ofthe hens. He jumped up. It was time to let those chickens out. Strange that his pop had not called him! He rubbed his eyes, startedsuddenly as he realized that he was dressed--and then heremembered . . . 

He trembled, fearful of what he would see when he stepped into theother room. "Pop!" he whispered. The hens cackled loudly. Fromsomewhere in the far blue came the faint whistle of a hawk. A boardcreaked under his foot and he all but cried out. He stole to thewindow, scrambled over the sill, and dropped to the ground. Throughhabit he let the chickens out. They rushed from the coop and spreadover the yard, scratching and clucking happily. Pete was surprisedthat the chickens should go about their business so casually. They didnot seem to care that his pop had been killed. 

He was back to the cabin before he realized what he was doing. Fromthe doorway he saw that still form shrouded in the familiar old grayblanket. Something urged him to lift a corner of the blanket andlook--something stronger held him back. He tip-toed to the kitchen andbegan building a fire. "Pop would be gettin' breakfast, " he whispered. Pete fried bacon and made coffee. He ate hurriedly, occasionallyturning his head to glance at that still figure beneath the blanket. Then he washed the dishes and put them carefully away, as his pop wouldhave done. That helped to occupy his mind, but his most difficult taskwas still before him. He dared not stay in the cabin--and yet he feltthat he was a coward if he should leave. Paradoxically he reasonedthat if his pop were alive, he would know what to do. Pete knew ofonly one thing to do--and that was to go to Concho and tell the sheriffwhat had happened. Trying his best to ignore the gray blanket, hepicked up all the cartridges he could find, and the two rifles, andbacked from the room. He felt ashamed of the fear that drove him fromthe cabin. He did not want his pop to think that he was a coward. Partners always "stuck, " and yet he was running away. "Good-bye, pop, "he quavered. He choked and sobbed, but no tears came. He turned andwent to look for the horses. 

Then he remembered that the corral fence was burned, that there hadbeen no horses there when he went to let the chickens out. He followedhorse-tracks to the edge of the timber and then turned back. Thehorses had been stampeded by the flames and the shooting. Pete knewthat they might be miles from the cabin. He cut across the mesa to thetrail and trudged down toward Concho. His eyes burned and his throatached. The rifles grew heavy, but he would not leave them. It wassignificant that Pete thought of taking nothing else from the cabin, neither clothing, food, nor the money that he knew to be in Annersley'swallet in the bedroom. The sun burned down upon his unprotected head, but he did not feel it. He felt nothing save the burning ache in histhroat and a hope that the sheriff would arrest the men who had killedhis pop. He had great faith in the sheriff, who, as Annersley had toldhim, was the law. The law punished evildoers. The men who had killedpop would be hung--Pete was sure of that!

Hatless, burning with fever and thirst, he arrived at the store inConcho late in the afternoon. A friendly cowboy from the low countryjoshed him about his warlike appearance. Young Pete was too exhaustedto retort. He marched into the store, told the storekeeper what hadhappened, and asked for the sheriff. The storekeeper saw that therewas something gravely wrong with Pete. His face was flushed and hiseyes altogether too bright. He insisted on going at once to thesheriff's office. 

"Now, you set down and rest. Just stay right here and keep your eye onthings out front--and I'll go get the sheriff. " And the storekeepercoaxed and soothed Pete into giving up his rifles. Promising to returnat once, the storekeeper set out on his errand, shaking his headgravely. Annersley had been a good man, a man who commanded affectionand respect from most persons. And now the T-Bar-T men "had got him. "The storekeeper was not half so surprised as he was grieved. He hadhad an idea that something like this might happen. It was a cattlecountry, and Annersley had been the only homesteader within miles ofConcho. "I wonder just how much of this the sheriff knows already, " hesoliloquized. "It's mighty tough on the kid. "

When Sheriff Sutton and the storekeeper entered the store they foundYoung Pete in a stupor from which he did not awaken for many hours. Hewas put to bed and a doctor summoned from a distant town. It wouldhave been useless, even brutal, to have questioned Pete, so the sheriffsimply took the two rifles and the cartridges to his office, with whatinformation the storekeeper could give him. The sheriff, who hadalways respected Annersley, was sorry that this thing had happened. Yet he was not sorry that Young Pete could give no evidence. Thecattlemen would have time to pretty well cover up their tracks. Annersley had known the risks he was running when he took up the land. The sheriff told his own conscience that "it was just plain suicide. "His conscience, being the better man, told him that it was "just plainmurder. " The sheriff knew--and yet what could he do without evidence, except visit the scene of the shooting, hold a post-mortem, and waituntil Young Pete was well enough to talk?

One thing puzzled Sheriff Sutton. Both rifles had been used. So theboy had taken a hand in the fight? Several shots must have been fired, for Annersley was not a man to suffer such an outrage in silence. Andthe boy was known to be a good shot. Yet there had been no news ofanyone having been wounded among the raiders. Sutton was preparing toride to the Blue and investigate when a T-Bar-T man loped up anddismounted. They talked a minute or two. Then the cowboy rode out oftown. The sheriff was no longer puzzled about the two rifles havingbeen used. The cowboy had told him that two of the T-Bar-T men hadbeen killed. That in each instance a thirty-thirty, soft-nosed slughad done the business. Annersley's rifle was an old forty-eighty-two, shooting a solid lead bullet. 

When Sheriff Button arrived at the cabin he found the empty shells onthe floor, noted the holes in the window, and read the story of theraid plainly. "Annersley shot to scare 'em off--but the kid shot tokill, " he argued. "And dam' if I blame him. "

Later, when Young Pete was able to talk, he was questioned by thesheriff. He told of the raid, of the burning of the outbuildings, andhow Annersley had been killed. When questioned as to his own share inthe proceedings, Pete refused to answer. When shown the two guns andasked which was his, he invariably replied, "Both of 'em, " nor could hebe made to answer otherwise. Finally Sheriff Sutton gave it up, partlybecause of public opinion, which was in open sympathy with Young Pete, and partly because he feared that in case arrests were made, and Petewere called as a witness, the boy would tell in court more than he hadthus far divulged. The sheriff thought that Pete was able to identifyone or more of the men who had entered the cabin, if he cared to do so. As it was, Young Pete was crafty. Already he distrusted the sheriff'ssincerity. Then, the fact that two of the T-Bar-T men had been killedrather quieted the public mind, which expressed itself as pretty wellsatisfied that old man Annersley's account was squared. He or the boyhad "got" two of the enemy. In fact, it was more or less of a joke onthe T-Bar-T outfit--they should have known better. 

An inquest decided that Annersley had come to his death at the hands ofparties unknown. The matter was eventually shunted to one of the manylegal sidings along the single-track law that operated in thatvicinity. Annersley's effects were sold at auction and the proceedsused to bury him. His homestead reverted to the Government, therebeing no legal heir. Young Pete was again homeless, save for thekindness of the storekeeper, who set him to work helping about theplace. 

In a few months Pete was seemingly over his grief, but he never gave upthe hope that some day he would find the man who had killed his pop. In cow-camp and sheep-camp, in town and on the range, he had oftenheard reiterated that unwritten law of the outlands: "If a man tried toget you--run or fight. But if a man kills your friend or your kin--gethim. " A law perhaps not as definitely worded in the retailing ofincident or example, but as obvious nevertheless as was the necessityto live up to it or suffer the ever-lasting scorn of one's fellows. 

Some nine or ten months after the inquest Young Pete disappeared. Noone knew where he had gone, and eventually he was more or lessforgotten by the folk of Concho. But two men never forgot him--thestorekeeper and the sheriff. One of them hoped that the boy might comeback some day. He had grown fond of Pete. The other hoped that hewould not come back. 

Meanwhile the T-Bar-T herds grazed over Annersley's homestead. Thefence had been torn down, cattle wallowed in the mud of the water-hole, and drifted about the place until little remained as evidence of theold man's patient toil save the cabin. That Young Pete should againreturn to the cabin and there unexpectedly meet Gary was undreamed ofas a possibility by either of them; yet fate had planned this verything--"otherwise, " argues the Fatalist, "how could it have happened?"

CHAPTER V

A CHANGE OF BASE

To say that Young Pete had any definite plan when he left Concho andtook up with an old Mexican sheep-herder would be stretching thepossibilities. And Pete Annersley's history will have to speak foritself as illustrative of a plan from which he could not have departedany more than he could have originated and followed to its finalultimatum. 

Life with the storekeeper had been tame. Pete had no horse; and thesheriff, taking him at his word, had refused to give up either one ofthe rifles unless Pete would declare which one he had used that fatefulnight of the raid. And Pete would not do that. He felt that somehowhe had been cheated. Even the storekeeper Roth discouraged him fromusing fire-arms, fearing that the boy might some day "cut loose" atsomebody without word or warning. Pete was well fed and did not haveto work hard, yet his ideas of what constituted a living were farremoved from the conventions of Concho. He wanted to ride, to hunt, todrive team, to work in the open with lots of elbow-room and under awide sky. His one solace while in the store was the array of riflesand six-guns which he almost reverenced for their suggestive potency. They represented power, and the only law that he believed in. 

Some time after Pete had disappeared, the store-keeper, going over hisstock, missed a heavy-caliber six-shooter. He wondered if the boy hadtaken it. Roth did not care so much for the loss of the gun as for thefact that Pete might have stolen it. Later Roth discovered a crudelyprinted slip of paper among the trinkets in the showcase. "I took agun and cartriges for my wagges. You never giv me Wages. " Which wastrue enough, the storekeeper figuring that Pete's board and lodgingwere just about offset by his services. In paying Pete a dollar aweek, Annersley had established a precedent which involved Young Pete'spride as a wage-earner. In making Pete feel that he was really worthmore than his board and lodging, Annersley had helped the boy to acertain self-respect which Pete subconsciously felt that he had lostwhen Roth, the storekeeper, gave him a home and work but no pay. YoungPete did not dislike Roth, but the contrast of Roth's close methodswith the large, free-handed dealings of Annersley was ever before him. Pete was strong for utility. He had no boyish sense of the dramatic, consciously. He had never had time to play. Everything he did, he didseriously. So when he left Concho at dusk one summer evening, he didnot "run away" in any sense. He simply decided that it was time to goelsewhere--and he went. 

The old Mexican, Montoya, had a band of sheep in the high country. Recently the sheep had drifted past Concho, and Pete, alive to anythingand everything that was going somewhere, had waited on the Mexican atthe store. Sugar, coffee, flour, and beans were packed on the shaggyburros. Pete helped carry the supplies to the doorway and watched himpack. The two sharp-nosed sheep-dogs interested Pete. They seemed soalert, and yet so quietly satisfied with their lot. The last thing theold Mexican did was to ask for a few cartridges. Pete did notunderstand just what kind he wanted. With a secretiveness whichthrilled Pete clear to the toes, the old herder, in the shadowy rear ofthe store, drew a heavy six-shooter from under his arm and passed itstealthily to Pete, who recognized the caliber and found cartridges forit. Pete's manner was equally stealthy. This smacked of adventure!Cattlemen and sheepmen were not friendly, as Pete knew. Pete had nolove for the "woolies, " yet he hated cattlemen. The old Mexicanthanked him and invited him to visit his camp below Concho. PossiblyPete never would have left the storekeeper--or at least notimmediately--had not that good man, always willing to cater to Pete'scuriosity as to guns and gunmen, told him that old Montoya, while aMexican, was a dangerous man with a six-gun; that he was seldommolested by the cattlemen, who knew him to be absolutely without fearand a dead shot. 

"Huh! That old herder ain't no gun-fighter!" Pete had said, althoughhe believed the storekeeper. Pete wanted to hear more. 

"Most Mexicans ain't, " replied Roth, for Pete's statement was half achallenge, half a question. "But José Montoya never backed down from afight--and he's had plenty. "

Pete was interested. He determined to visit Montoya's camp thatevening. He said nothing to Roth, as he intended to return. 

Long before Pete arrived at the camp he saw the tiny fire--a dot of redagainst the dark--and he heard the muffled trampling of the sheep asthey bedded down for the night. Within a few yards of the camp thedogs challenged him, charging down the gentle slope to where he stood. Pete paid no attention to them, but marched up to the fire. OldMontoya rose and greeted him pleasantly. Another Mexican, a slimyouth, bashfully acknowledged Pete's presence and called in the dogs. Pete, who had known many outland camp-fires, made himself at home, sitting cross-legged and affecting a mature indifference. The oldMexican smoked and studied the youngster, amused by his evident attemptto appear grown-up and disinterested. 

"That gun, he poke you in the rib, hey?"--and Montoya chuckled. 

Pete flushed and glanced down at the half-concealed weapon beneath hisarm. "Tied her on with string--ain't got no shoulder holster, " Peteexplained in an offhand way. 

"What you do with him?" The old Mexican's deep-set eyes twinkled. Pete studied Montoya's face. This was a direct but apparently friendlyquery. Pete wondered if he should answer evasively or directly. Thefact was that he did not know just why he had taken the gun--or what heintended to do with it. After all, it was none of Montoya's business, yet Pete did not wish to offend the old man. He wanted to hear moreabout gun-fights with the cattlemen. 

"Well, seein' it's you, seņor, "--Pete adopted the grand air as mostbefitting the occasion, --"I'm packin' this here gun to fightcow-punchers with. Reckon you don't know some cow-punchers killed mydad. I was just a kid then. [Pete was now nearly fourteen. ] Some dayI'm goin' to git the man what killed him. "

Montoya did not smile. This muchacho evidently had spirit. Pete'sinvention, made on the spur of the moment, had hit "plumb center, " ashe told himself. For Montoya immediately became gracious, profferedPete tobacco and papers, and suggested coffee, which the young Mexicanmade while Pete and the old man chatted. Pete was deeply impressed byhis reception. He felt that he had made a hit with Montoya--and thatthe other had taken him seriously. Most men did not, despite the factthat he was accredited with having slain two T-Bar-T cowboys. Astrange sympathy grew between this old Mexican and the lean, bright-eyed young boy. Perhaps Pete's swarthy coloring and black eyeshad something to do with it. Possibly Pete's assurance, as contrastedwith the bashfulness and timidity of the old Mexican's nephew, hadsomething to do with Montoya's immediate friendliness. In any event, the visit ended with an invitation to Pete to become a permanent memberof the sheep-camp, Montoya explaining that his nephew wanted to gohome; that he did not like the loneliness of a herder's life. 

Pete had witnessed too many horse-trades to accept this proposal atonce. His face expressed deep cogitation, as he flicked the ashes fromhis cigarette and shook his head. "I dunno. Roth is a pretty goodboss. 'Course, he ain't no gun-fighter--and that's kind of in yourfavor--"

"What hombre say I make fight with gun?" queried Montoya. 

"Why, everybody! I reckon they's mighty few of 'em want to stack upagainst you. "

Montoya frowned. "I don' talk like that, " he said, shrugging hisshoulders. 

Pete felt that he was getting in deep--but he had a happy inspiration. "You don't have to talk. Your ole forty-four does the talking Ireckon. "

"You come and cook?" queried Montoya, coming straight to the point. 

"I dunno, amigo. I'll think about it. "

"Bueno. It is dark, I will walk with you to Concho. "

"You think I'm a kid?" flared Pete. "If was dark when I come over hereand it ain't any darker now. I ain't no doggone cow-puncher what's gotto git on a hoss afore he dast go anywhere. "

Montoya laughed. "You come to-morrow night, eh?"

"Reckon I will. "

"Then the camp will be over there--in the caņon. You will see thefire. "

"I'll come over and have a talk anyway, " said Pete, still unwilling tolet Montoya think him anxious. "Buenos noches!"

Montoya nodded. "He will come, " he said to his nephew. "Then it isthat you may go to the home. He is small--but of the very greatcourage. "

The following evening Pete appeared at the herder's camp. The dogs ranout, sniffed at him, and returned to the fire. Montoya made a placefor him on the thick sheepskins and asked him if he had eaten. Yes, hehad had supper, but he had no blankets. Could Montoya let him have ablanket until he had earned enough money to buy one?

The old herder told him that he could have the nephew's blankets; Pedrowas to leave camp next day and go home. As for money, Montoya did notpay wages. Of course, for tobacco, or a coat or pants, he could havethe money when he needed them. 

Pete felt a bit taken aback. He had burnt his bridges--he could notreturn to Concho--yet he wanted a definite wage. "I kin pack--make andbreak camp--and sure cook the frijoles. Pop learned me all that; buthe was payin' me a dollar a week. He said I was jest as good as a man. A dollar a week ain't much. "

The old herder shook his head. "Not until I sell the wool can I pay. "

"When do you sell that wool?"

"When the pay for it is good. Sometimes I wait. "

"Well, I kin see where I don't get rich herdin' sheep. "

"We shall see. Perhaps, if you are a good boy--"

"You got me wrong, seņor. Roth he said I was the limit--and even myold pop said I was a tough kid. I ain't doin' this for my health. Ihooked up with you 'cause I kinda thought--"

"Si?"

"Well, Roth was tellin' as how you could make a six-gun smoke fasterthan most any hombre a-livin'. Now, I was figurin' if you would showme how to work this ole smoke-wagon here"--and Pete touched the hugelump beneath his shirt--"why, that would kinda be like wages--but Iain't got no money to buy cartridges. "

"I, José de la Crux Montoya, will show you how to work him. It is abig gun for such a chico. "

"Oh, I reckon I kin hold her down. When do we start the shootin'match?"

Montoya smiled. 

"Maņana, perhaps. "

"Then that's settled!" Pete heaved a sigh. "But how am I goin' to gitthem cartridges?"

"From the store. "

"That's all right. But how many do I git for workin' for you?"

Montoya laughed outright. "You will become a good man with the sheep. You will not waste the flour and the beans and the coffee and thesugar, like Pedro here. You will count and not say--'Oh, I think it'sso much'--and because of that I will buy you two boxes of cartridges. "

"Two boxes--a hundred a month?"

"Even so. You will waste many until you learn. "

"Shake!" said Pete. "That suits me! And if any doggone ole brush-catsor lion or bear come pokin' around this here camp, we'll sure smoke 'emup. And if any of them cow-chasers from the mountain or the Conchostarts monkeyin' with our sheep, there's sure goin' to be a cowboyfuneral in these parts! You done hired a good man when you hired me!"

"We shall see, " said Montoya, greatly amused. "But there is much workto be done as well as the shooting. "

"I'll be there!" exclaimed Pete. "What makes them sheep keep a-moanin'and a-bawlin' and a-shufflin' round? Don't they never git to sleep?"

"Si, but it is a new camp. To-morrow night they will be quiet. It isalways so. "

"Well, they sure make enough noise. When do we git goin'?"

"Pedro, he will leave maņana. In two days we will move the camp. "

"All right. I don't reckon Roth would be lookin' for me in anysheep-camp anyhow. " Young Pete was not afraid of the storekeeper, butthe fact that he had taken the gun troubled him, even though he hadleft a note explaining that he took the gun in lieu of wages. Heshared Pedro's blankets, but slept little. The sheep milled and bawledmost of the night. Even before daybreak Pete was up and building afire. The sheep poured from the bedding-ground and pattered down tothe caņon stream. Later they spread out across the wide caņon-bottomand grazed, watched by the dogs. 

Full-fed and happy, Young Pete helped Pedro clean the camp-utensils. The morning sun, pushing up past the caņon-rim, picked out the detailsof the camp one by one--the smouldering fire of cedar wood, the packs, saddles and ropes, the water-cask, the lazy burros waiting for the sunto warm them to action, the blankets and sheepskin bedding, and fartherdown the caņon a still figure standing on a slight rise of ground andgazing into space--the figure of José de la Crux Montoya, thesheep-herder whom Roth had said feared no man and was a dead shot. 

Pete knew Spanish--he had heard little else spoken in Concho--and hethought that "Joseph of the Cross" was a strange name for a recognizedgunman. "But Mexicans always stick crosses over graves, " soliloquizedPete. "Mebby that's why he's got that fancy name. Gee! But this surebeats tendin' store!"

CHAPTER VI

NEW VISTAS

Much that Annersley had taught Pete was undone in the lazy, listlesslife of the sheep-camp. There was a certain slow progressiveness aboutit, however, that saved it from absolute monotony. Each day the sheepgrazed out, the distance being automatically adjusted by the coming ofnight, when they were bunched and slowly drifted back to thebedding-ground. A day or two--depending on the grazing--and they werebedded in a new place as the herder worked toward the low countryfollowed by a recurrent crispness in the air that presaged the comingof winter in the hills. Pete soon realized that, despite their seemingindependence, sheep-men were slaves of the seasons. They "followed thegrass" and fled from cold weather and snow. At times, if the winterwas severe in the lower levels, they even had to winter-feed to savethe band. Lambs became tired or sick--unable to follow the ewes--andPete often found some lone lamb hiding beneath a clump of brush whereit would have perished had he not carried it on to the flock andwatched it until it grew stronger. He learned that sheep weregregarious--that a sheep left alone on the mesa, no matter how strong, through sheer loneliness would cease to eat and slowly starve to death. Used to horses, Pete looked upon sheep with contempt. They had neitherindividual nor collective intelligence. Let them once becomefrightened and if not immediately headed off by the dogs, they wouldstampede over the brink of an arroyo and trample each other to death. This all but happened once when Montoya was buying provisions in townand Pete was in charge of the band. The camp was below the rim of acaņon. The sheep were scattered over a mile or so of mesa, grazingcontentedly. The dogs, out-posted on either side of the flock, wereresting, but alert. To the left, some distance from the sheep, was thecaņon-rim and a trail, gatewayed by two huge boulders, man-high, withabout enough space between them for a burro to pass. A horse couldhardly have squeezed through. Each night the sheep were headed forthis pass and worked through, one at a time, stringing down the trailbelow which was steep and sandy. At the caņon bottom was water andacross the shallows were the bedding-grounds and the camp. Pete, drowsing in the sun, occasionally glanced up at the flock. He saw noneed for standing up, as Montoya always did when out with the band. The sheep were all right--and the day was hot. Presently Pete becameinterested in a mighty battle between a colony of red ants which seemedto be attacking a colony of big black ants that had in some wayinfringed on some international agreement, or overstepped thecolor-line. Pete picked up a twig and hastily scraped up a sandbarricade, to protect the red ants, who, despite their valor, seemed tobe getting the worst of it. Black ants scurried to the top of thebarricade to be grappled by the tiny red ants, who fought valiantly. Pete saw a red ant meet one of the enemy who was twice his size, wrestle with him and finally best him. Evidently this particular blackant, though deceased, was of some importance, possibly an officer, forthe little red ant seized him and bore him bodily to the rear where hein turn collapsed and was carried to the adjoining ant-hill by two ofhis comrades evidently detailed on ambulance work. "Everybodyscraps--even the bugs, " said Pete. "Them little red cusses sure ain'tscared o' nothin'. " Stream after stream of red ants hastened toreinforce their comrades on the barricade. The battle became general. Pete grew excited. He was scraping up another barricade when he heardone of the dogs bark. He glanced up. The sheep, frightened by abuzzard that had swooped unusually close to them, bunched and shottoward the caņon in a cloud of dust. Pete jumped to his feet and ranswiftly toward the rock gateway to head them off. He knew that theywould make for the trail, and that those that did not get through thepass would trample the weaker sheep to death. The dog on the caņonside of the band raced across their course, snapping at the foremost ina sturdy endeavor to turn them. But he could not. He ran, nipped asheep, and then jumped back to save himself from being cut to pieces bythe blundering feet. Young Pete saw that he could not reach the passahead of them. Out of breath and half-sobbing as he realized thefutility of his effort, he suddenly recalled an incident like this whenMontoya, failing to head the band in a similar situation, had coollyshot the leader and had broken the stampede. 

Pete immediately sat down, and rested the barrel of his six-shooter onhis knee. He centered on the pass. A few seconds--and a big ram, several feet ahead of the others, dashed into the notch. Pete graspedhis gun with both hands and fired. The ram reared and dropped justwithin the rocky gateway. Pete saw another sheep jump over the ram anddisappear. Pete centered on the notch again and as the gray massbunched and crowded together to get through, he fired. Another sheeptoppled and fell. Still the sheep rushed on, crowding against therocks and trampling each other in a frantic endeavor to get through. Occasionally one of the leaders leaped over the two dead sheep anddisappeared down the trail. But the first force of their stampede waschecked. Dropping his gun, Pete jumped up and footed it for the notch, waving his hat as he ran. Bleating and bawling, the band turned slowlyand swung parallel to the caņon-rim. The dogs, realizing that theycould now turn the sheep back, joined forces, and running a ticklishrace along the very edge of the caņon, headed the band toward the safeground to the west. Pete, as he said later, "cussed 'em a plenty. "When he took up his station between the band and the caņon, wonderingwhat Montoya would say when he returned. 

When the old Mexican, hazing the burros across the mesa, saw Pete wavehis hat, he knew that something unusual had happened. Montoya shruggedhis shoulders as Pete told of the stampede. 

"So it is with the sheep, " said Montoya casually. "These we will takeaway, for the sheep will smell the blood and not go down the trail. "And he pointed to the ram and the ewe that Pete had shot. "I will goto the camp and unpack. You have killed two good sheep, but you havesaved many. "

Pete said nothing about the battle of the ants. He knew that he hadbeen remiss, but he thought that in eventually turning the sheep he hadmade up for it. 

And because Pete was energetic, self-reliant, and steady, capable oftaking the burros into town and packing back provisions promptly--forPete, unlike most boys, did not care to loaf about town--the old herderbecame exceedingly fond of him, although he seldom showed it in adirect way. Rather, he taught Pete Mexican--colloquialisms and idiomsthat are not found in books--until Pete, who already knew enough of thelanguage to get along handily, became thoroughly at home whenever hechanced to meet a Mexican--herder, cowboy, or storekeeper. Naturally, Pete did not appreciate the value of this until later--when hisfamiliarity with the language helped him out of many a tight place. But what Pete did appreciate was the old herder's skill with thesix-gun--his uncanny ability to shoot from any position on the instantand to use the gun with either hand with equal facility. In one of thedesert towns Pete had traded a mountain-lion skin for a belt andholster and several boxes of cartridges to boot, for Pete was keen atbargaining. Later the old Mexican cut down the belt to fit Pete andtaught him how to hang the gun to the best advantage. Then he taughtPete to "draw, " impressing upon him that while accuracy was exceedinglydesirable, a quick draw was absolutely essential. Pete practiced earlyand late, more than disgusted because Montoya made him practice with anempty gun. He "threw down" on moving sheep, the dogs, an occasionaldistant horseman, and even on Montoya himself, but never until the oldherder had examined the weapon and assured himself that he would not besuddenly bumped off into glory by his ambitious assistant. As some menplay cards, partly for amusement and partly to keep their hands in, soPete and Montoya played the six-gun game, and neither seemed to tire ofthe amusement. Montoya frequently unloaded his own gun and making surethat Pete had done likewise, the old herder would stand opposite himand count--"Una, duo, tres, " and the twain would "go for their guns" tosee who would get in the first theoretical shot. At first Pete wasslow. His gun was too heavy for him and his wrist was not quick. Buthe stuck to it until finally he could draw and shoot almost as fast ashis teacher. Later they practiced while sitting down, while recliningpropped on one elbow, and finally from a prone position, where Petelearned to roll sideways, draw and shoot even as a side-winder of thedesert strikes without coiling. Montoya taught him to throw a shotover his shoulder, to "roll" his gun, to pretend to surrender it, and, handing it out butt first, flip it over and shoot the theoreticalenemy. He also taught him one trick which, while not consideredlegitimate by most professional gunmen, was exceedingly worth while onaccount of its deadly unexpectedness--and that was to shoot through theopen holster without drawing the gun. Such practice allowed of only alimited range, never higher than a man's belt, but as Montoyaexplained, a shot belt-high and center was most effective. 

Pete took an almost vicious delight in perfecting himself in thistrick. He knew of most of the other methods--but shooting with the gunin the holster was difficult and for close-range work, and just inproportion to its difficulty Pete persevered. 

He was fond of Montoya in an offhand way, but with the lessons ingunmanship his fondness became almost reverence for the old man's easyskill and accuracy. Despite their increasing friendliness, Pete couldnever get Montoya to admit that he had killed a man--and Pete thoughtthis strange, at that time. 

Pete's lessons were not always without grief. Montoya, ordinarilygenial, was a hard master to please. Finally, when Pete was allowed touse ammunition in his practice, and insisted on sighting at an object, Montoya reproved him sharply for wasting time. "It is like this, " hewould say; illustrating on the instant he would throw a shot into thechance target without apparent aim. Once he made Pete put down his gunand take up a handful of stones. "Now shoot, " he said. Pete, muchchagrined, pelted the stones rapidly at the empty can target. To hissurprise he missed it only once. "Now shoot him like that, " saidMontoya. Pete, chafing because of this "kid stuff, " as he called thestone-throwing, picked up his gun and "threw" five shots at the can. He was angry and he shot fast, but he hit the can twice. From thatminute he "caught on. " Speed tended toward accuracy, premising one wasused to the "feel" of a gun. And accuracy tended toward speed, givingone assurance. Even as one must throw a stone with speed to beaccurate, so one must shoot with speed. It was all easy enough--likeeverything else--when you had the hang of it. 

How often a hero of fiction steps into a story--or rides into it--whosedeadly accuracy, lightning-like swiftness, appalling freedom fromaccident, ostrich-like stomach and camel-like ability to go withoutwater, earn him the plaudits of a legion of admiring readers. Aproposof such a hero, your old-timer will tell you, "that there ain't no suchanimal. " If your old-timer is a friend--perchance carrying thenever-mentioned scars of cattle-wars and frontier raids--he may tellyou that many of the greatest gunmen practiced early and late, spentall their spare money on ammunition, never "showed-off" before anaudience, always took careful advantage of every fighting chance, savedtheir horses and themselves from undue fatigue when possible, neverkilled a man when they could avoid killing him, bore themselvesquietly, didn't know the meaning of Romance, but were strong forutility, and withal worked as hard and suffered as much in becomingproficient in their vocation as the veriest artisan of the cities. Circumstances, hazard, untoward event, even inclination towardexcitement, made some of these men heroes, but never in their own eyes. There were exceptions, of course, but most of the exceptions wereburied. 

And Young Pete, least of all, dreamed of becoming a hero. He likedguns and all that pertained to them. The feel of a six-shooter in hishand gave him absolute pleasure. The sound of a six-shooter was musicto him, and the potency contained in the polished cylinder filled withblunt-nosed slugs was something that he could appreciate. He was aborn gunman, as yet only in love with the tools of his trade, interested more in the manipulation than in eventual results. Hewished to become expert, but in becoming expert he forgot for the timebeing his original intent of eventually becoming the avenger ofAnnersley. Pride in his ability to draw quick and shoot straight, withan occasional word of praise from old Montoya, pretty well satisfiedhim. When he was not practicing he was working, and thought only ofthe task at hand. 

Pete was generally liked in the towns where he occasionally boughtprovisions. He was known as "Montoya's boy, " and the townsfolk had ahigh respect for the old Mexican. One circumstance, however, ruffledthe placid tenor of his way and tended to give him the reputation ofbeing a "bronco muchacho"--a rough boy; literally a bad boy, as whitefolks would have called him. 

Montoya sent him into town for some supplies. As usual, Pete rode oneof the burros. It was customary for Pete to leave his gun in camp whengoing to town. Montoya had suggested that he do this, as much forPete's sake as for anything else. The old man knew that slightly olderboys were apt to make fun of Pete for packing such a disproportionatelylarge gun--or, in fact, for packing any gun at all. And Montoya alsofeared that Pete might get into trouble. Pete was pugnacious, independent, and while always possessing enough humor to hold his ownin a wordy argument, he had much pride, considering himself the equalof any man and quite above the run of youths of the towns. And hedisliked Mexicans--Montoya being the one exception. This morning hedid not pack his gun, but hung it on the cross-tree of the pack-saddle. There were many brush rabbits on the mesa, and they made interestingtargets. 

About noon he arrived at the town--Laguna. He bought the fewprovisions necessary and piled them on the ground near his burros. Hehad brought some cold meat and bread with him which he ate, squattedout in front of the store. Several young loafers gathered round andheld high argument among themselves as to whether Pete was a Mexican ornot. This in itself was not altogether pleasing to Pete. He knew thathe was tanned to a swarthy hue, was naturally of a dark complexion, andpossessed black hair and eyes. But his blood rebelled at even thesuggestion that he was a Mexican. He munched his bread and meat, tossed the crumbs to a stray dog and rolled a cigarette. One of theMexican boys asked him for tobacco and papers. Pete gladly proffered"the makings. " The Mexican youth rolled a cigarette and passed thesack of tobacco to his companions. Pete eyed this breach of etiquettesternly, and received the sack back, all but empty. But still he saidnothing, but rose and entering the store--a rambling, flat-roofedadobe--bought another sack of tobacco. When he came out the boys werelaughing. He caught a word or two which drove the jest home. In thevernacular, he was "an easy mark. "

"Mebby I am, " he said in Mexican. "But I got the price to buy mysmokes. I ain't no doggone loafer. "

The Mexican youth who had asked for the tobacco retorted with some moreor less vile language, intimating that Pete was neither Mexican norwhite--an insult compared to which mere anathema was as nothing. Peteknew that if he started a row he would get properly licked--that theboys would all pile on him and chase him out of town. So he turned hisback on the group and proceeded to pack the burros. The Mexican boysforgot the recent unpleasantness in watching him pack. They realizedthat he knew his business. But Pete was not through with them yet. When he had the burros in shape to travel he picked up the stick withwhich he hazed them and faced the group. What he said to them wasenough with some to spare for future cogitation. He surpassed mereinvective with flaming innuendos as to the ancestry, habits, andappearance of these special gentlemen and of Mexicans in general. Heknew Mexicans and knew where he could hit hardest. He wound up withgentle intimation that the town would have made a respectable pigsty, but that a decent pig would have a hard time keeping his self-respectamong so many descendants of the canine tribe. It was a beautiful, aneloquent piece of work, and even as he delivered it he felt ratherproud of his command of the Mexican idiom. Then he made a mistake. Hepromptly turned his back and started the burros toward the distantcamp. Had he kept half an eye on the boys he might have avoidedtrouble. But he had turned his back. They thought that he was bothangry and afraid. They also made a slight mistake. The youth who hadborrowed the tobacco and who had taken most of Pete's eloquence toheart--for he had inspired it--called the dog that lay back of them inthe shade and set him on Pete and the burros. If a burro hatesanything it is to be attacked by a dog. Pete whirled and swung hisstick. The dog, a huge, lean, coyote-faced animal, dodged and snappedat the nearest burro's heels. That placid animal promptly bucked andran. His brother burro took the cue and did likewise. Presently theimmediate half-mile square was decorated with loose provisions--sugar, beans, flour, a few cans of tomatoes, and chiles broken from the sackand strung out in every direction. The burros became a seething cloudof dust in the distance. Pete chased the dog which naturally circledand ran back of the group of the store. Older Mexicans gathered andlaughed. The boys, feeling secure in the presence of their seniors, added their shrill yelps of pleasure. Pete, boiling internally, white-faced and altogether too quiet, slowly gathered up whatprovisions were usable. Presently he came upon his gun, which had beenbucked from the pack-saddle. The Mexicans were still laughing when hestrode back to the store. The dog, scenting trouble, bristled andsnarled, baring his long fangs and standing with one forefoot raised. Before the assembly realized what had happened, Pete had whipped outhis gun. With the crash of the shot the dog doubled up and dropped inhis tracks. The boys scattered and ran. Pete cut loose in theirgeneral direction. They ran faster. The older folk, chattering andscolding, backed into the store. "Montoya's boy was loco. He wouldkill somebody!" Some of the women crossed themselves. Thestorekeeper, who knew Pete slightly, ventured out. He argued withPete, who blinked and nodded, but would not put up his gun. TheMexicans feared him for the very fact that he was a boy and might doanything. Had he been a man he might have been shot. But this did notoccur to Pete. He was fighting mad. His burros were gone and hisprovisions scattered, save a few canned tomatoes that had not suffereddamage. The storekeeper started toward him. Pete centered on thatworthy's belt-buckle and told him to stay where he was. 

"I'll blow a hole in you that you can drive a team through if you comenear me!" asserted Pete. "I come in here peaceful, and you doggoneCholas wrecked my outfit and stampeded my burros; but they ain't noMexican can run a whizzer on me twict. I'm white--see!"

"It is not I that did this thing, " said the storekeeper. 

"No, but the doggone town did! I reckon when José Montoya comes in andwants his grub, you'll settle all right. And he's comin'!"

"Then you will go and not shoot any one?"

"When I git ready. But you kin tell your outfit that the first Cholathat follows me is goin' to run up ag'inst a slug that'll bust him wideopen. I'm goin'--but I'm comin' back. "

Pete, satisfied that he had conducted himself in a manner befitting theoccasion, backed away a few steps and finally turned and marched acrossthe mesa. They had wrecked his outfit. He'd show 'em! Old Montoyaknew that something was wrong when the burros drifted in with theirpack-saddles askew. He thought that possibly some coyote had stampededthem. He righted the pack-saddles and drove the burros back towardLaguna. Halfway across the mesa he met Pete, who told him what hadhappened. Montoya said nothing. Pete had hoped that his master wouldrave and threaten all sorts of vengeance. But the old man simplynodded, and plodding along back of the burros, finally entered Lagunaand strode up to the store. All sorts of stories were afloat, storieswhich Montoya discounted liberally, because he knew Pete. The owner ofthe dog claimed damages. Montoya, smiling inwardly, referred thatgentleman to Pete, who stood close to his employer, hoping that hewould start a real row, but pretty certain that he would not. That wasMontoya's way. The scattered provisions as far as possible weresalvaged and fresh supplies loaded on the burros. When Montoya wasready to leave he turned to the few Mexicans in front of the store:"When I send my boy in here for flour and the beans and the sugar, itwill be well to keep the dogs away--and to remember that it is Jose dela Crux that has sent him. For the new provisions I do not pay. Adios, seņors. "

Pete thought that this was rather tame--but still Montoya's manner wasdecidedly business-like. No one controverted him--not even thestorekeeper, who was the loser. 

A small crowd had assembled. Excitement such as this was rare inLaguna. While still in plain sight of the group about the store, andas Montoya plodded slowly along behind the burros, Pete turned andlaunched his parthian shot--that eloquently expressive gesture ofcontempt and scorn wherein is employed the thumb, the nose, and theoutspread fingers of one hand. He was still very much a boy. 

About a year later--after drifting across a big territory of grazingland, winter-feeding the sheep near Largo, and while preparing to drivesouth again and into the high country--Pete met young Andy White, aclean-cut, sprightly cowboy riding for the Concho outfit. Andy hadridden down to Largo on some errand or other and had tied his pony infront of the store when Montoya's sheep billowed down the street andfrightened the pony. Young Pete, hazing the burros, saw the pony pullback and break the reins, whirl and dash out into the open and circlethe mesa with head and tail up. It was a young horse, not actuallywild, but decidedly frisky. Pete had not been on a horse for manymonths. The beautiful pony, stamping and snorting in the morning sun, thrilled Pete clear to his toes. To ride--anywhere--what a contrast toplodding along with the burros! To feel a horse between his kneesagain! To swing up and ride--ride across the mesa to that dim line ofhills where the sun touched the blue of the timber and the gold of thequaking-asp and burned softly on the far woodland trail that led southand south across the silent ranges! Pete snatched a rope from the packand walked out toward the pony. That good animal, a bit afraid of thequeer figure in the flapping overalls and flop-brimmed sombrero, snorted and swung around facing him. Dragging his rope, Pete walkedslowly forward. The pony stopped and flung up its head. Pete flippedthe loop and set back on his heels. The rope ran taut. Pete wasprepared for the usual battle, but the pony, instead, "came to therope" and sniffed curiously at Pete, who patted his nose and talked tohim. Assured that his strange captor knew horses, the pony allowed himto slip the rope round his nose and mount without even sidling. Petewas happy. This was something like! As for Montoya and thesheep--they were drifting on in a cloud of dust, the burros followingplacidly. 

"You sure caught him slick. "

Pete nodded to the bright-faced young cowboy who had stepped up to him. Andy White was older than Pete, heavier and taller, with keen blue eyesand an expression as frank and fearless as the morning itself. Incontrast, Young Pete was lithe and dark, his face was more mature, moreserious, and his black eyes seemed to see everything at a glance--aquick, indifferent glance that told no one what was behind theexpression. Andy was light-skinned and ruddy. Pete was swarthy andblack-haired. For a second or so they stood, then White geniallythrust out his hand. "Thanks!" he said heartily. "You sabe 'em. "

It was a little thing to say and yet it touched Pete's pride. Deep inhis heart he was a bit ashamed of consorting with a sheep-herder--aMexican; and to be recognized as being familiar with horses pleased himmore than his countenance showed. "Yes. I handled 'emsome--tradin'--when I was a kid. "

Andy glanced at the boyish figure and smiled. "You're wastin' goodtime with that outfit, "--and he gestured with his thumb toward thesheep. 

"Oh, I dunno. José Montoya ain't so slow--with a gun. "

Andy White laughed. "Old Crux ain't a bad old scout--but you ain't aMexican. Anybody can see that!"

"Well, just for fun--suppose I was. "

"It would be different, " said Andy. "You're white, all right!"

"Meanin' my catchin' your cayuse. Well, anybody'd do that. "

"They ain't nothin' to drink but belly-wash in this town, " said Andyboyishly. "But you come along down to the store an' I'll buy. "

"I'll go you! I see you're ridin' for the Concho. "

"Uh-huh, a year. "

Pete walked beside this new companion and Pete was thinking hard. "What's your name?" he queried suddenly. 

"White--Andy White. What's yours?"

"Pete Annersley, " he replied proudly. 

They sat outside the store and drank bottled pop and swapped youthfulyarns of the range and camp until Pete decided that he had better go. But his heart was no longer with the sheep. 

He rose and shook hands with Andy. "If you git a chanct, ride over toour camp sometime. I'm goin' up the Largo. You can find us. Mebby"--and he hesitated, eying the pony--"mebby I might git a chanctto tie up to your outfit. I'm sick of the woolies. "

"Don't blame you, amigo. If I hear of anything I'll come a-fannin' andtell you. So-long. She's one lovely mornin'. "

Pete turned and plodded down the dusty road. Far ahead the sheepshuffled along, the dogs on either side of the band and old Montoyatrudging behind and driving the burros. Pete said nothing as he caughtup with Montoya, merely taking his place and hazing the burros towardtheir first camp in the caņon. 

It was an aimless life, with little chance of excitement; but ridingrange--that was worth while! Already Pete had outgrown any sense ofdependency on the old Mexican. He felt that he was his own man. Hehad been literally raised with the horses and until this morning he hadnot missed them so much. But the pony and the sprightly young cowboy, with his keen, smiling face and swinging chaps, had stirred longings inYoung Pete's heart that no amount of ease or outdoor freedom with thesheep could satisfy. He wanted action. His life with Montoya had madehim careless but not indolent. He felt a touch of shame, realizingthat such a thought was disloyal to Montoya, who had done so much forhim. But what sentiment Pete had, ceased immediately, however, whenthe main chance loomed, and he thought he saw his fortune shapingtoward the range and the cow-ponies. He had liked Andy White from thebeginning. Perhaps they could arrange to ride together if he (Pete)could get work with the Concho outfit. The gist of it all was thatPete was lonely and did not realize it. Montoya was much older, grave, and often silent for days. He seemed satisfied with the life. Pete, in his way, had aspirations--vague as yet, but slowly shaping toward ahigher plane than the herding of sheep. He had had experiences enoughfor a man twice his age, and he knew that he had ability. As AndyWhite had said, it was wasting good time, this sheep-herding. Well, perhaps something would turn up. In the meantime there was camp tomake, water to pack, and plenty of easy detail to take up his immediatetime. Perhaps he would talk with Montoya after supper about making achange. Perhaps not. It might be better to wait until he saw AndyWhite again. 

In camp that night Montoya asked Pete if he were sick. Pete shook hishead; "Jest thinkin', " he replied. 

Old Montoya, wise in his way, knew that something had occurred, yet heasked no further questions, but rolled a cigarette and smoked, wondering whether Young Pete were dissatisfied with the pay he gavehim--for Pete now got two dollars a week and his meals. Montoyathought of offering him more. The boy was worth more. But he wouldwait. If Pete showed any disposition to leave, then would be timeenough to speak. So they sat by the fire in the keen evening air, eachbusy with his own thoughts, while the restless sheep bedded down, bleating and shuffling, and the dogs lay with noses toward the fire, apparently dozing, but ever alert for a stampede; alert for anypossibility--even as were Montoya and Pete, although outwardly placidand silent. 

Next morning, after the sheep were out, Pete picked up a pack-rope andamused himself by flipping the loop on the burros, the clumps of brush, stubs, and limbs, keeping at it until the old herder noticed andnodded. "He is thinking of the cattle, " soliloquized Montoya. "I willhave to get a new boy some day. But he will speak, and then I shallknow. "

While Pete practiced with the rope he was figuring how long it wouldtake him to save exactly eighteen dollars and a half, for that was theprice of a Colt's gun such as he had taken from the store at Concho. Why he should think of saving the money for a gun is not quite clear. He already had one. Possibly because they were drifting back towardthe town of Concho, Pete wished to be prepared in case Roth asked himabout the gun. Pete had eleven dollars pinned in the watch-pocket ofhis overalls. In three weeks, at most, they would drive past Concho. He would then have seventeen dollars. Among his personal effects hehad two bobcat skins and a coyote-hide. Perhaps he could sell them fora dollar or two. How often did Andy White ride the Largo Caņon? TheConcho cattle grazed to the east. Perhaps White had forgotten hispromise to ride over some evening. Pete swung his loop and roped aclump of brush. "I'll sure forefoot you, you doggone longhorn!" hesaid. "I'll git my iron on you, you maverick! I'm the Ridin' Kid fromPowder River, and I ride 'em straight up an' comin'. " So he romanced, his feet on the ground, but his heart with the bawling herd and thecharging ponies. "Like to rope a lion, " he told himself as he swunghis rope again. "Same as High-Chin Bob. " Just then one of the dogs, attracted by Pete's unusual behavior, trotted up. 

Pete's rope shot out and dropped. The dog had never been roped. Hisdignity was assaulted. He yelped and started straightway for Montoya, who stood near the band, gazing, as ever, into space. Just as the ropecame taut, Pete's foot slipped and he lost the rope. The dog, frightened out of his wits, charged down on the sheep. The trailingrope startled them. They sagged in, crowding away from theterror-stricken dog. Fear, among sheep, spreads like fire in drygrass. In five seconds the band was running, with Montoya calling tothe dogs and Pete trying to capture the flying cause of the trouble. 

When the sheep were turned and had resumed their grazing, Montoya, whohad caught the roped dog, strode to Pete. "It was a bad thing to do, "he said easily. "Why did you rope him?"

Pete scowled and stammered. "Thought he was a lion. He came a-tearin'up, and I was thinkin' o' lions. So, I jest nacherally loops him. Iwas praticin'. "

"First it was the gun. Now it is the rope, " said Montoya, smiling. "You make a vaquero, some day, I think. "

"Oh, mebby. But I sure won't quit you till you get 'em over the range, even if I do git a chanct to ride for some outfit. But I ain't got ajob, yet. "

"I would not like to have you go, " said Montoya. "You are a good boy. "

Pete had nothing to say. He wished Montoya had not called him "a goodboy. " That hurt. If Montoya had only scolded him for stampeding thesheep. . . . But Montoya had spoken in a kindly way. 

CHAPTER VII

PLANS

Several nights later a horseman rode into Montoya's camp. Pete, getting supper, pretended great indifference until he heard thehorseman's voice. It was young Andy White who had come to visit, as hehad promised. Pete's heart went warm, and he immediately found anextra tin plate and put more coffee in the pot. He was glad to seeWhite, but he was not going to let White know how glad. He greeted theyoung cowboy in an offhand way, taking the attitude of being soengrossed with cooking that he could not pay great attention to a strayhorseman just then. But later in the evening, after they had eaten, the two youths chatted and smoked while Montoya listened and gazed outacross the evening mesa. He understood. Pete was tired of the sheepand would sooner or later take up with the cattle. That was naturalenough. He liked Pete; really felt as a father toward him. And theold Mexican, who was skilled in working leather, thought of thehand-carved holster and belt that he had been working on during hisspare time--a present that he had intended giving Pete when it wascompleted. There was still a little work to do on the holster; theflower pattern in the center was not quite finished. To-morrow hewould finish it--for he wanted to have it ready. If Pete stayed withhim, he would have it--and if Pete left he should have something bywhich to remember José de la Crux Montoya--something to remember himby, and something useful--for even then Montoya realized that if YoungPete survived the present hazards that challenged youth and anadventurous heart, some day, as a man grown, Pete would thoroughlyappreciate the gift. A good holster, built on the right lines and onefrom which a gun came easily, would be very useful to a man of Pete'sinclinations. And when it came to the fit and hang of a holster, Montoya knew his business. 

Three weeks later, almost to a day, the sheep were grazing below thetown of Concho, near the camp where Pete had first visited Montoya andelected to work for him. On the higher levels several miles to theeast was the great cattle outfit of the Concho; the home-buildings, corrals, and stables. Pete had seen some of the Concho boys--chancevisitors at the homestead on the Blue--and he had been thinking ofthese as the sheep drifted toward Concho. After all, he was notequipped to ride, as he had no saddle, bridle, chaps, boots, and noteven a first-class rope. Pete had too much pride to acknowledge hislack of riding-gear or the wherewithal to purchase it, even should hetie up with the Concho boys. So when Andy White, again visiting thesheep-camp, told Pete that the Concho foreman had offered noencouragement in regard to an extra hand, Pete nodded as though thematter were of slight consequence, which had the effect of stirringAndy to renewed eloquence anent the subject--as Pete had hoped. Theboys discussed ways and means. There was much discussion, but novisible ways and means. Andy's entire wealth was invested in his owngay trappings. Pete possessed something like seventeen dollars. Butthere is nothing impossible to youth--for when youth realizes theimpossible, youth has grown a beard and fears the fire. 

Both boys knew that there were many poor Mexicans in the town of Conchowho, when under the expansive influence of wine, would part with almostanything they or their neighbors possessed, for a consideration. Therewere Mexicans who would sell horse, saddle, and bridle for that amount, especially when thirsty--for seventeen dollars meant unlimited vino anda swaggering good time--for a time. Pete knew this only too well. Hesuggested the idea to Andy, who concurred with enthusiasm. 

"Cholas is no good anyhow, " blurted Andy. "You ain't robbin' nobodywhen you buy a Chola outfit. Let's go!"

Montoya, who sat by the fire, coughed. 

"'Course, I was meanin' some Cholas, " said Andy. 

The old herder smiled to himself. The boys amused him. He had beenyoung once--and very poor. And he had ridden range in his youthfuldays. A mild fatalist, he knew that Pete would not stay long, andMontoya was big enough not to begrudge the muchacho any happiness. 

"I'm goin' over to town for a spell, " explained Pete. 

Montoya nodded. 

"I'm comin' back, " Pete added, a bit embarrassed. 

"Bueno. I shall be here. "

Pete, a bit flustered, did not quite catch the mild sarcasm, but hebreathed more freely when they were out of sight of camp. "He's sure awhite Mexican, " he told Andy. "I kind o' hate to leave him, at that. "

"You ain't left him yet, " suggested Andy with the blunt candor of youth. 

Pete pondered. Tucked under his arm were the two bobcat skins and thecoyote-hide. He would try to sell them to the storekeeper, Roth. Alltold, he would then have about twenty dollars. That was quite a lot ofmoney--in Concho. 

Roth was closing shop when they entered town. He greeted Peteheartily, remarked at his growth and invited him in. Pete introducedAndy, quite unnecessarily, for Andy knew the storekeeper. Pete gazedat the familiar shelves, boxes and barrels, the new saddles and rigs, and in fact at everything in the store save the showcase whichcontained the cheap watches, trinkets, and six-shooters. 

"I got a couple o' skins here, " he said presently. "Mebby you couldbuy 'em. "

"Let's see 'em, Pete. "

Pete unfolded the stiff skins on the counter. 

"Why, I'll give you two dollars for the lot. The cat-skins are allright. The coyote ain't worth much. "

"All right. I--I'm needin' the money right now, " stammered Pete--"orI'd give 'em to you. "

"How you making it?" queried Roth. 

"Fine! But I was thinkin' o' makin' a change. Sheep is all right--butI'm sick o' the smell of 'em. Montoya is all right, too. It ain'tthat. "

Roth gazed at the boy, wondering if he would say anything about thesix-gun. He liked Pete and yet he felt a little disappointed that Peteshould have taken him altogether for granted. 

"Montoya was in--yesterday, " said Roth. 

"Uh-huh? Said he was comin' over here. He's back in camp. Me andAndy was lookin' for a Chola that wants to sell a hoss. "

"Mighty poor lot of cayuses round here, Pete. What you want with ahorse?"

"'T ain't the hoss. It's the saddle an' bridle I'm after. If I wereto offer to buy a saddle an' bridle I'd git stuck jest as much for 'emas I would if I was to buy the whole works. Might jest as well havethe hoss. I could trade him for a pair of chaps, mebby. "

"Goin' to quit the sheep business?"

"Mebby--if I can git a job ridin'. "

"Well, good luck. I got to close up. Come over and see me before youbreak camp. "

"I sure will! Thank you for the--for buyin' them hides. "

Pete felt relieved--and yet not satisfied. He had wanted to speakabout the six-shooter he had taken--but Andy was there, and, besides, it was a hard subject to approach gracefully even under the mostfavorable auspices. Perhaps, in the morning . . . 

"Come on over to Tony's Place and mebby we can run into a Mex thatwants to sell out, " suggested Andy. 

Pete said good-night to Roth. 

"Don't you boys get into trouble, " laughed Roth, as they left. He hadnot even hinted about the six-shooter. Pete thought that thestorekeeper was "sure white. "

The inevitable gaunt, ribby, dejected pony stood at the hitching-railof the saloon. Pete knew it at once for a Mexican's pony. No whiteman would ride such a horse. The boys inspected the saddle, which wasnot worth much, but they thought it would do. "We could steal 'im, "suggested Andy, laughing. "Then we could swipe the rig and turn thecayuse loose. "

For a moment this idea appealed to Pete. He had a supreme contempt forMexicans. But suddenly he seemed to see himself surreptitiously takingthe six-shooter from Roth's showcase--and he recalled vividly how hehad felt at the time--"jest plumb mean, " as he put it. Roth had beenmighty decent to him. . . . The Mexican, a wizened little man, cross-eyed and wrinkled, stumbled from the saloon. 

"Want to sell your hoss?" Pete asked in Mexican. 

"Si! How much you give?" said the other, coming right to the point. 

"Ten dollars. "

"He is a good horse--very fast. He is worth much more. I sell him fortwenty dollars. "

"Si. "

Andy White put his hand on Pete's shoulder. "Say, Pete, " he whispered, "I know this hombre. The poor cuss ain't hardly got enough sense todie. He comes into town reg'lar and gits drunk and he's got a wholecorral full of kids and a wife, over to the Flats. I'm game, but it'skinda tough, takin' his hoss. It's about all he's got, exceptin' ameasly ole dog and a shack and the clothes on his back. That saddleain't worth much, anyhow. "

Pete thought it over. "It's his funeral, " he said presently. 

"That's all right--but dam' if I want to bury him. " And Andy, thesprightly, rolled a cigarette and eyed Pete, who stood pondering. 

Presently Pete turned to the Mexican. "I was only joshin' you, amigo. You fork your cayuse and fan it for home. "

Pete felt that his chance of buying cheap equipment had goneglimmering, but he was not unhappy. He gestured to Andy. Togetherthey strode across to the store and sat on the rough wood platform. Pete kicked his heels and whistled a range tune. Andy smoked andwondered what Pete had in mind. Suddenly Pete rose and pulled up hisbelt. "Come on over to Roth's house, " he said. "I want to see him. "

"He's turned in, " suggested Andy. 

"That's all right. I got to see him. "

"I'm on! You're goin' to pay somethin' down on a rig, and git him tolet you take it on time. Great idee! Go to it!"

"You got me wrong, " said Pete. 

Roth had gone to bed, but he rose and answered the door when he heardPete's voice. "Kin I see you alone?" queried Pete. 

"I reckon so. Come right in. "

Pete blinked in the glare of the lamp, shuffled his feet as he slowlycounted out eighteen dollars and a half. "It's for the gun I took, " heexplained. 

Roth hesitated, then took the money. 

"All right, Pete. I'll give you a receipt. Just wait a minute. "

Pete gazed curiously at the crumpled bit of paper that Roth fetchedfrom the bedroom. "I took a gun an' cartriges for Wagges. You nevergiv me Wages. "

Pete heaved a sigh. "I reckon we're square. "

Roth grinned. "Knowed you'd come back some day. Reckon you didn'tfind a Mexican with a horse to sell, eh?"

"Yep. But I changed my mind. "

"What made you change your mind?"

"I dunno. "

"Well, I reckon I do. Now, see here, Pete. You been up against it'most all your life. You ain't so bad off with old Montoya, but I sabehow you feel about herding sheep. You want to get to riding. Butfirst you want to get a job. Now you go over to the Concho and tellBailey--'he's the foreman--that I sent you, and that if he'll give youa job, I'll outfit you. You can take your time paying for it. "

Pete blinked and choked a little. "I ain't askin' nobody to _give_ menothin', " he said brusquely. 

"Yes, you be. You're asking Bailey for a job. It's all right to askfor something you mean to pay for, and you'll pay for your job byworkin'. That there rig you can pay for out of your wages. I wasalways intending to do something for you--only you didn't stay. Ireckon I'm kind o' slow. 'Most everybody is in Concho. And seeing asyou come back and paid up like a man--I'm going to charge that gun upagainst wages you earned when you was working for me, and credit youwith the eighteen-fifty on the new rig. Now you fan it back to Montoyaand tell him what you aim to do and then if you got time, come overto-morrow and pick out your rig. You don't have to take it till youget your job. "

Pete twisted his hat in his hands. He did not know what to say. Slowly he backed from the room, turned, and strode out to Andy White. Andy wondered what Pete had been up to, but waited for him to speak. 

Presently Pete cleared his throat. "I'm coming over to your wickiupto-morrow and strike for a job. I got the promise of a rig, all right. Don't want no second-hand rig, anyhow! I'm the Ridin' Kid from PowderRiver and I'm comin' with head up and tail a-rollin'. "

"Whoopee!" sang Andy, and swung to his pony. 

"I'm a-comin'!" called Pete as Andy clattered away into the night. 

Pete felt happy and yet strangely subdued. The dim road flickeredbefore him as he trudged back to the sheep-camp. "Pop would 'a' doneit that way, " he said aloud. And for a space, down the darkening roadhe walked in that realm where the invisible walk, and beside himtrudged the great, rugged shape of Annersley, the spirit of the old manwho always "played square, " feared no man, and fulfilled a purpose inthe immeasurable scheme of things. Pete knew that Annersley would havebeen pleased. So it was that Young Pete paid the most honorable debtof all, the debt to memory that the debtor's own free hand may pay ornot--and none be the wiser, save the debtor. Pete had "played square. "It was all the more to his credit that he hated like the dickens togive up his eighteen dollars and a half, and yet had done so. 

CHAPTER VIII

SOME BOOKKEEPING

While it is possible to approach the foreman of a cattle outfit on footand apply for work, it is--as a certain Ulysses of the outlands oncesaid--not considered good form in the best families in Arizona. Petewas only too keenly conscious of this. There is a prestige recognizedby both employer and tentative employee in riding in, swinging to theground in that deliberate and easy fashion of the Western rider, andsauntering up as though on a friendly visit wherein the weather andgrazing furnish themes for introduction, discussion, and the eventualwedge that may open up the way to employment. The foreman knows by theway you sit your horse, dismount, and generally handle yourself, justwhere you stand in the scale of ability. He does not need to be told. Nor does he care what you have been. Your saddle-tree is much moresignificant than your family tree. Still, if you have graduated insome Far Eastern riding academy, and are, perchance, ambitious to learnthe gentle art of roping, riding them as they come, and incidentallypreserving your anatomy as an undislocated whole, it is not a bad ideato approach the foreman on foot and clothed in unpretentious garb. For, as this same Ulysses of the outlands said:

 "Rub grease on your chaps and look wise if you will, But the odor of tan-bark will cling round you still. "

This information alone is worth considerably more than twenty cents. 

Young Pete, who had not slept much, arose and prepared breakfast, making the coffee extra strong. Montoya liked strong coffee. Afterbreakfast Pete made a diagonal approach to the subject of leaving. Could he go to Concho? Montoya nodded. Would it be all right if hemade a visit to the Concho outfit over on the mesa? It would be allright. This was too easy. Pete squirmed internally. If Montoya wouldonly ask why he wanted to go. Did Montoya think he could get anotherboy to help with the sheep? The old herder, who had a quiet sense ofhumor, said he didn't need another boy: that Pete did very well. YoungPete felt, as he expressed it to himself, "jest plumb mean. "Metaphorically he had thrown his rope three times and missed each time. This time he made a wider loop. 

"What I'm gittin' at is, Roth over to Concho said last night if I wasto go over to Bailey--he's the fo'man of the Concho outfit--and ask himfor a job, I could mebby land one. Roth, he said he'd outfit me andleave me to pay for it from my wages. Andy White, he's pluggin' for meover to the ranch. I ain't said nothin' to you, for I wa'n't sure--butRoth he says mebby I could git a job. I reckon I'm gettin' kind of_old_ to herd sheep. "

Montoya smiled. "Si; I am sixty years old. "

"I know--but--doggone it! I want to ride a hoss and go somewhere!"

"I will pay you three dollars a week, " said Montoya, and his eyestwinkled. He was enjoying Pete's embarrassment. 

"It ain't the money. You sure been square. It ain't that. I reckon Ijest got to go. "

"Then it is that you go. I will find another to help. You have been agood boy. You do not like the sheep--but the horses. I know that youhave been saving the money. You have not bought cartridges. I wouldgive you--"

"Hold on--you give me my money day before yesterday. "

"Then you have a little till you get your wages from the Concho. It isgood. "

"Oh, I'm broke all right, " said Pete. "But that don't bother me none. I paid Roth for that gun I swiped--"

"You steal the gun?"

"Well, it wa'n't jest _stealin'_ it. Roth he never paid me no wages, so when I lit out I took her along and writ him it was for wages. "

"Then why did you pay him?"

Pete frowned. "I dunno. "

Montoya nodded. He stooped and fumbled in a pack. Pete wondered whatthe old man was hunting for. 

Presently, Montoya drew out the hand-carved belt and holster, held itup, and inspected it critically. He felt of it with his callousedhands, and finally gestured to Pete. "It is for you, muchacho. I madeit. Stand so. There, it should hang this way. " Montoya buckled thebelt around Pete and stepped back. "A little to the front. Bueno!Tie the thong round your leg--so. That is well! It is the presentfrom José Montoya. Sometimes you will remember--"

Montoya glanced at Pete's face. Pete was frowning prodigiously. 

"Hah!" laughed Montoya. "You do not like it, eh?"

Pete scowled and blinked. "It's the best doggone holster in the world!I--I'm goin' to keep that there holster as long as I live! I--"

Montoya patted Pete's shoulder. "With the sheep it is quiet, so!"--andMontoya gestured to the band that grazed near by. "Where you will gothere will be the hard riding and the fighting, perhaps. It is notgood to kill a man. But it is not good to be killed. The hotword--the quarrel--and some day a man will try to kill you. See! Ihave left the holster open at the end. I have taught you thattrick--but do not tie the holster down if you would shoot that way. There is no more to say. "

Pete thought so, so far as he was concerned. He was angry with himselffor having felt emotion and yet happy in that his break with Montoyahad terminated so pleasantly withal. "I'm goin' to town, " he said, "and git a boy to come out here. If I can't git a boy, I'll come backand stay till you git one. "

Montoya nodded and strode out to where the sheep had drifted. The dogsjumped up and welcomed him. It was not customary for their master toleave them for so long alone with the flock. Their wagging tails andgeneral attitude expressed relief. 

Pete, topping the rise that hides the town of Concho from the northernvistas, turned and looked back. Far below, on a slightly rounded knollstood the old herder, a solitary figure in the wide expanse of mesa andmorning sunlight. Pete swung his hat. Montoya raised his arm in agesture of good-will and farewell. Pete might have to come back, butMontoya doubted it. He knew Pete. If there was anything that lookedlike a boy available in Concho, Pete would induce that boy to take hisplace with Montoya, if he had to resort to force to do so. 

Youth on the hilltop! Youth pausing to gaze back for a moment on apleasant vista of sunshine and long, lazy days--Pete brushed his armacross his eyes. One of the dogs had left the sheep, and came friskingtoward the hill where Pete stood. Pete had never paid much attentionto the dogs, and was surprised that either of them should note hisgoing, at this time. "Mebby the doggone cuss knows that I'm quittin'for good, " he thought. The dog circled Pete and barked ingratiatingly. Pete, touched by unexpected interest, squatted down and called the dogto him. The sharp-muzzled, keen-eyed animal trotted up and nosedPete's hand. "You 're sure wise!" said Pete affectionately. Pete waseven more astonished to realize that it was the dog he had ropedrecently. "Knowed I was only foolin', " said Pete, patting the dog'shead. The sheep-dog gazed up into Pete's face with bright, unblinkingeyes that questioned, "Why was Pete leaving camp early in themorning--and without the burros?"

"I'm quittin' for good, " said Pete. 

The dog's waving tail grew still. 

"That's right--honest!"--and Pete rose. 

The sheep-dog's quivering joy ceased at the word. His alertnessvanished. A veritable statue of dejection he stood as though ponderingthe situation. Then he lifted his head and howled--the long, lugubrious howl of the wolf that hungers. 

"You said it all, " muttered Pete, turning swiftly and trudging down theroad. He would have liked to howl himself. Montoya's kindliness atparting--and his gift--had touched Pete deeply, but he had fought hisemotion then, too proud to show it. Now he felt a hot somethingspatter on his hand. His mouth quivered. "Doggone the dog!" heexclaimed. "Doggone the whole doggone outfit!" And to cheat hisemotion he began to sing, in a ludicrous, choked way, that sprightlyand inimitable range ballad;

 "'Way high up in the Mokiones, among the mountain-tops, A lion cleaned a yearlin's bones and licked his thankful chops, When who upon the scene should ride, a-trippin' down the slope, "

"Doggone the slope!" blurted Pete as he stubbed his toe on a rock. 

But when he reached Concho his eyes had cleared. Like all goodAmericans he "turned a keen, untroubled face home to the instant needof things, " and after visiting Roth at the store, and though sorelytempted to loiter and inspect saddlery, he set out to hunt up aboy--for Montoya. 

None of the Mexican boys he approached cared to leave home. Thingslooked pretty blue for Pete. The finding of the right boy meant hisown freedom. His contempt for the youth of Concho grew apace. TheMexicans were a lazy lot, who either did not want to work or were loathto leave home and follow the sheep. "Jest kids!" he remarkedcontemptuously as his fifth attempt failed. "I could lick the wholebunch!"

Finally he located a half-grown youth who said he was willing to go. Pete told him where to find Montoya and exacted a promise from theyouth to go at once and apply for the place. Pete hastened to thestore and immediately forgot time, place, and even the fact that he hadyet to get a job riding for the Concho outfit, in the eager joy ofchoosing a saddle, bridle, blanket, spurs, boots and chaps, to saynothing of a new Stetson and rope. The sum total of these unpaid-forpurchases rather staggered him. His eighteen-odd dollars was as afly-speck on the credit side of the ledger. He had chosen the best ofeverything that Roth had in stock. A little figuring convinced himthat he would have to work several months before his outfit was paidfor. "If I git a job I'll give you an order for my wages, " he toldRoth. 

"That's all right, Pete; I ain't worryin'. "

"Well--I be, some, " said Pete. "Lemme see--fifty for the saddle, sevenfor the bridle---and she's some bridle!--and eighteen for thechaps--fifteen for the boots--that's ninety dollars. Gee whizz! Thenthere's four for that blanket and ten for them spurs. That's a hundredand four. 'Course I _could_ git along without a new lid. Rope isthree-fifty, and lid is ten. One hundred and seventeen dollars forfour bits. Guess I'll make it a hundred and twenty. No use botherin'about small change. Gimme that pair of gloves. "

Roth had no hesitation in outfitting Pete. The Concho cattlemen tradedat his store. He had extended credit to many a rider whom he trustedless than he did Pete. Moreover, he was fond of the boy and wanted tosee him placed where he could better himself. "I've got you on thebooks for a hundred and twenty, " he told Pete, and Pete felt very proudand important. "Now, if I could borrow a hoss for a spell, I'd jestfork him and ride over to see Bailey, " he asserted. "I sure can't packthis outfit over there. "

Roth grinned. "Well, we might as well let the tail go with the hide. There's old Rowdy. He ain't much of a horse, but he's got three goodlegs yet. He starched a little forward, but he'll make the trip overand back. You can take him. "

"Honest?"

"Go ahead. "

Pete tingled with joyful anticipation as he strode from the store, hisnew rope in his hand. He would rope that cayuse and just about burnthe ground for the Concho! Maybe he wouldn't make young Andy White situp! The Ridin' Kid from Powder River was walking on air when--

"Thought you was goin' over to see Montoya!" he challenged as he sawthe Mexican youth, whom he had tentatively hired, sitting placidly onthe store veranda, employed solely in gazing at the road as though itwere a most interesting spectacle. "Oh, maņana, " drawled the Mexican. 

"Maņana, nothin'!" volleyed Pete. "You're goin' now! Git a-movin'--ifyou have to take your hands and lift your doggone feet off the ground. Git a-goin'!"

"Oh, maybe I go maņana. "

"You're dreamin', hombre. " Pete was desperate. Again he saw hischance of an immediate job go glimmering down the vague vistas of manyto-morrows. 

"See here! What kind of a guy are you, anyhow? I come in hereyesterday and offered you a job and you promised you'd git to workright away. You--"

"It was _to-day_ you speak of Montoya, " corrected the Mexican. 

"You're dreamin', " reiterated Pete. "It was _yesterday_ you said youwould go maņana. Well, it's to-morrow, ain't it? You been asleep an'don't know it. "

An expression of childish wonder crossed the Mexican youth's stolidface. Of a certainty it was but this very morning that Montoya's boyhad spoken to him! Or was it yesterday morning? Montoya's boy hadsaid it was yesterday morning. It must be so. The youth rose andgazed about him. Pete stood aggressively potent, frowning down on theother's hesitation. 

"I go, " said the Mexican. 

Pete heaved a sigh of relief. "A fella's got to know how to handle'em, " he told the immediate vicinity. And because Pete knew somethingabout "handlin' 'em, " he did not at once go for the horse, but stoodstaring after the Mexican, who had paused to glance back. Pete wavedhis hand in a gesture which meant, "Keep goin'. " The Mexican youthkept going. 

"I ain't wishin' old José any hard luck, " muttered Pete, "but I saidI'd send a boy--and that there walkin' dream _looks_ like one, anyhow. 'Oh, maņana!'" he snorted. "Mexicans is mostly figurin' out to-daywhat they 're goin' to do to-morrow, and they never git throughfigurin'. I dunno who my father and mother was, but I know onething--they wa'n't Mexicans. "

CHAPTER IX

ROWDY--AND BLUE SMOKE

It has been said that Necessity is the mother of Invention--well, itgoes without saying that the cowboy is the father, and Pete was closelyrelated to these progenitors of that most necessary adjunct of success. Moreover, he could have boasted a coat of arms had he been at allfamiliar with heraldry and obliged to declare himself. 

[Illustration: Pete. ]

A pinto cayuse rampant; a longhorn steer regardant; two sad-eyed, unbranded calves couchant--one in each corner of the shield to kind ofbalance her up; gules, several clumps of something representingsagebrush; and possibly a rattlesnake coiled beneath the sagebrush anddescribed as "repellent" and holding in his open jaws a streaming mottoreading, "I'm a-comin'. "

Had it been essential that Pete's escutcheon should bear the barsinister, doubtless he would have explained its presence with the easyassertion that the dark diagonal represented the vague ancestry of thetwo sad-eyed calves couchant. Anybody could see that the calves werepart longhorn and part Hereford!

Pete rode out of Concho glittering in his new-found glory of shiningbit and spur, wide-brimmed Stetson, and chaps studded withnickel-plated conchas. The creak of the stiff saddle-leather was musicto him. His brand-new and really good equipment almost made up for thehorse--an ancient pensioner that never seemed to be just certain whenhe would take his next step and seemed a trifle surprised when he hadtaken it. He was old, amiable, and willing, internally, but his legs, somewhat of the Chippendale order, had seen better days. Ease and goodfeeding had failed to fill him out. He was past taking on flesh. Rothkept him about the place for short trips. Roth's lively team of pintoswere at the time grazing in a distant summer pasture. 

Rowdy--the horse--seemed to feel that the occasion demanded somethingof him. He pricked his ears as they crossed the caņon bottom andbreasted the ascent as bravely as his three good legs would let him. At the top he puffed hard. Despite Pete's urging, he stood stolidlyuntil he had gathered enough ozone to propel him farther. "Git along, you doggone ole cockroach!" said Pete. But Rowdy was firm. He turnedhis head and gazed sadly at his rider with one mournful eye that saidplainly, "I'm doing my level best. " Pete realized that the ground justtraveled was anything but level, and curbed his impatience. "I'll jestkind o' save him for the finish, " he told himself. "Then I'll hook thespurs into him and ride in a-boilin'. Don't care what he does afterthat. He can set down and rest if he wants to. Git along, oldsoap-foot, " he cried--"soap-foot" possibly because Rowdy occasionallyslipped. His antique legs didn't always do just what he wanted them todo. 

Topping the mesa edge, Pete saw the distant green that fringed theConcho home-ranch, topped by a curl of smoke that drifted lazily acrossthe gold of the morning. Without urging, Rowdy broke into a stifftrot, that sounded Pete's inmost depths, despite his natural good seatin the saddle. "Quit it!" cried Pete presently. "You'll be goin' oncrutches afore night if you keep that up. --And so'll I, " he added. Rowdy immediately stopped and turned his mournful eye on Pete. 

If the trot had been the rhythmic _one, two, three, four_, Pete couldhave ridden and rolled cigarettes without spilling a flake of tobacco;but the trot was a sort of _one, two--almost three_, then, whump!_three_ and a quick _four_, and so on, a decidedly irregular meter inPete's lyrical journey toward new fields and fairer fortune. "I'llsure make Andy sit up!" he declared as the Concho buildings loomedbeneath the cool, dark-green outline of the trees. He dismounted toopen and close a gate. A half-mile farther he again dismounted to openand close another gate. From there on was a straightaway road to theranch-buildings. Pete gathered himself together, pushed his hat downfirmly--it was new and stiff--and put Rowdy to a high lope. This wassomething like it! Possibly Rowdy anticipated a good rest, and hay. In any event, he did his best, rounding into the yard and up to thehouse like a true cow-pony. All would have been well, as Pete realizedlater, had it not been for the pup. The pup saw in Rowdy a newplayfellow, and charged from the door-step just as that good steed wasmentally preparing to come to a stop. The pup was not mentallyprepared in any way, and in his excitement he overshot the mark. Hecaromed into Rowdy's one recalcitrant leg--it usually happens thatway--and Rowdy stepped on him. Pete was also not mentally prepared todismount at the moment, but he did so as Rowdy crashed down in a cloudof dust. The pup, who imagined himself killed, shrieked shrilly andran as hard as he could to the distant stables to find out if it werenot so. 

Pete picked up his hat. Rowdy scrambled up and shook himself. Petewas mad. Over on the edge of the bunk-house veranda sat four or fiveof the Concho boys. They rocked back and forth and slapped their legsand shouted. It was a trying situation. 

The foreman, Bailey, rose as Pete limped up. "We're livin' over here, "said Bailey. "Did you want to see some one?"

Pete wet his lips. "The fo'man. I--I--jest rid over to see how youwas makin' it. "

"Why, we 're doin' right fair. How you makin' it yourself?"

"I'm here, " said Pete succinctly and without a smile. 

"So we noticed, " said the foreman mildly, too mildly, for one of thepunchers began to laugh, and the rest joined in. 

"Wisht I had a hoss like that, " said a cowboy. "Always did hate toclimb offen a hoss. I like to have 'em set down and kind o' let mestep off easy-like. "

Pete sorely wanted to make a sharp retort, but he had learned thewisdom of silence. He knew that he had made himself ridiculous beforethese men. It would be hard to live down this thing. He deemedhimself sadly out of luck, but he never lost sight of the main chancefor an instant. 

Bailey, through young Andy White, knew of Pete and was studying him. The boy had self-possession, and he had not cursed the horse forstumbling. He saw that Pete was making a fight to keep his temper. 

"You lookin' for work?" he said kindly. 

"I was headed that way, " replied Pete. 

"Can you rope?"

"Oh, some. I kin keep from tanglin' my feet in a rope when it'shangin' on the horn and I'm standin' off a piece. "

"Well, things are slack right now. Don't know as I could use you. What's your name, anyhow?"

"I'm Pete Annersley. I reckon you know who my pop was. "

Bailey nodded. "The T-Bar-T, " he said, turning toward the men. Theyshook their heads and were silent, gazing curiously at the boy, of whomit was said that he had "bumped off" two T-Bar-T boys in a raid someyears ago. Young Pete felt his ground firmer beneath him. The men hadceased laughing. If it had not been for that unfortunate stumble . . . 

"You're sportin' a right good rig, " said the foreman. 

"I aim to, " said Pete quickly. "If I hadn't gone broke buyin' it, I'dride up here on a real hoss. "

"Things are pretty slack right now, " said Bailey. "Glad to seeyou--but they won't be nothin' doin' till fall. Won't you set down?We're goin' to eat right soon. "

"Thanks. I ain't a-missin' a chanct to eat. And I reckon ole Rowdythere could do somethin' in that line hisself. "

Bailey smiled. "Turn your horse into the corral. Better pack yoursaddle over here. That pup will chew them new latigos if he gets nearit. "

"That doggone pup come mighty nigh bustin' me, "--and Pete smiled forthe first time since arriving. "But the pup was havin' a good time, anyhow. "

"Say, I want to shake with you!" said a big puncher, rising andsticking out a strong, hairy hand. 

Pete's face expressed surprise. "Why--sure!" he stammered, notrealizing that his smiling reference to the pup had won him a friend. 

"He's sure a hard-boiled kid, " said one of the men as Pete unsaddledand led Rowdy to the corral. "Did you catch his eye? Black--andshinin'; plumb full of deviltry--down in deep. That kid's had to hitsome hard spots afore he growed to where he is. "

"And he can take his medicine, " asserted another cowboy. "He was madenough to kill that hoss and the bunch of us--but he held her down andbellied up to us like a real one. Looks like he had kind of a Injunstreak in him. "

Bailey nodded. "Wish I had a job for the kid. He would make good. He's been driftin' round the country with old man Montoya for a coupleof years. Old man Annersley picked him up down to Concho. The kid waswith a horse-trader. He would have been all right with Annersley, butyou boys know what happened. This ain't no orphan asylum, but--well, anyhow--did you size up the rig he's sportin'?"

"Some rig. "

"And he says he went broke to buy her. "

"Some kid. "

"Goin' to string him along?" queried another cowboy. 

"Nope, " replied Bailey. "The pup strung him plenty. Mebby we'll givehim a whirl at a real horse after dinner. He's itchin' to climb a realone and show us, and likewise to break in that new rig. "

"Or git busted, " suggested one of the men. 

"By his eye, I'd say he'll stick, " said Bailey. "Don't you boys go toraggin' him too strong about ridin', for I ain't aimin' to kill thekid. If he can stick on Blue Smoke, I've a good mind to give him ajob. I told Andy to tell him there wa'n't no chanct up here--but thekid comes to look-see for hisself. I kind o' like that. "

"You 're gettin' soft in your haid, Bud, " said a cowboy affectionately. 

"Mebby, but I don't have to put cotton in my ears to keep my brainsin, " Bailey retorted mildly. 

The cowboy who had spoken was suffering from earache and had an earplugged with cotton. 

Pete swaggered up and sat down. "Who's ridin' that blue out there?" hequeried, gesturing toward the corral. 

"He's a pet, " said Bailey. Nobody rides him. "

"Uh-huh. Well, I reckon the man who tries 'll be one of ole Abraham'spets right off soon after, " commented Pete. "He don't look good to me. "

"You sabe 'em?" queried Bailey and winked at a companion. 

"Nope, " replied Pete. "I can't tell a hoss from a hitchin'-rail, 'lesshe kicks me. "

"Well, Blue Smoke ain't a hitchin'-rail, " asserted Bailey. "What doyou say if we go over and tell the missis we're starvin' to death?"

"Send Pete over, " suggested a cowboy. 

Bailey liked a joke. As he had said, things were dull, just then. "Lope over and tell my missis we're settin' out here starvin' todeath, " he suggested to Pete. 

Pete strode to the house and entered, hat in hand. The foreman's wife, a plump, cheery woman, liked nothing better than to joke with the men. Presently Pete came out bearing the half of a large, thick, juicy piein his hands. He marched to the bunkhouse and sat down near themen--but not too near. He ate pie and said nothing. When he hadfinished the pie, he rolled a cigarette and smoked, in huge content. The cowboys glanced at one another and grinned. 

"Well, " said Bailey presently; "what's the answer?"

Pete grinned. "Misses Bailey says to tell you fellas to keep onstarvin' to death. It'll save cookin'. "

"I move that we get one square before we cross over, " said Bailey, rising. "Come on, boys. I can smell twelve o'clock comin' from thekitchen. "

CHAPTER X

"TURN HIM LOOSE!"

Blue Smoke was one of those unfortunate animals known as an outlaw. Hewas a blue roan with a black stripe down his back, a tough, strongpony, with a white-rimmed eye as uncompromising as the muzzle of acocked gun. He was of no special use as a cow-pony and was kept aboutthe ranch merely because he happened to belong to the Concho caviayard. It took a wise horse and two good men to get a saddle on him when someaspiring newcomer intimated that he could ride anything with hair onit. He was the inevitable test of the new man. No one as yet hadridden him to a finish; nor was it expected. The man who could stand abrief ten seconds' punishment astride of the outlaw was considered apretty fair rider. It was customary to time the performance, as onewould time a race, but in the instance of riding Blue Smoke the man wastimed rather than the horse. So far, Bailey himself held the record. He had stayed with the outlaw fifteen seconds. 

Pete learned this, and much more, about Blue Smoke's disposition whilethe men ate and joked with Mrs. Bailey. And Mrs. Bailey, good woman, was no less eloquent than the men in describing the outlaw's unenviabletemperament, never dreaming that the men would allow a boy of Pete'syears to ride the horse. Pete, a bit embarrassed in this livelycompany, attended heartily to his plate. He gathered, indirectly, thathe was expected to demonstrate his ability as a rider, sooner or later. He hoped that it would be later. 

After dinner the men loafed out and gravitated lazily toward thecorral, where they stood eying the horses and commenting on this andthat pony. Pete had eyes for no horse but Blue Smoke. He admitted tohimself that he did not want to ride that horse. He knew that his risewould be sudden and that his fall would be great. Still, he sportedthe habiliments of a full-fledged buckaroo, and he would have to liveup to them. A man who could not sit the hurricane-deck of a pitchinghorse was of little use to the ranch. In the busy season each mancaught up his string of ponies and rode them as he needed them. Therewas neither time nor disposition to choose. 

Pete wished that Blue Smoke had a little more of Rowdy's equabledisposition. It was typical of Pete, however, that he absolutely hatedto leave an unpleasant task to an indefinite future. Moreover, herather liked the Concho boys and the foreman. He wanted to ride withthem. That was the main thing. Any hesitancy he had in regard toriding the outlaw was the outcome of discretion rather than of fear. Bailey had said there was no work for him. Pete felt that he hadrather risk his neck a dozen times than to return to the town of Conchoand tell Roth that he had been unsuccessful in getting work. Yet Petedid not forget his shrewdness. He would bargain with the foreman. 

"How long kin a fella stick on that there Blue Smoke hoss?" he queriedpresently. 

"Depends on the man, " said Bailey, grinning. 

"Bailey here stayed with him fifteen seconds onct, " said a cowboy. 

Pete pushed hack his hat. "Well, I ain't no bronco-twister, but Ireckon I could ride him a couple o' jumps. Who's keepin' time on thedog-gone cayuse?"

"Anybody that's got a watch, " replied Bailey. 

Pete hitched up his chaps. "I got a watch and I'd hate to bust her. If you'll hold her till I git through"--and he handed the watch to thenearest cowboy. "If you'll throw my saddle on 'im, I reckon I'll walkhim round a little and see what kind of action he's got. "

"Shucks!" exclaimed Bailey; "that hoss would jest nacherally pitch youso high you wouldn't git back in time for the fall round-up, kid. He'sbad. "

"Well, you said they wa'n't no job till fall, anyhow, " said Pete. "Mebby I'd git back in time for a job. "

Bailey shook his head. "I was joshin'--this mornin'. "

"'Bout my ridin' that hoss? Well, I ain't. I'm kind of a stranger uphere, and I reckon you fellas think, because that doggone ole soap-footfell down with me, that I can't ride 'em. "

"Oh, mebby some of 'em, " laughed Bailey. 

Pete's black eyes flashed. To him the matter was anything but a joke. "You give me a job if I stick on that hoss for fifteen seconds? Why, I'm game to crawl him and see who wins out. If I git pitched, I lose. And I'm taking all the chances. "

"Throw a saddle on him and give the kid a chanct, " suggested a cowboy. 

Bailey turned and looked at Pete, whose eyes were alight with the hopeof winning out--not for the sake of any brief glory, Pete's compressedlips denied that, but for the sake of demonstrating his ability to holddown a job on the ranch. 

"Rope him, Monte, " said Bailey. "Take the sorrel. I'll throw thekid's saddle on him. "

"Do I git the job if I stick?" queried Pete nervously. 

"Mebby, " said Bailey. 

Now Pete's watch was a long-suffering dollar watch that went when itwanted to and ceased to go when it felt like resting. At present thewatch was on furlough and had been for several days. A good shakewould start it going--and once started it seemed anxious to make up forlost time by racing at a delirious pace that ignored the sun, thestars, and all that makes the deliberate progress of the hours. IfPete could arrange it so that his riding could be timed by his ownwatch, he thought he could win, with something to spare. After a wildbattle with the punchers, Blue Smoke was saddled with Pete's saddle. He still fought the men. There was no time for discussion if Peteintended to ride. 

"Go to 'im!" cried Bailey. 

Pete hitched up his chaps and crawled over the bars. "Jest time himfor me, " said Pete, turning to the cowboy who held his watch. 

The cowboy glanced at the watch, put it to his ear, then glanced at itagain. "The durn thing's stopped!" he asserted. 

"Shake her, " said Pete. 

Pete slipped into the saddle. "Turn 'im loose!" he cried. 

The men jumped back. Blue Smoke lunged and went at it. Pete grittedhis teeth and hung to the rope. The corral revolved and the buildingsteetered drunkenly. Blue Smoke was not a running bucker, but did hispitching in a small area--and viciously. Pete's head snapped back andforth. He lost all sense of time, direction, and place. He was joltedand jarred by a grunting cyclone that flung him up and sideways, methim coming down and racked every muscle in his body. Pete dully hopedthat it would soon be over. He was bleeding at the nose. His neckfelt as though it had been broken. He wanted to let go and fall. Anything was better than this terrible punishment. 

He heard shouting, and then a woman's shrill voice. Blue Smoke gave aquick pitch and twist. Pete felt something crash up against him. Suddenly it was night. All motion had ceased. 

When he came to, Mrs. Bailey was kneeling beside him and ringed aroundwere the curious faces of the cowboys. 

"I'm the Ridin' Kid from Powder River, " muttered Pete. "Did I make it?"

"That horse liked to killed you, " said Mrs. Bailey. "If I'd 'a' knewthe boys was up to this . . . And him just a boy! Jim Bailey, youought to be ashamed of yourself!" Ma Bailey wiped Pete's face with herapron and put her motherly arm beneath his head. "If he was my boy, Jim Bailey, I'd--I'd--show you!"

Pete raised on his elbow. "I'm all right, mam. It wa'n't his fault. I said I could ride that hoss. Did I make it?"

"Accordin' to your watch here, " said the puncher who held Pete'sirresponsible timepiece, "you rid him for four hours and sixteenminutes. The hands was a-fannin' it round like a windmill in acyclone. But she's quit, now. "

"Do I git the job?" queried Pete. 

"You get right to bed! It's a wonder every bone in your body ain'tbroke!" exclaimed Ma Bailey. 

"Bed!" snorted Pete. He rose stiffly. His hat was gone and one spurwas missing. His legs felt heavy. His neck ached; but his black eyeswere bright and blinking. 

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Bailey. "Why, the boy is comin' to allright!"

"You bet!" said Pete, grinning, although he felt far from all right. He realized that he rather owed Mrs. Bailey something in the way of anexpression of gratitude for her interest. "I--you, you sure can makethe best pie ever turned loose!" he asserted. 

"Pie!" gasped the foreman's wife, "and him almost killed by that bluedevil there! You come right in the house, wash your face, and I'll fixyou up. "

"The kid's all right, mother, " said Bailey placatingly. 

Mrs. Bailey turned on her husband. "That's not your fault, Jim Bailey. Such goin's-on! You great, lazy hulk, you, to go set a boy to ridin'that hoss that you dassent ride yourself. If he was my boy--"

"Well, I'm willin', " said Pete, who began to realize the power behindthe throne. 

"Bless his heart!" Mrs. Bailey put her arm about his shoulders. Petewas mightily embarrassed. No woman had ever caressed him, so far as hecould remember. The men would sure think him a softy, to allow allthis strange mothering; but he could not help himself. Evidently theforeman's wife was a power in the land, for the men had taken herberating silently and respectfully. But before they reached the housePete was only too glad to feel Mrs. Bailey's arm round his shoulders, for the ground seemed unnecessarily uneven, and the trees had a strangeway of rocking back and forth, although there was no wind. 

Mrs. Bailey insisted that he lie down, and she spread a blanket on herown white bed. Pete did not want to lie down. But Mrs. Baileyinsisted, helping him to unbuckle his chaps and even to pull off hisboots. The bed felt soft and comfortable to his aching body. The roomwas darkened. Mrs. Bailey tiptoed through the doorway. Pete gazeddrowsily at a flaming lithograph on the wall; a basket of fruit such aswas never known on land or sea, placed on a highly polished table suchas was never made by human hands. The colors of the chromo grew dimmerand dimmer. Pete sighed and fell asleep. 

Mrs. Bailey, like most folk in that locality, knew something of Pete'searlier life. Rumor had it that Pete was a bad one--a tough kid--thathe had even killed two cowboys of the T-Bar-T. Mrs. Bailey had neverseen Pete until that morning. Yet she immediately formed her ownopinion of him, intuition guiding her aright. Young Pete was simplyunfortunate--not vicious. She could see that at a glance. And he wasa manly youngster with a quick, direct eye. He had come to the Concholooking for work. The men had played their usual pranks, fortunatelywith no serious consequences. But Bailey should have known better, andshe told him so that afternoon in the kitchen, while Pete slumberedblissfully in the next room. "And he can help around the place, evenif it is slack times, " she concluded. 

That evening was one of the happiest evenings of Pete's life. He hadnever known the tender solicitude of a woman. Mrs. Bailey treated himas a sort of semi-invalid, waiting on him, silencing the men'sgood-natured joshing with her sharp tongue, feeding him cannedpeaches--a rare treat--and finally enthroning him in her own amplerocking-chair, somewhat to Pete's embarrassment, and much to theamusement of the men. 

"He sure can ride it!" said a cowboy, indicating the rocking-chair. 

"Bill Haskins, you need a shave!" said Mrs. Bailey. 

The aforesaid Bill Haskins, unable to see any connection between hisremark and the condition of his beard, stared from one to another ofhis blank-faced companions, grew red, stammered, and felt of his chin. 

"I reckon I do, " he said weakly, and rising he plodded to thebunk-house. 

"And if you want to smoke, " said Mrs. Bailey, indicating another of theboys who had just rolled and lighted a cigarette, "there's all outdoorsto do it in. "

This puncher also grew red, rose, and sauntered out. 

Bailey and the two remaining cowboys shuffled their feet, wondering whowould be the next to suffer the slings and arrows of Ma Bailey'sindignation. _They_ considered the Blue Smoke episode closed. Evidently Ma Bailey did not. Bailey himself wisely suggested that theygo over to the bunk-house. It would be cooler there. The cowboys rosepromptly and departed. But they were cowboys and not to be silenced soeasily. 

They loved Ma Bailey and they dearly loved to tease her. Strong, rugged, and used to activity, they could not be quiet long. Mrs. Bailey hitched a chair close to Pete and had learned much of his earlyhistory--for Pete felt that the least he could do was to answer herkindly questions--and he, in turn, had been feeling quite at home inher evident sympathy, when an unearthly yell shattered the quiet of thesummer evening. More yells--and a voice from the darkness stated thatsome one was hurt bad; to bring a light. Groans, heartrending andhoarse, punctuated the succeeding silence. "It's Jim, " the voiceasserted. "Guess his leg's bruk. "

The groaning continued. Mrs. Bailey rose and seized the lamp. Petegot up stiffly and followed her out. One of the men was down on allfours, jumping about in ludicrous imitation of a bucking horse; andanother was astride him, beating him not too gently with a quirt. AsMa Bailey came in sight the other cowboys swung their hats and shoutedencouragement to the rider. Bailey was not visible. 

"Stay with 'im!" cried one. "Rake 'im! He's gittin' played out! Lookout! He's goin' to sunfish! Bust 'im wide open!"

It was a huge parody of the afternoon performance, staged for MaBailey's special benefit. Suddenly the cowboy who represented BlueSmoke made an astounding buck and his rider bit the dust. 

Ma Bailey held the lamp aloft and gazed sternly at the two sweating, puffing cowboys. "Where's Bailey?" she queried sharply. 

One of the men stepped forward and doffing his hat assumed an attitudeof profound gravity. "Blue there, he done pitched your husband, mam, and broke his leg. Your husband done loped off on three laigs, to gitthe doctor to fix it. "

"Let me catch sight of him and I'll fix it!" she snorted. "Jim, ifyou're hidin' in that bunk-house you come out here--and behaveyourself. Lord knows you are old enough to know better. "

"That's right, mam. Jim is sure old enough to know better 'n to behavehisself. You feed us so plumb good, mam, that we jest can't set stillnohow. I reckon it was the pie that done it. Reckon them dried appleskind of turned to cider. "

Mrs. Bailey swung around with all the dignity of a liner leavingharbor, and headed for the house. 

"Is she gone?" came in a hoarse whisper. 

"You come near this house to-night and you'll find out!" Mrs. Baileyadvised from the doorway. 

"It's the hay for yours, Jim, " comforted a cowboy. 

Pete hesitated as to which course were better. Finally he decided to"throw in" with the men. 

Bailey lighted the hanging lamp in the bunk-house, and the boysshuffled in, grinning sheepishly. "You're sure a he-widder to-night, "said Bill Haskins sympathetically. 

Bailey grinned. His good wife was used to such pranks. In fact thealtogether unexpected and amusing carryings on of the boys did muchtoward lightening the monotony when times were dull, as they were justthen. Had the boys ceased to cut up for any length of time, Ma Baileywould have thought them ill and would have doctored them accordingly. 

Pete became interested in watching Bill Haskins endeavor to shavehimself with cold water by the light of the hanging lamp. 

Presently Pete's attention was diverted to the cowboy whom Mrs. Baileyhad sent outdoors to smoke. He had fished up from somewhere a piece ofcardboard and a blue pencil. He was diligently lettering a sign whichhe eventually showed to his companions with no little pride. It read:

"NO SMOKING ALOUD. "

Pete did not see the joke, but he laughed heartily with the rest. Thelaughter had just about subsided when a voice came from across the way:"Jim, you come right straight to bed!"

Bailey indicated a bunk for Pete and stepped from the bunk-house. 

Presently the boys heard Mrs. Bailey's voice. "Good-night, boys. "

"Good-night, Ma!" they chorused heartily. 

And "Good-night, Pete, " came from the house. 

"Good-night, Ma!" shrilled Pete, blushing. 

"I'm plumb sore!" asserted Haskins. "'Good-night, boys, ' is goodenough for us. But did you hear what come after! I kin see who gitsall the extra pie around this here ranch! I've half a mind to quit. "

"What--eatin' pie?"

"Nope! Joshin' Ma. She allus gits the best of us. "

CHAPTER XI

POP ANNERSLEY'S BOY

Several days after Pete's arrival at the Concho ranch, Andy White rodein with a companion, dusty, tired, and hungry from a sojourn over nearthe Apache line. White made his report to the foreman, unsaddled, andwas washing with a great deal of splutter and elbow-motion, when someone slapped him on the back. He turned a dripping face to behold Petegrinning at him. 

Andy's eyes lighted with pleasure. He stuck out a wet hand. "Did youland a job?"

"With both feet. "

"Good! I was so darned tired I clean forgot you was livin'. Say, Isaw ole José this afternoon. We was crossin' the bottom and rode intohis camp. He said you had quit him. I asked him if you come up here, but he only shook his head and handed me the usual 'Quien sabe?' He'llnever git a sore throat from talkin' too much. Say, wait till I gitsome of this here alkali out of my ears and we'll go and eat and thenhave a smoke and talk it out. Gee! But I'm glad you landed! How'dyou work it?"

"Easy. I rid that there Blue Smoke hoss--give 'em an exhibition ofreal ridin' and the fo'man sure fell for my style. "

"Uh-huh. What kind of a fall did _you_ make?"

"Well, I wasn't in shape to know--till I come to. The fellas said Idone all right till ole Smoke done that little double twist and left mestandin' in the air--only with my feet up. I ain't jest lovin' thathoss a whole lot. "

Andy nodded sagely. "I tried him onct. So Bailey give you a job, eh?"

"Kind of a job. Mostly peelin' potatoes and helpin' round the house. Ma Bailey says I'm worth any two of the men helpin' round the house. And I found out one thing--what Ma Bailey says round here goes. "

"You bet! She's the boss. If Ma don't like a guy, he don't work longfor the Concho. I recollect when Steve Gary quit over the T-Bar-T andcome over here lookin' for a job. Ma she sized him up, but didn't saynothin' right away. But Gary he didn't stay long enough to git asaddle warm. Ma didn't like him, nohow. He sure was a top-hand--butthat didn't help him none. He's over to the T-Bar-T now. Seen him theother day. He's got some kind of a drag there, for they took him back. Folks says--say, what's bitin' you?"

"Nothin'. You said Gary?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I was jest thinkin'. "

Young Andy dried his face on the community towel, emptied the basinwith a flourish which drenched the pup and sent him yelping toward thehouse, attempted to shy the basin so that it would land right-side upon the bench--but the basin was wet and soapy and slipped. It sailedthrough the door of the bunk-house and caromed off Bill Haskins's head. Andy saw what had happened and, seizing Pete's arm, rushed him acrossthe clearing and into the house, where he grabbed Ma Bailey and kissedher heartily, scrambled backward as she pretended to threaten him withthe mammoth coffee-pot, and sat down at the table with the remark thathe was "powerful tired. "

"You act like it, " scoffed Mrs. Bailey. 

Bill Haskins, with a face like black thunder, clumped in and asked Mrs. Bailey if she had any "stickin'-plaster. "

"Cut you, Bill?"

"Bad!" said Bill, exhibiting a cut above the ear--the result of Andy'sbasin-throwing. 

"Oh, you go 'long!" said Mrs. Bailey, pushing him away. "Askin' forstickin'-plaster for a scratch like that!"

Bill Haskins growled and grumbled as he took his place at the table. He kept shaking his head like a dog with a sore ear, vowing that if hefound out "who thrun that basin" there would be an empty chair at theConcho board before many days had passed. 

Andy White glanced at Pete and snickered. Bill Haskins glowered andfelt of his head. "Liked to skelp me, " he asserted. "Ma, I jest askyou what you would do now, if you was settin' peaceful in thebunk-house pawin' over your war-bag, lookin' for a clean shirt, and allof a sudden _whing_! along comes a warsh-basin and takes you right overthe ear. Wouldn't you feel like killin' somebody?"

"Lookin' for a clean shirt!" whispered Andy to Pete. "Did you gitthat?"

Bill "got" it--and flushed amazingly. "I was meanin' a clean--cleandress, Mrs. Bailey. A clean dress or stockin's, mebby. "

"Bill was lookin' for a clean dress, " snickered Andy. Pete grinned. 

"Bill, I reckon it ain't your ear that needs that sticking-plaster. Aclean shirt, indeed! I'm surprised at you, William. "

"Gee, Ma called him Willum!" whispered Andy. "Bill better fade. "

The men tramped in, nodded to Mrs. Bailey, and sat down. Eating was aserious matter with them. They said little. It was toward the end ofthe meal, during a lull in the clatter of knives and forks, that AndyWhite suggested, _sotto voce_, but intended for the assemblage, "ThatBill always was scared of a wash-basin. " This gentle innuendo was loston the men, but Bill Haskins vowed mighty vengeance. 

It was evident from the start that Pete and Andy would run in doubleharness. They were the youngsters of the outfit, liked each other, andas the months went by became known--Ma Bailey had read the book--as"The Heavenly Twins. " Bailey asked his good wife why "heavenly. " Heaverred that "twins was all right--but as for 'heavenly'--"

Mrs. Bailey chuckled. "I'm callin' 'em 'heavenly, ' Jim, to kind ofeven up for what the boys call 'em. I don't use that kind of language. "

Pete graduated from peeling potatoes and helping about the house toriding line with young Andy, until the fall round-up called for allhands, the loading of the chuck-wagon and a farewell to the lazy daysat the home ranch. The air was keen with the tang of autumn. Thehillside blue of spruce and pine was splashed here and there with therich gold of the quaking asp. Far vistas grew clearer as the haze ofsummer heat waned and fled before the stealthy harbingers of winter. In the lower levels of the distant desert, heat waves still pulsedabove the grayish brown reaches of sand and brush--but the desert wasfifty, sixty, eighty miles away, spoken of as "down there" by theriders of the high country. And Young Pete, detailed to help "gather"in some of the most rugged timberland of the Blue, would not havechanged places with any man. He had been allotted a string of ponies, placed under the supervision of an old hand, entered on the pay-roll atthe nominal salary of thirty dollars a month, and turned out to do hisshare in the big round-up, wherein riders from the T-Bar-T, the Blue, the Eight-O-Eight, and the Concho rode with a loose rein and a quickspur, gathering and bunching the large herds over the high country. 

There was a fly in Pete's coffee, however. Young Andy White had beendetailed to ride another section of the country. Bailey had wiselyseparated these young hopefuls, fearing that competition--for they werealways striving to outdo each other--might lead to a hard fall for oneor both. Moreover, they were always up to some mischief or other--Andyworking the schemes that Pete usually invented for the occasion. Up tothe time that he arrived at the Concho ranch, Young Pete had neverknown the joy of good-natured, rough-and-tumble horseplay, thatwholesome diversion that tries a man out, and either rubs off theragged edges of his temper or marks him as an undesirable andto-be-let-alone. Pete, while possessing a workable sense of humor, wasintense--somewhat quick on the trigger, so to speak. The frequentroughings he experienced served to steady him, and also taught him todistinguish the tentative line between good-natured banter and theveiled insult. 

Unconsciously he studied his fellows, until he thought he pretty wellknew their peculiarities and preferences. Unrealized by Pete, and bythemselves, this set him apart from them. They never studied him, buttook him for just what he seemed--a bright, quick, and withalindustrious youngster, rather quiet at times, but never sullen. Bailey, whose business it was to know and handle men, confided to hiswife that he did not quite understand Pete. And Mrs. Bailey, who wasreally fond of Pete, was consistently feminine when she averred that itwasn't necessary to understand him so long as he attended to his workand behaved himself, which was Mrs. Bailey's way of dodging the issue. She did not understand Pete herself. "He does a heap of thinking--fora boy, " she told Bailey. "He's got something' besides cattle on hismind, " Bailey asserted. Mrs. Bailey had closed the question for thetime being with the rather vague assertion, "I should hope so. "

The first real inkling that Andy White had of Pete's deeper nature wasoccasioned by an incident during the round-up. 

The cutting-out and branding were about over. The Concho men, campedround their wagon, were fraternizing with visitors from the Blue andT-Bar-T. Every kind of gossip was afloat. The Government was going tomake a game preserve of the Blue Range. Old man Dobson, of theEight-O-Eight, had fired one of his men for packing whiskey into thecamp: "Dobson was drunk hisself!" was asserted. One sprightly andinventive son-of-saddle-leather had brought a pair of horse-clippers tothe round-up. Every suffering puncher in the outfit had been thrownand clipped, including the foreman, and even the cattle inspector. Rumor had it that the boys from the Blue intended to widen their scopeof operation and clip everybody. The "gentleman [described in thevernacular] who started to clip my [also described] head'll think he'stackled a tree-kitty, " stated a husky cowboy from the T-Bar-T. 

Old Montoya's name was mentioned by another rider from the T-Bar-T. Andy who was lying beside Pete, just within the circle of firelight, nudged him. 

"We run every nester out of this country; and it's about time westarted in on the sheep, " said this individual, and he spoke notjestingly, but with a vicious meaning in his voice, that silenced thetalk. 

Bailey was there and Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, Bud Long, foreman ofthe Blue, and possibly some fifteen or eighteen visiting cowboys. Thestrident ill-nature of the speaker challenged argument, but the boyswere in good-humor. 

"What you pickin' on Montoya for?" queried a cowboy, laughing. "Heain't here. "

Pete sat up, naturally interested in the answer. 

"He's lucky he ain't, " retorted the cow-puncher. 

"_You're_ lucky he ain't, " came from Pete's vicinity. 

"Who says so?"

Andy White tugged at Pete's sleeve. "Shut up, Pete! That's Steve Garytalkin'. Don't you go mixin' with Gary. He's right quick with hisgun. What's a-bitin' you, anyhow?"

"Who'd you say?" queried Pete. 

"Gary--Steve Gary. Reckon you heard of him. "

"Who says I'm lucky he ain't here?" again challenged Gary. 

"Shut up, Steve, " said a friendly cowboy. "Can't you take a josh?"

"Who's lookin' for a row, anyhow?" queried another cowboy. "I ain't. "

The men laughed. Pete's face was somber in the firelight. Gary! Theman who had led the raid on Pop Annersley's homestead. Pete knew thathe would meet Gary some day, and he was curious to see the man who wasresponsible for the killing of Annersley. He had no definite plan--didnot know just what he would do when he met him. Time had dulled theedge of Pete's earlier hatred and experience had taught him to leavewell enough alone. But that strident voice, edged with malice, hadstirred bitter memories. Pete felt that should he keep silent it wouldreflect on his loyalty to both Montoya and Annersley. There were menthere who knew he had worked for Montoya. They knew, but hardlyexpected that Pete would take up Gary's general challenge. He was buta youth--hardly more than a boy. The camp was somewhat surprised whenPete got to his feet and stepped toward the fire. 

"I'm the one that said you was lucky Montoya wasn't here, " he asserted. "And I'm leavin' it to my boss, or Bud Long, or your own boss"--and heindicated Houck with a gesture--"if I ain't right. "

"Who in hell are you, anyhow?" queried Gary, "Me? I'm Pop Annersley's boy, Pete. Mebby you recollec' you saidyou'd kill me if I talked about that shootin'. I was a kid then--and Iwas sure scared of the bunch that busted into the shack--three growedmen ag'in' a kid--a-threatenin' what they'd do to the man that bumpedoff two of their braves. You was askin' who talked up awhile back. Itwas me. "

Gary was on his feet and took a step toward Pete when young Andy rose. Pete was his bunkie. Andy didn't want to fight, but if Gary pulled hisgun . . . 

Bailey got up quietly, and turning his back on Gary told Pete and Andyto saddle up and ride out to relieve two of the boys on night-herd. 

It was Bud Long who broke the tension. "It's right late for youngroosters to be crowin' that way, " he chuckled. 

Everybody laughed except Gary. "But it ain't too late for full-growedroosters to crow!" he asserted. 

Long chuckled again. "Nope. I jest crowed. "

Not a man present missed the double-meaning, including Gary. And Garydid not want any of Long's game. The genial Bud had delicatelyintimated that his sympathies were with the Concho boys. Then therewere Bailey and Bill Haskins and several others among the Concho outfitwho would never see one of their own get the worst of it. Gary turnedand slunk away toward his own wagon. One after another the T-Bar-Tboys rose and followed. The Annersley raid was not a popular subjectwith them. 

Bailey turned to Long. "Thanks, Bud. "

"'Mornin', Jim, " said Long facetiously. "When 'd you git here?"

Two exceedingly disgruntled young cowboys saddled up and rode out tothe night-herd. They had worked all day, and now they would have toride herd the rest of the night, for it was nearing twelve. As reliefmen they would have to hold their end of the herd until daybreak. 

"I told you to shut up, " complained Andy. 

"I wasn't listenin' to you, " said Pete, "Yes! And this is what we git for your gittin' red-headed about a oleMexican sheep-herder. But, honest, Pete, you sure come clost togittin' yours. Gary mebby wouldn't 'a' pulled on you--but he'd 'a'sure trimmed you if Bailey hadn't stepped in. "

"He'd never put a hand on me, " stated Pete. 

"You mean you'd 'a' plugged 'im?"

"I'm meanin' I would. "

"But, hell, Pete, you ain't no killer! And they's no use gettin'started that way. They's plenty as would like to see Gary bumpedoff--but I don't want to be the man to do it. Suppose Gary did leadthat raid on ole man Annersley? That's over and done. Annersley isdead. You're livin'--and sure two dead men don't make a live one. What's the good o' takin' chances like that?"

"I dunno, Andy. All I know is that when Gary started talkin' aboutMontoya I commenced to git hot inside. I knowed I was a fool--but Ijest had to stand up and tell him what he was. It wa'n't me doin' it. It was jest like somethin' big a-pullin' me onto my feet and makin' metalk like I did. It was jest like you was ridin' the edge of somesteep and bad goin' and a maverick takes over and you know you got nobusiness to put your hoss down after him. But your saddle isa-creakin' and a-sayin', 'Go git 'im!'--and you jest nacherally go. Kin you tell me what makes a fella do the like of that?"

"I dunno, Pete. But chasin' mavericks is different. "

"Mebby. But the idee is jest the same. "

"Well, I'm hopin' you don't git many more of them idees right soon. I'm sure with you to the finish, but I ain't wishful to git mine thatway. "

"I ain't askin' you to, " said Pete, for he was angry with himselfdespite the logic of his own argument. 

They were near the herd. Andy, who had flushed hotly at Pete's ratherungenerous intimation, spurred his pony round and rode toward a dimfigure that nodded in the starlight. Pete whirled his own pony androde in the opposite direction. 

Toward dawn, as they circled, they met again. 

"Got the makin's?" queried Pete. 

"Right here, " said Andy. 

As Pete took the little sack of tobacco, their hands touched andgripped. "I seen you standin' side of me, " said Pete, "when I wastalkin' to Gary. "

"You was dreaming" laughed Andy. "That was your shadow. "

"Mebby, " asserted Pete succinctly. "But I seen out of the corner of myeye that that there shadow had its hand on its gun. And _I_ suredidn't. "

CHAPTER XII

IN THE PIT

The round-up was over. A trainload of Concho steers was on its wayEast, accompanied by four of the Concho boys. The season had been agood one and prices were fair. Bailey was feeling well. There was noobvious reason for his restlessness. He had eaten a hearty breakfast. The sky was clear, and a thin, fragrant wind ran over the high mesa, awind as refreshing as a drink of cold mountain water on a hot day. Suddenly it occurred to Bailey that the deer season was open--that "thehunting winds were loose. " Somewhere in the far hills the bucks wererunning again. A little venison would be a welcome change from afairly steady diet of beef. 

Bailey saddled up, and hung his rifle under the stirrup-leather. Hetucked a compact lunch in his saddle-pockets, filled a _morral_ withgrain and set off in the direction of the Blue Range. 

Once on the way and his restlessness evaporated. He did not realizethat deer-hunting was an excuse to be alone. 

Jim Bailey, however, was not altogether happy. He was worried aboutYoung Pete. The incident at the round-up had set him thinking. TheT-Bar-T and the Concho men were not over-friendly. There were certainquestions of grazing and water that had never been definitely settled. The Concho had always claimed the right to run their cattle on the BlueMesa with the Blue Range as a tentative line of demarcation. TheT-Bar-T always claimed the Blue as part of their range. There had beensome bickering until the killing of Annersley, when Bailey promptlyissued word to his men to keep the Concho cattle north of thehomestead. He had refused to have anything to do with the raid, nordid he now intend that his cattle should be an evidence that he hadeven countenanced it. 

Young Pete had unwittingly stirred up the old enmity. Any untoward actof a cowboy under such circumstances would be taken as expressive ofthe policy of the foreman. Even if Pete's quarrel was purely apersonal matter there was no telling to what it might lead. The rightor wrong of the matter, personally, was not for Bailey to decide. Hisduty was to keep his cattle where they belonged and his men out oftrouble. And because he was known as level-headed and capable he heldthe position of actual manager of the Concho--owned by an Easternsyndicate--but he was too modest and sensible to assume any such title, realizing that as foreman he was in closer touch with his men. Theytold him things, as foreman, that as manager he would have heardindirectly through a foreman--qualified or elaborated as that officialmight choose. 

As he jogged along across the levels Bailey thought it all over. Hewould have a talk with Young Pete when he returned and try to show himthat his recent attitude toward Gary militated against the Concho'sunprinted motto: "The fewer quarrels the more beef. "

Halfway across the mesa there was what was known as "The Pit "; acircular hole in the plain; rock-walled, some forty or fifty yards indiameter and as many yards deep. Its bottom was covered with fine, loose sand, a strange circumstance in a country composed of tufa andvolcanic rock. Legend had it that the Pit was an old Hopi tank, orwater-hole--a huge cistern where that prehistoric tribe conserved therain. Bits of broken pottery and scattered beads bore out this theory, and round the tank lay the low, crumbling mounds of what had once beena village. 

The trail on the Blue ran close to the Pit, and no rider passing itfailed to glance down. Cattle occasionally strayed into it and if weakwere unable to climb out again without help from horse and rope. AsBailey approached, he heard the unmistakable bark of a six-shooter. Heslipped from his horse, strode cautiously to the rim, and peered over. 

Young Pete had ridden his horse down the ragged trail and was at themoment engaged in six-gun practice. Bailey drew back and sat down. Pete had gathered together some bits of rock and had built a targetloosely representing a man. The largest rock, on which was laid asmall round, bowlder for a head, was spattered with lead. Pete, quiteunconscious of an audience, was cutting loose with speed and accuracy. He threw several shots at the place which represented the vitals of histheoretical enemy, punched the shells from his gun, and reloaded. Thenhe stepped to his horse and led him opposite the target and some twentyfeet from it. Crouching, he fired under the horse's belly. The horsebucked and circled the enclosure. Pete strode after him, caught himup, and repeated the performance. Each time Pete fired, the horsenaturally jumped and ran. Patiently Pete caught him up again. Finallythe animal, although trembling and wild-eyed, stood to the gun. Petepatted its neck. Reloading he mounted. Bailey was curious to see whatthe boy would do next. Pete turned the horse and, spurring him, flungpast the target, emptying his gun as he went. Then he dismounted andstriding up to within ten yards of the man-target, holstered his gunand stood for a moment as still as a stone itself. Suddenly his handflashed to his side. Bailey rubbed his eyes. The gun had not comefrom the holster, yet the rock target was spattered with five moreshots. Bailey could see the lead fly as the blunt slugs flattened onthe stone. 

"The young son-of-a-gun!" muttered Bailey. "Dinged if he ain'tshootin' through the open holster! Where in blazes did he learn thatbad-man trick?"

Thus far Pete had not said a word, even to the horse. But now that hehad finished his practice he strode to the rock-target and thrust hishand against it. "You're dead!" he exclaimed. "You're plumbsalivated!" He pushed, and the man-target toppled and fell. 

"Ain't you goin' to bury him?" queried Bailey. 

Pete whirled. The color ran up his neck and face. "H'lo, Jim. "

"How'd you know it was me?" Bailey stood up. 

"Knowed your voice. "

"Well, come on up. I was wonderin' who was down there settin' off thefireworks. Didn't hear you till I got most on top of you. You suregot some private shootin'-gallery. "

Pete led his pony up the steep trail and squatted beside Bailey. "Howlong you been watching me, Jim?"

"Oh, jest since you started shooting under your hoss. What's the idea?"

"Nothin', jest practicin'. "

"You must 'a' been practicin' quite a' spell. You handle thatsmoke-wagon like an ole-timer. "

"I ain't advertisin' it. "

"Well, it's all right, Pete. Glad I got a front seat. Never figuredyou was a top-hand with a gun. Now I'm wise. I know enough not tostack up against you. "

Pete smiled his slow smile and pushed back his hat. "I reckon you'reright about that. I never did no shootin' in company. Ole JoséMontoya always said to do your practicin' by yourself, and then nobodyknows just how you would play your hand. "

Bailey frowned and nodded. "Well, seein' as I'm in on it, Pete, I'dkind of like to know myself. "

"Why, I'm jest figurin' that some day mebby somebody'll want to hang myhide on the fence. I don't aim to let him. "

"Meanin' Gary?"

"The same. I ain't _lookin'_ for Gary--even if he did shoot down PopAnnersley--nor I ain't tryin' to keep out of his way. I'm ridin' thiscountry and I'm like to meet up with him 'most any time. That's all. "

"Shucks, Pete! You forget Gary. He sure ain't worth gettin' hung for. Gary ain't goin' to put you down so long as you ride for the Concho. He knows somebody 'd get him. You jest practice shootin' all youlike--but tend to business the rest of the time and you'll live longer. You can figure on one thing, if Gary was to get you he wouldn't live toget out of this country. "

"You're handin' me your best card, " said Pete. "Gary killed Annersley. The law didn't get Gary. And none of you fellas got him. He's ridin'this here country yet. And you was tellin' me to forget him. "

"But that's different, Pete. No one saw Gary shoot Annersley. It wasnight. Annersley was killed in his cabin--by a shot through thewindow. Anybody might have fired that shot. Why, you were thereyourself--and you can't prove who done it. "

"I can't, eh? Well, between you and me, Jim, I _know_. One of Gary'sown men said that night when they were leavin' the cabin, 'It must 'a'been Steve that drilled the ole man because Steve was the only puncherwho knowed where the window was and fired into it. '"

"I didn't know that. So you aim to even up, eh?"

"Nope. I jest aim to be ready to even up. "

Bailey strode back to his horse. "I'm goin' up in the hills and lookfor a deer. Want to take a little pasear with me?"

"Suits me, Jim. "

"Come on, then. "

They mounted and rode side by side across the noon mesa. 

The ponies stepped briskly. The air was like a song. Far away theblue hills invited exploration of their timbered and mysterioussilences. 

"Makes a fella feel like forgettin' everything and everybody--but jestthis, " said Pete, gesturing toward the ranges. 

"The bucks'll be on the ridges, " remarked Bailey. 

CHAPTER XIII

GAME

They got their buck--a big six-point--just before the sun dipped belowthe flaming sky-line. In order to pack the meat in, one or the otherwould have to walk. Pete volunteered, but Bailey generously offered totoss up for the privilege of riding. He flipped a coin and won. "Suits me, " said Pete, grinning. "It's worth walkin' from here to theranch jest to see you rope that deer on my hoss. I reckon you'llsweat. "

It took about all of the foreman's skill and strength, assisted byPete, to rope the deer on the pony, who had never packed game and whonever intended to if he could help it. And it was a nervous horse thatPete led down the long woodland trail as the shadows grew distorted andgrim in the swiftly fading light Long before they reached the mesalevel it was dark. The trail was carpeted with needles of the pine andtheir going was silent save for the creak of the saddles and theoccasional click of a hoof against an uncovered rock. Pete's horseseemed even more nervous as they made the last descent before strikingthe mesa. "Somethin' besides deer is bother'n' him, " said Pete as theyworked cautiously down a steep switchback. The horse had stopped andwas trembling. Bailey glanced back. "Up there!" he whispered, gesturing to the trail above them. Pete had also been looking round, and before Bailey could speak again, a sliver of flame split thedarkness and the roar of Pete's six-gun shattered the eerie silence ofthe hillside. Bailey's horse plunged off the trail and rocketedstraight down the mountain. Pete's horse, rearing from the hurtlingshape that lunged from the trail above, tore the rope from his hand andcrashed down the hillside, snorting. Something was threshing about thetrail and coughing horribly. Pete would have run if he had known whichway to run. He had seen two lambent green dots glowing above him andhad fired with that quick instinct of placing his shot--the result oflong practice. The flopping and coughing ceased. Pete, with cockedgun poked ahead of him, struck a match. In its pale flare he saw thelong gray shape of a mountain lien stretched across the trail. Evidently the lion had smelled the blood of the deer, or the odor ofthe sweating horses--a mountain lion likes horse-flesh better thananything else--and had padded down the trail in the darkness, followingas close as he dared. The match flamed and spluttered out. Petewisely backed away a few paces and listened. A little wind whisperedin the pines and a branch creaked, but there came no sound of movementfrom the lion. "I reckon I plugged him right!" muttered Pete. "Wonderwhat made Jim light out in sech a hurry?" And, "Hey, Jim!" he called. 

From far below came a faint _Whoo_! _Halloo_! Then the words separateand distinct: "I--got--your--horse. "

"I--got--a--lion, " called Pete shrilly. 

"Who--is lyin'--?" came from the depths below. 

Pete grinned despite his agitation. "Come--on--back!" shouted Pete. He thought he heard Bailey say something like "damn, " but it may havebeen, "I am. " Pete struck another match and stepped nearer the lionthis time. The great, lithe beast was dead. The blunt-nose forty-fiveat close range had torn away a part of its skull. "I done spiled thehead, " complained Pete. In the succeeding darkness he heard the fainttinkle of shod feet on the trail. 

Presently he could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of the horse andthe gentle creak of the saddle. Within speaking distance he told theforeman that he had shot a whopper of a lion and it looked as thoughthey would need another pack-horse. Bailey said nothing until he hadarrived at the angle of the switchback, when he lighted a match andgazed at the great gray cat of the rocks. 

"You get twenty dollars bounty, " he told Pete. "And you sure stampededme into the worst piece of down timber I've rode for a long time. Gosh! but you're quick with that smoke-wagon of yours! Lost my hat andliked to broke my leg ag'in' a tree, but I run plumb onto your horsedraggin' a rope. I tied him down there on the flat. I figure you'vesaved a dozen calves by killin' that kitty-cat. Did you know it was alion when you shot?"

"Nope, or I'd 'a' sure beat the hosses down the grade. I jest cutloose at them two green eyes a-burnin' in the brush and _whump_! downcomes Mr. Kitty-cat almost plumb atop me. Mebby I wasn't scared! Iwas wonderin' why you set off in sech a hurry. You sure burned theground down the mountain. "

"Just stayin' with my saddle, " laughed Bailey. "Old Frisco here ain'tlost any lions recent. "

"Will he pack?"

"I dunno. Wish it was daylight. "

"Wish we had another rope, " said Pete. "My rope is on my hoss andyours is cinchin' the deer on him. And that there lion sure won'tlead. _He's_ dead. "

"'Way high up in the Mokiones, '" chanted Bailey. 

"'A-trippin' down the slope'!" laughed Pete. "And we ain't got norope. But say, Jim, can't we kind of hang him acrost your saddle andsteady him down to the flats?"

"I'll see what I can do with the tie-strings. I'll hold Frisco. Yougo ahead and heave him up. "

Pete approached the lion and tried to lift it, but it weaved andslipped from his arms. "Limper 'n wet rawhide!" asserted Pete. 

"Are you that scared? Shucks, now, I'd 'a' thought--"

"The doggone lion, I mean. Every time I heave at him he jest folds upand lays ag'in' me like he was powerful glad to see me. You try him. "

The horse snorted and shied as the foreman slung the huge carcassacross the saddle and tied the lion's fore feet and hind feet with thesaddle-strings. They made slow progress to the flats below, where theyhad another lively session with Pete's horse, who had smelled the lion. Finally with their game roped securely they set out on foot for theranch. 

The hunting, and especially Pete's kill, had drawn them close together. They laughed and talked, making light of high-heeled boots that pinchedand blistered as they plodded across the starlit mesa. 

"Let's put one over on the boys!" suggested Pete. "We'll drift inquiet, hang the buck in the slaughter-house, and then pack thekitty-cat into the bunk-house and leave him layin' like he was asleep, by Bill Haskins's bunk. Ole Bill allus gits his feet on the floorafore he gits his eyes open. Mebby he won't step high and lively whenhe sees what he's got his feet on!"

Bailey, plodding ahead and leading Frisco, chuckled. "I'll go you, Pete, but I want you to promise me somethin'. "

"Shoot!"

Bailey waited for Pete to come alongside. "It's this way, Pete--andthis here is plain outdoor talk, which you sabe. Mrs. Bailey and meain't exactly hatin' you, as you know. But we would hate to see youget into trouble on account of Gary or any of the T-Bar-T boys. Andbecause you can shoot is a mighty good reason for you to go slow withthat gun. 'T ain't that I give two whoops and a holler what happens toGary. It's what might happen to you. I was raised right here in thiscountry and I know jest how those things go. You're workin' for theConcho. What you do, the Concho's got to back up. I couldn't hold theboys if Gary got you, or if you got Gary. They'd be hell a-poppin' allover the range. Speakin' personal, I'm with you to the finish, for Iknow how you feel about Pop Annersley. But you ain't growed up yet. You got plenty time to think. If you are a-hankerin' for Gary's scalp, when you git to be twenty-one, why, go to it. But you're a kid yet, and a whole lot can happen in five or six years. Mebby somebody'll gitGary afore then. I sure hope they do. But while you're worldly forme--jest forget Gary. I ain't tellin' you you _got_ to. I'm talkin'as your friend. "

"I'll go you, " said Pete slowly. "But if Steve Gary comes at me--"

"That's different. Let him talk--and you keep still. Keepin' still atthe right time has saved many a man's hide. Most folks talk too much. "

CHAPTER XIV

THE KITTY-CAT

Pete and Bailey took off their boots just before they entered thebunk-house. They lugged the defunct mountain lion in and laid it byBill Haskins's bunk. 

Pete propped the lion's head up with one of Haskin's boots. The effectwas realistic enough. The lion lay stretched out in a most naturalway, apparently gazing languidly at the sleeping cow-puncher. This wasmore or less accidental, as they dare not light the lamp for fear ofwaking the men. Bailey stole softly to the door and across to thehouse. Pete undressed and turned in, to dream of who knows whatghostly lions prowling through the timberlands of the Blue Range. Itseemed but a few minutes when he heard the clatter of the pack-horsebell that Mrs. Bailey used to call the men to breakfast. The chillgray half-light of early morning discovered him with one cautious eye, gazing across at Haskins, who still snored, despite the bell. "Oh, Bill!" called Pete. Haskins's snore broke in two as he swallowed theunlaunched half and sat up rubbing his eyes. He swung his feet downand yawned prodigiously. "Heh--hell!" he exclaimed as his bare feettouched the furry back of the lion. Bill glanced down into thosehalf-closed eyes. His jaw sagged. Then he bounded to the middle ofthe room. With a whoop he dashed through the doorway, rounded into theopen, and sprinted for the corral fence, his bare legs twinkling likethe side-rods of a speeding locomotive and his shirt-tail fluttering inthe morning breeze. Andy White leaped from his bunk, saw the deadlion, and started to follow Haskins. Another cowboy, Avery, wasdancing on one foot endeavoring to don his overalls. 

Hank Barley, an old-timer, jumped up with his gun poised, ready forbusiness. "Why, he's daid!" he exclaimed, poking the lion with themuzzle of his gun. 

Pete rose languidly and began to dress. "What's all the hocus, fellas?Where's Haskins?"

"Bill he done lit out like he'd lost somethin', " said Barley. "Now Iwonder what young ijjut packed that tree-cat in here last night? Jimsaid yesterday he was goin' to do a little lookin' round. Looks likehe sure seen somethin'. "

"Yes, " drawled Pete. "Jim and me got a buck and this here lion. Wedidn't have time to git anything else. "

"Too bad you didn't git a bear and a couple of bob-cats while you wasat it. "

"Hey, boys!" called Andy from the doorway. "Come see Bill!"

The men crowded to the door. Perched on the top rail of the corralfence sat Bill Haskins shivering and staring at the house. "We killedyour bed-feller!" called Barley. "He done et your pants afore weplugged him, but I kin lend you a pair. You had better git a-movin'afore Ma Bailey--"

"Ssh!" whispered Andy White. "There's Ma standin' in the kitchen doorand--she's seen Bill!"

Bill also realized that he had been seen by Mrs. Bailey. He shiveredand shook, teetering on the top rail until indecision got the better ofhis equilibrium. With a wild backward flip he disappeared from thehigh-line of vision. Ma Bailey also disappeared. The boys doubled upand groaned as Bill Haskins crawled on all fours across the corraltoward the shelter of the stable. 

"Oh, my Gosh!" gasped Barley. "S-s-ome--body--sh-shoot me and put meout of my m-misery!"

A few seconds later Bailey crossed the yard carrying an extra pair ofthose coverings most essential to male comfort and equanimity. 

It was a supernaturally grave bevy of cow-punchers that gathered roundthe table that morning. Ma Bailey's silence was eloquent of suppressedindignation. Bailey also seemed subdued. Pete was as placid as asleeping cherub. Only Andy White seemed really overwrought. He seemedto suffer internally. The sweat stood out on Bill Haskins's red face, but his appetite was in no way impaired. He ate rapidly and drank muchcoffee. Ma Bailey was especially gracious to him. Presently fromPete's end of the table came a faint "Me-e-ow!" Andy White put downhis cup of coffee and excusing himself fled from the room, Pete staredafter him as though greatly astonished. Barley the imperturbableseemed to be suffering from internal spasms, and presently left thetable. Blaze Andrews, the quietest of the lot, also departed withoutfinishing his breakfast. 

"Ain't you feelin' well, Ma?" queried Pete innocently. 

Bailey rose and said he thought he would "go see to the horses"--a veryunusual procedure for him. Pete also thought it was about time todepart. He rose and nodded to Bill. "Glad to see you back, Bill. "Then he went swiftly. 

Haskins heaved a sigh. "I--doggone it--I--You got anysticking-plaster, Ma?"

"Yes, William"--and "William" because Ma Bailey was still a bitindignant, although she appreciated that Bill was more sinned againstthan sinning. "Yes, William. Did you hurt yourself?"

"Stepped on a nail--er--this mawnin'. I--I wasn't lookin' where Istepped. "

"What started you out--that way?" queried Mrs. Bailey. 

"Why, hell, Ma--I--wasn't meanin' hell, Ma, --but somebody--I reckon Iknow who--plants a mountain lion right aside my bunk last night when Iwas sleepin'. Fust thing this mawnin' I heard that bell and jumped outo' my bunk plumb onto the cuss. Like to bruk my neck. That therelion was a-lookin' right up into my face, kind of sleepy-eyed andsmilin' like he was hungry. I sure didn't stop to find out. 'Course, when I got my wind, I knowed it was a joke. I reckon I ought to killsomebody--"

"A lion, Bill? Hev you been drinkin'?"

"Drinkin'! Why, Ma, I ain't had a drop sence--"

"I reckon I better go see what's in that bunk-house, " said Mrs. Bailey, rising. "I'll get you that stickin'-plaster when I come back. "

Mrs. Bailey realized that something unusual had started Bill Haskins onhis wild career that morning, but she could not quite believe thatthere was a mountain lion--alive or dead--in the bunk-house until shesaw the great beast with her own amazed eyes. And she could not quitebelieve that Pete had shot the lion until Bailey himself certified toPete's story of the hunt. Mrs. Bailey, for some feminine reason, feltthat she had been cheated. Bailey had not told her about the lion. She had been indignant with Haskins for his apparently unseemlyconduct, and had been still more indignant with Pete when sheappreciated that he was at the bottom of the joke. But Haskins wasinnocent and Pete was now somewhat of a hero. The good woman turned onher husband and rebuked him roundly for allowing such "goings-on. "Bailey took his dressing-down silently. He felt that the fun had beenworth it. Pete himself was rather proud and obviously afraid he wouldshow it. But the atmosphere settled to normal when the men went towork. Pete was commissioned to skin and cut up the deer. Later in theday he tackled the lion, skinned it, fleshed out the nose, ears, andeyelids, and salted and rolled the hide. Roth, the storekeeper atConcho, was somewhat of a taxidermist and Mrs. Bailey had admired thelion-skin. 

Pete felt that he could have used the twenty dollars bounty, but he wasnothing if not generous. That afternoon he rode to Concho with thelion-skin tied behind the cantle. He returned to the ranch late thatnight. Next morning he was mysteriously reticent about thedisappearance of the hide. He intended to surprise Ma Bailey with areal Christmas present. No one guessed his intent. Pete was good atkeeping his own counsel. 

A few evenings later the men, loafing outside the bunk-house, amusedthemselves by originating titles for the chief actors in the recentrange-drama. Pete, without question, was "The Lion Tamer, " Bailey was"Big-Chief-not-Afraid-of-a-Buck. " Ma Bailey was "Queen of thePies"--not analogous to the drama but flattering--and Haskins, aftersome argument and much suggestion, was entitled "Claw-Hammer. " Suchtitles as "Deer-Foot, " "Rail-Hopper, " "Back-Flip Bill, ""Wind-Splitter, " and the like were discarded in favor of"Claw-Hammer"--for the unfortunate Bill had stepped on a rusty nail inhis recent exodus from the lion's den, and was at the time sufferingfrom a swollen and inflamed foot--really a serious injury, althoughscoffed at by the good-natured Bill himself despite Mrs. Bailey'ssolicitude and solution of peroxide. 

Winter, with its thin shifts of snow, its intermittent sunshiny days, its biting winds that bored through chaps and heavy gloves, was finallyborne away on the reiterant, warm breezes of spring. Mrs. Bailey wasthe proud and happy possessor of a lion-skin rug--Pete's Christmaspresent to her--proud of the pelt itself and happy because Young Petehad foregone the bounty that he might make the present, which wassignificant of his real affection. Coats and heavy overshoes werediscarded. Birds sang among sprouting aspen twigs, and lean, mangy-looking coyotes lay on the distant hillsides soaking in thewarmth. Gaunt cattle lowed in the hollows and spring calves staggeredabout, gazing at this new world with round, staring eyes. 

Houck, the T-Bar-T foreman, had discussed with Bailey the advisabilityof defining a line between the two big ranches. They came to anagreement and both stated that they would send men to roughly surveythe line, fix upon landmarks, and make them known to the riders of bothoutfits. Bailey, who had to ride from Concho to the railroad to meet aKansas City commission man, sent word back to the Concho to have twomen ride over to Annersley's old homestead the following day. Mrs. Bailey immediately commissioned Young Pete and Andy to ride over to thehomestead, thinking that Pete was a particularly good choice as he knewthe country thereabouts. She cautioned the boys to behavethemselves--she always did when Andy and Pete set out together--andgiving them a comfortable package of lunch, she turned to her householdwork. 

"I'm takin' Blue Smoke, " stated Pete as Andy packed his saddle to thecorral. 

"You're takin' chances then, " observed Andy. 

"Oh, I got him so he knows which way is north, " asserted Pete. "I beengittin' acquainted with that cayuse, Chico. "

"Yes. I seen you settin' on the ground watchin' him buck your saddleoff a couple of times, " snorted Andy. 

"Well, seein' as this here pasear is straight riding I reckon I'llcrawl him and turn him loose. He needs exercisin'. "

"Well, I don't, " asserted Andy. "'Course, some folks has always got tobe showin' off. If Bailey was here you wouldn't be ridin' that hoss. "

"'And up and down and round and 'cross, that top-boss done his best!'"sang Pete as he lugged his saddle into the corral. 

"'All hell can't glue you to that hoss when he gits headed west, '" Andymisquoted for the occasion. 

"You jest swing that gate open when I git aboard, " suggested Pete. "I'm the Ridin' Kid from Powder River. "

Andy laughed. 

 "The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Ain't got no lungs nor ary liver, Some says it was a blue cayuse . . . "

"Go git you a sack and gather up the leavin's, " laughed Pete, as hekicked his foot into the stirrup and hit the saddle before Blue Smokeknew what had happened. Andy swung the gate open. The horse headedfor the mesa, pitching as he ran. This was not half so bad for Pete asthough Blue Smoke had been forced to confine his efforts to the corral. Pete had long since discovered that when Blue Smoke saw space ahead ofhim, he was not apt to pitch hard, but rather to take it out in runningbucks and then settle down to a high-lope--as he did on this occasion, after he had tried with his usual gusto to unseat his rider. There issomething admirable in the spirit of a horse that refuses to be ridden, and there was much to be said for Blue Smoke. He possessed tremendousenergy, high courage, and strength, signified by the black stripe downhis back and the compact muscles of his flanks and fore legs. Pete hadcoveted the horse ever since that first and unforgettable experience inthe corral. Bailey had said jokingly that he would give Pete theoutlaw if Pete would break him. Pete had frequently had it out withBlue Smoke when the men were away. He had taken Bailey at his word, but as usual had said nothing about riding the animal. 

Andy watched Pete until he saw that Blue Smoke had ceased to pitch andwas running, when he swung up and loped out after his companion. Heovertook him a half-mile from the ranch, and loped alongside, watchingPete with no little admiration and some envy. It struck Andy thatwhile Pete never made much of his intent or his accomplishment, whatever it might be, he usually succeeded in gaining his end. Therewas something about Pete that puzzled Andy; a kind of silentforcefulness that emanated neither from bulk nor speech; for Pete wasrather lithe and compact than "beefy" and more inclined to silence thanto speech. Yet there was none of the "do or die" attitude about him, either. But whatever it was, it was there--evident in Pete's eye as heturned and glanced at Andy--an intenseness of purpose, not manifest inany outward show or form. 

"You sure tamed him, " said Andy admiringly. 

"Only for this mornin', " acknowledged Pete. "To-morrow mornin' he'llgo to it ag'in. But I aim to sweat some of it out of him afore we hitthe Blue. Got the makin's?"

CHAPTER XV

FOUR MEN

Pete grew silent as he rode with Andy toward the hill-trail that led tohis old home on the Blue Mesa, where he finally surveyed the traces ofold man Annersley's patient toil. The fences had been pulled down andthe water-hole enlarged. The cabin, now a rendezvous for occasionalriders of the T-Bar-T, had suffered from weather and neglect. The doorsagging from one hinge, the grimy, cobwebbed windows, the unsweptfloor, and the litter of tin cans about the yard, stirred bittermemories in Pete's heart. Andy spoke of Annersley, "A fine old man, "but Pete had no comment to make. They loafed outside in the afternoonsunshine, momentarily expecting the two men from the T-Bar-T. Presently Andy White rose and wandered off toward the spring. Pete satidly tossing pellets of earth at a tin can. He was thinking ofAnnersley, of the old man's unvarying kindliness and quaint humor. Hewished that Annersley were alive, could know of his success--Pete haddone pretty well for a lad of sixteen--and that they could talktogether as in the old days. He rose presently and entered theabandoned cabin. The afternoon sunlight flickered palely through thedusty windows. Several window-panes had been broken out, but the onemarked with two bullet holes, radiating tiny cracks in the glass, wasstill there. The oilcloth on the table was torn and soiled. The mudof wet weather had been tracked about the floor. The stove was rustedand cracked. Pete wondered why men must invariably abuse things thatwere patently useful, when those things did not belong to any oneespecially; for the stove, the windows, the table, the two home-madechairs showed more than disuse. They had been wantonly broken, hacked, or battered. Some one had pried the damper from the stove, broken itin two, and had used half of it for a lid-lifter. A door had been tornfrom the wall-cupboard and split into kindling, as a few paintedsplinters attested. And some one had shot several holes in the door, evidently endeavoring to make the initial "T" with a forty-five. Anold pair of discarded overalls lay in one corner, a worn and uselessglove in another. Pete was glad that Annersley would never know of allthis--and yet it seemed as though Annersley _could_ see thesethings--and Pete, standing alone in the room, felt as though he were insome way to blame for this disorder and squalidness. Time andoccupation had rather dulled Pete's remembrance of the actual detail ofthe place, but now its original neatness and orderliness came back tohim vividly. 

He was mentally rehabilitating the cabin when a boot-heel crunched onthe ground outside and Andy appeared in the doorway. "The T-Bar-T boysare comin'. Seen 'em driftin' down the Ranger Trail. "

"They was to be here this mornin', " said Pete. "Reckon they aim tobush here all night and ride to-morrow. Hope they brought some grubalong. "

"We got plenty. Come on outside. This here ole room kind o' gits onmy nerves. "

Pete strode out. They stood watching the approaching riders. SuddenlyAndy White touched Pete's arm. "One of 'em is Gary!" he said, speakinglow. 

Pete stopped and, picking up a clod, jerked it toward a fence-post. The clod happened to hit the post and was flicked into dust. "That forGary, " said Pete. 

Andy grinned, but his eyes were grave. "We'll be right busy, " he saidin a sort of tentative way. 

Pete nodded and hitched up his chaps. One of the approaching horsemenwaved a hand. Andy acknowledged the salute. 

The T-Bar-T men rode in and dismounted. "Where's Bailey?" was Gary'sfirst word. 

"Jim sent us to fix up that line with you, " replied Andy. "He's overto Enright. "

Gary glanced at Pete, who stared at him, but made no gesture ofgreeting. But Pete had read Gary's unspoken thought. "Bailey had senta couple of kids over to the Blue to help survey the line. " And Petedid not intend to let Gary "get by" with the idea that his attitude wasnot understood. 

"Where's Houck?" asked Pete, naming the foreman of the T-Bar-T. 

Cotton, Gary's companion, a light-haired, amiable but rather dullyouth, stated that Houck was over to the ranch. 

"I reckoned he'd come hisself, " said Pete. "He knows this countrybetter 'n most. "

"Oh, I dunno, " sneered Gary. "Some of us been here before. "

"They wasn't no line then, " said Pete quietly, "but they's goin' to beone. "

"You makin' it?" queried Gary. 

Pete smiled. "I was sent over here with Andy to do that same thing. But you're sure welcome to hand out any idees you got, seein' yourfo'man ain't here. "

Andy, who saw the inevitable end of this kind of talk, nudged Pete. "Let's eat, " he said. "I reckon we're all willin'. "

Gary, like most of his type, was always anticipating an insult, possibly because his general attitude toward humanity was deliberatelyintended to provoke argument and recrimination. He was naturallyquarrelsome--and a bully because of his unquestioned physical courage. He was popular in a way with those of his fellows who looked upon agunman--a killer--as a kind of hero. The foreman of the T-Bar-T foundhim valuable as a sort of animate scarecrow. Gary's mere presenceoften served to turn the balance when the T-Bar-T riders had occasionto substantiate a bluff or settle a dispute with some other outfitriding the high country. And because Gary imagined that Bailey of theConcho had deliberately sent such youngsters as Andy White and YoungPete to the Blue Mesa to settle the matter of a boundary line, Garyfelt insulted. He was too narrow-minded to reason that Bailey couldhardly know whom Houck of the T-Bar-T would send. Gary's ill-humor wasnot improved by the presence of Young Pete nor by Pete's pugnaciousattitude. Strangely enough, Gary was nervous because he knew thatYoung Pete was not afraid of him. 

Andy White was keenly aware of this, and found occasion that evening inGary's temporary absence to caution Pete, who immediately calledattention to the fact that they had all hung up their guns except Gary. 

"All the better!" asserted Andy. "That lets you out if he was to startsomething. "

"Yes. And it mebby might let me out for good, Andy. Gary is jest thekind to shoot a man down without givin' him a chanct. It ain't likeGary was scared of me--but he's scared of what I know. I hung up mygun 'cause I told Jim I wouldn't set to lookin' for a scrap with Gary, or any man. Gary ain't got sand enough to do the same. But therewon't be no fuss. I reckon he dassent draw on me with you two fellashere. Where 'd he and Cotton go, anyhow?"

"I dunno, Pete. They moseyed out without sayin' anything. "

"Looks like Gary wanted to put Cotton wise. "

"Well, if anything starts, I'll sure keep my eye on that Cottonhombre, " said Andy. 

"He's easy--and slow, " stated Pete. "He ain't got a fightin' eye. "

"Here they come, " whispered Andy. "I kin hear 'em talkin'. "

Pete immediately began to whistle. Andy rose and poked a stick of woodin the stove. "She's right cool up here, " he remarked. 

"We been kind o' sizin' up things, " stated Cotton as Gary and heentered the cabin; an excuse for their absence that was unnecessary andobviously manufactured. 

Pete smiled. "I got 'em sized up. Never did cotton to workin' in thedark. "

Gary paused in the act of unsnapping his chaps. 

He was about to say something when Andy White interrupted by suggestingthat they turn in early and rise early that they might get the workdone in daylight and not have to spend another night at the cabin. 

Gary dragged an old mattress from the bedroom and, dropping it beneaththe window, spread his blanket, rolled up in it, and at Cotton's queryas to sharing half of the mattress told Cotton to "sleep where he dam'pleased. "

"He's a friendly cuss, ain't he?" remarked Pete. 

"Who?" asked Gary, half-rising. 

"Why, Cotton, there, " replied Pete. "You didn't think I was meanin'you, did you?"

Andy nudged Pete in the dark. "All right, " said Pete, ignoring Andy'smeaning. "You git your blanket and we'll bush outside. "

They spread their blankets under a cedar, some distance from the cabin, and lay gazing at the stars. 

Presently Andy turned to Pete. "Pete, " he said gravely, "you'rewalkin' right into trouble. Every time Gary starts to lope, you reinhim up mighty short. He's fightin' the bit, and first thing you know--"

"I'll git pitched, eh? Well, mebby you're right. I done told Baileythat if I ever did meet Steve Gary I would leave him do the talking butI sure can't stand for his line o' talk. He's plumb mean. "

"I'll be mighty glad when we git through with this job, " said Andy. 

"Shucks! It won't take three hours! I know every tree and stump onthis flat. We'll be driftin' home 'long about four to-morrow. "

CHAPTER XVI

THE OPEN HOLSTER

If there ever was a morning calculated to inspire good-will andheartiness in a human being it was that morning. The dawn cameswiftly, battering through a fleece of clouds and painting the BlueMesa in all the gorgeous and utterly indescribable colors of an Arizonasunrise. The air was crisp and so clear that it seemed to sparkle, like water. Andy White whistled as he gathered up the blankets andplodded toward the cabin. Pete felt like whistling, but for somereason he was silent. He followed Andy to the cabin and saw that thecowboy Cotton was making coffee. 

"All we got is cold grub, " stated Pete, "but we got plenty foreverybody. "

"We fetched some coffee and bacon, " said Cotton. But he did not invitethem to eat. 

Pete glanced at Andy. Evidently Cotton had had his instructions or wasafraid to make any friendly overtures. Gary was still lying on themattress by the window, apparently asleep. 

Pete stepped to where his own gun hung and buckled it on. "Let's moseyover to the spring and wash, " he suggested to Andy. "I ain't no dude, but I kind o' like to wash before I eat. "

"Here, too, " said Andy. "Mebby we can locate the horses on the way. "

When they returned to the cabin, Gary and Cotton were eating breakfast. Pete flung a pair of broken hobbles on the floor. "Somebody's cayusegot rid of these, " he stated casually. He knew that they had been onGary's horse, as he had seen Gary hobble him. Pete turned and strodeout. Andy was unwrapping their lunch. Presently Gary and Cottonappeared and picked up their ropes. Andy White, who had seen his owneasily caught pony, graciously offered the use of it in hunting thestrayed horse, but Gary declined the offer gruffly. 

"He's so doggone mean his face hurts him, " stated Pete, as Gary andCotton set off together. 

"We'll lose some time if his hoss has lit out for home, " said Andy. 

"Gary's doin' all he kin to make a job of it, " declared Pete. "But Idon't wait for him. Soon's we finish eatin' I'm goin' to locate BlueSmoke and git to work. We kin run that line without any help fromthem. Let 'em walk till they're tired. "

"And what do you think of a couple of punchers--_punchers_, mindyou--that sit down and eat bacon and drink coffee and don't as much assay 'come in'?"

"I don't waste time thinkin' about such, Andy. You finish up the grub. I got all I want. "

"Shucks! This ain't all. We ain't touched the grub in yoursaddle-pockets yet. Ma Bailey sure fixed us up right. "

"That'll do for noon, " said Pete. "I'll run your hoss in, when I gitBlue Smoke. Your hoss'll follow, anyway. "

"Jest a minute till I git my rope. "

"Nope, you stay here. That Blue Smoke hoss knows me. If he spots twoof us comin' he's like to git excited and mebby bust his hobbles andlight out. I'll ketch him all right. "

"Jest as you say, Pete. "

The sun was warming the air and it was pleasant to sit and watch thelight clouds trail along the far horizon. Andy leaned back against thecedar and rolled a cigarette. He grinned as he recalled how Pete hadcalled Gary at every turn, and yet had given the other no chance tofind excuse for a quarrel. Pete was certainly "a cool hand--for akid. " White, several years Pete's senior, always thought of him as notmuch more than a boy. 

Meanwhile Pete, who knew every foot of ground on the homestead, trailedthrough the scrub toward the spring. Down an occasional opening hecould see the distant forest that edged the mesa, and once he thoughthe saw a horse's head behind a bush, but it turned out to be the stubof a fallen tree. The brush hid the cabin as he worked toward thetimber. Presently he discovered Blue Smoke's tracks and followed themdown into a shallow hollow where the brush was thick. He wound in andout, keeping the tracks in sight and casually noting where the horsehad stopped to graze. Near the bottom of the hollow he heard voices. He had been so intent on tracking the horse that he had forgotten Garyand Cotton. The tracks led toward the voices. Pete instinctivelypaused and listened, then shrugged his shoulders and stepped forward. A thick partition of brush separated him from the unseen speaker. Petestopped midway in his stride. 

"If you squat down here you can see the winder, right under this bush. The moon was shinin'. It was a plumb easy shot. And it sure stoppedhomesteadin' in this end of the country. "

Gary was speaking. Pete drew a step nearer. 

"You ain't sayin' who fired that shot, "--and Cotton laughedobsequiously. 

Pete stepped from behind the bush. Gary was facing toward the cabin. Cotton was squatting near by smoking a cigarette. 

"Tell him, " said Pete. "I want to know myself. "

"What's it to you?" snarled Gary, and he stepped back. Gary's veryattitude was a challenge. Pete knew that he could not drop his ropeand pull his own gun quick enough to save himself. He saw Gary's handmove almost imperceptibly toward his holster. 

"I reckon I made a mistake, " said Pete slowly--and he let the rope slipfrom his hand as though utterly unnerved. "I--I talked kind o' quick, "he stammered. 

"Well, you won't make no more mistakes, " sneered Gary, and he droppedhis hand to his gun. "You want to know who plugged that oldhoss-thief, Annersley, eh? Well, what you goin' to say when I tell youit was me?"

Pete saw that Gary was working himself up to the pitch when he wouldkill. And Pete knew that he had but one chance in a thousand ofbreaking even with the killer. He would not have time to draw--butMontoya had taught him the trick of shooting through the openholster . . . Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun asthe holster tilted up. Pete fired twice. Staring as thoughhypnotized, Gary clutched at his shirt over his chest with his freehand. He gave at the knees and his body wilted and settled down--evenas he threw a desperate shot at Pete in a last venomous effort to kill. 

[Illustration: Cotton heard Pete's hand strike the butt of his gun asthe holster tilted up. ]

"You seen it was an even break, " said Pete, turning to Cotton, whoimmediately sank to his knees and implored Pete not to kill him. 

"But I reckon you'd lie, anyhow, " continued Pete, paying no attentionto the other's mouthings. "Hunt your cayuse--and git a-movin'. "

Cotton understood that. Glancing over his shoulder at Gary he turnedand ran toward the timber. Pete stepped to the crumpled figure andgazed at the bubbling hole in the chest. Then he stepped hack andmechanically holstered his gun which he had pulled as he spoke toCotton. "They'll git me for this, " he whispered to himself. "It wasan even break--but they'll git me. " Pete fought back his fear with apeculiar pride--the pride that scorned to appear frightened before hischum, Andy White. The quarrel had occurred so unexpectedly andterminated so suddenly, that Pete could not yet realize the full extentof the tragedy. While quite conscious of what he was doing andintended to do, he felt as though he were walking in a horrible dreamfrom which he would never awaken. His instincts were as keen asever--for he was already planning his next move--but his sensibilitieshad suffered a blunt shock--were numb to all external influence. Heknew that the sun was shining, yet he did not feel its warmth. He waswalking toward the cabin, and toward Andy. He stumbled as he walked, taking no account of the irregularities of the ground. He could hardlybelieve that he had killed Gary. To convince himself against his ownwill he mechanically drew his gun and glanced at the two empty shells. "Three and two is five, " he muttered. "I shot twict. " He did notrealize that Gary had shot at him--that a shred of his flannel shirtwas dangling from his sleeve where Gary's bullet had cut it. "Wonderif Andy heard?" he kept asking himself. "I got to tell Andy. "

Almost before he realized it he was standing under the cedar and Andywas speaking. "Thought I heard some one shoot, over toward the woods. "

As Pete did not answer, Andy thought that the horse had got away fromhim. "Did you get him?" he queried. 

Pete nodded dully. "I got him. He's over there--in the brush. "

"Why didn't you fetch him in? Did he get the best of you? You looklike he give you a tussle. "

"I got him--twict, " said Pete. 

"Twict? Say, Pete, are you loco? What's ailin' you, anyhow?"

"Nothin'. Me and Gary just had it out. He's over there--in the brush. "

"Gary!"

"Yes. I reckon I got him. "

"Hell!" The ruddy color sank from Andy's face. He had supposed thatGary and Cotton were by this time tracking the strayed horses towardthe T-Bar-T. "Where's Cotton?" he asked. 

"I told him to fan it. "

"But, Pete--!"

"I know. They's no use talkin', Andy. I come back to tell you--and togit your rope. Mine's over by Gary. "

"What you goin' to do, Pete?"

"Me? Why, I'm goin' to drift as soon as I can git a saddle on Blue. Cotton he seen the shootin'--but that don't do me no good. He'll swearthat I pulled first. He'd say 'most anything--he was too scared toknow what come off. Gary's hand was on his gun when I let him haveit--twict. "

Andy noticed then Pete's torn sleeve. "I reckon that's right. Look atthat!"

Pete turned his head and glanced at his sleeve. "Never knowed heshot--it was all done so quick. " He seemed to awaken suddenly to thesignificance of his position. "I'll take your rope and go git Smoke. Then I'm goin' to drift. "

"But where?"

"You're my pardner, Andy, but I ain't sayin'. Then you won't have tolie. You'll have to tell Jim--and tell him it was like I said--_ifGary come at me, that would be different_. I'm leavin' it to you tosquare me with Jim Bailey. " Pete picked up the rope and started towardthe spring. 

"I'm goin' with you, " said White, "and ketch my hoss. I aim to see youthrough with this. "

In an hour they were back at the cabin with the horses. Andy Whiteglanced at his watch. "Cotton is afoot--for I seen his hoss overthere. But he can make it to the T-Bar-T in three hours. That'll giveus a start of two hours, anyhow. I don't know which way you aim toride, but--"

"I'm playin' this hand alone, " stated Pete as he saddled Blue Smoke. "No use your gittin' in bad. "

White made no comment, but cinched up his pony. Pete stepped to himand held out his hand. "So-long, Andy. You been a mighty squarepardner. "

"Nothin' doin'!" exclaimed Andy. "I'm with you to the finish. "

"Nope, Andy. If we was both to light out, you'd be in it as bad as me. "

"Then what do you say if we both ride down to Concho and report to thesheriff?"

"I tried that onct--when they killed Pop Annersley. I know how thatwould work. "

"But what you goin' to do?"

"I'm ridin', " and Pete swung to his horse. Blue Smoke pitched acrossthe clearing under the spur and rein that finally turned him toward thesouth. Pete's sombrero flew off as he headed for the timber. Andy, reining 'round his horse, that fretted to follow, swung down and caughtup Pete's hat on the run. Pete had pulled up near the edge of thetimber. Andy, as he was about to give Pete his hat, suddenly changedit for his own. "For luck!" he cried, as Pete slackened rein and BlueSmoke shot down the dim forest trail. 

Pete, perhaps influenced by Montoya's example, always wore ahigh-crowned black sombrero. Andy's hat was the usual gray. In theexcitement of leaving, Pete had not thought of that; but as he rode, hesuspected Andy's motive, and glanced back. But Andy was not following, or if he were, he was riding slowly. 

Meanwhile Andy cheerfully put himself in the way of assisting Pete toescape. He knew the country and thought he knew where Pete was headedfor. Before nightfall a posse would be riding the high country huntingthe slayer of Gary. They would look for a cowboy wearing a blacksombrero. Realizing the risk that he ran, and yet as careless of thatrisk as though he rode to a fiesta, Young Andy deliberately turned backto where Gary lay--he had not yet been to that spot--and, dismounting, picked up Pete's rope. He glanced at Gary, shivered, and swung to hishorse. Riding so that his trail would be easy to read he set offtoward the open country, east. The fact that he had no food with him, and that the country was arid and that water was scarce, did nottrouble him. All he hoped for was to delay or mislead the posse longenough to enable Pete to reach the southern desert. There Pete mighthave one chance in twenty of making his final escape. Perhaps it was afoolish thing to do, but Andy White, inspired by a motive of whichthere is no finer, did not stop to reason about it. "He that givethhis life for a friend . . . " Andy knew nothing of such a quotation. He was riding into the desert, quite conscious of the natural hazardsof the trail, and keen to the possibilities that might follow in theform of an excited posse not too discriminating, in their eagerness tocapture an outlaw, yet he rode with a light heart. After all, Pete wasnot guilty of murder. He had but defended his own life. Andy's heartwas light because of the tang of adventure, and a certain appreciationof what a disappointed posse might feel and express--and becauseRomance ran lightly beside him, heartening him on his way; Romance, whose ears are deaf to all moral considerations and whose eyes see onlythe true adventurer, be he priest or pirate; Romance whose eyes areblind to those who fear to dare. 

CHAPTER XVII

A FALSE TRAIL

"Sure he's dead!" reiterated Cotton. "Didn't I see them two holesplumb through him and the blood soakin' his shirt when I turned himover? If I'd 'a' had my gun on me that Young Pete would be right sideof Steve, right now! But I couldn't do nothin' without a gun. PeteAnnersley was plumb scared. That's why he killed Steve. Jest yougimme a gun and watch me ride him down! I aim to settle with that Jay. "

Cotton was talking to Houck of the T-Bar-T, blending fact and fictionin a blustering attempt to make himself believe he had played the man. During his long, foot-weary journey to the ranch he had roughlyinvented this speech and tried to memorize it. Through repetition hecame to believe that he was telling the truth. Incidentally he had notpaused to catch up his horse, which was a slight oversight, consideringthe trail from the Blue to his home ranch. 

"What's the matter with the gun you're packin'?" asked Houck. 

Cotton had forgotten his own gun. 

"I--it was like this, Bill. After Young Pete killed Gary, I went backto the shack and got my gun. At first, Andy White wasn't goin' toleave me have it--but I tells him to fan it. I reckon he's pretty nighhome by now. "

"Thought you said you didn't see White after the shooting--that heforked his horse and rode for the Concho? Cotton, you're lyin' so fastyou're like to choke. "

"Honest, Bill! If I'd 'a' had my gun . . . "

"Oh, hell! Don't try to swing that bluff. Where's your horse?"

"I couldn't ketch him, honest. "

"Thought you said you caught him in the brush and tied him to a treeand Young Annersley threatened to kill you if you went for your saddle. "

"That's right--honest, Bill, that's what he said. "

"Then how is it that Bobby Lent caught your horse strayin' in more 'n ahour ago? Dam' if I believe a word you say. You're plumb crazy. "

"Honest, Bill. I hope to die if Steve Gary ain't layin' over therewith two holes in him. He's sure dead. Do you think I footed it allthe way jest because I like walkin'?"

Houck frowned and shook his head. "You say him and Young Pete had cometo words?"

"Yep; about ole man Annersley. Steve was tellin' me about the raidwhen Pete steps up and tells him to say it over ag'in. Steve startedto talk when Pete cuts down on him--twict. My God, he was quick! Inever even seen him draw. "

"Did Gary say _he_ was the one that plugged Annersley?"

"Yep. Said he did it--and asked Pete what he was goin' to do about it. "

"Then Steve was drunk or crazy. You go git a horse and burn the trailto Concho. Tell Sutton that Young Pete Annersley killed Gary, up tothe Blue Mesa. Tell him we're out after Young Pete. Can you git thatstraight?"

"What if the sheriff was to pinch me for bein' in that scrap?"

"You! In a gun-fight? No. He wouldn't believe that if you told himso. You jest tell Sutton what I said, and git goin'! Don't lie tohim--or he'll spot it and pinch you dam' quick. "

With Cotton gone, Houck saddled up and rode out to where one of his menwas mending fence. "Take your horse and git all the boys you can reachbefore night. Young Pete Annersley shot Steve over to the Blue thismornin'. "

The cowboy, unlike Cotton, whistled his surprise, dropped his tools, mounted, and was off before Houck had reined back toward theranch-house. 

It was near twelve that night when a quiet band of riders dismounted atthe Annersley cabin, separated, and trailed off in the darkness to lookfor Gary. One of them found him where he had fallen and signaled withhis gun. They carried Gary to the cabin. In the flickering light ofthe open stove they saw that he was still alive. There was one chancein a thousand that he could recover. They washed his wounds and one ofthe men set out toward Concho, to telephone to Enright for a doctor. The rest grouped around the stove and talked in low tones, waiting fordaylight. "Chances are the kid went south, " said Houck, half tohimself. 

"How about young White?" queried a cowboy. 

"I dunno. Either he rode with Pete Annersley or he's back at theConcho. Daylight'll tell. "

"If Steve could talk--" said the cowboy. 

"I guess Steve is done for, " said Houck. "I knew Young Pete was atough kid--but I didn't figure he'd try to down Steve. "

"Supposin' they both had a hand in it--White and Young Pete?"

Houck shook his head. "Anybody got any whiskey?" he asked. 

Some one produced a flask. Houck knelt and raised Gary's head, tiltingthe flask carefully. Presently Gary's lips moved and his chest heaved. 

"Who was it? White?" questioned Houck. 

Gary moved his head in the negative. 

"Young Pete?" Gary's white lips shaped to a faint whisper--"Yes. "

One of the men folded a slicker and put it under Gary's head. 

Houck stood up. "I guess it's up to us to get Pete Annersley. "

"You can count me out, " said a cowboy immediately. "Steve was allushuntin' trouble and it looks like he found it this trip. They's plentywithout me to ride down the kid. Young Pete may be bad--but I figurehe had a dam' good excuse when he plugged Steve, here. You can countme out. "

"And me, " said another. "If young Pete was a growed man--"

"Same here, " interrupted the third. "Any kid that's got nerve enoughto down Steve has got a right to git away with it. If you corner himhe's goin' to fight--and git bumped off by a bunch of growed men--mebbyfour to one. That ain't my style. "

Houck turned to several cowboys who had not spoken. They were Gary'sfriends, of his kind--in a measure. "How is it, boys?" asked Houck. 

"We stick, " said one, and the others nodded. 

"Then you boys"--and Houck indicated the first group--"can ride back tothe ranch. Or, here, Larkin, you can stay with Steve till the docshows up. The rest of you can drift. "

Without waiting for dawn the men who had refused to go out after Peterode back along the hill-trail to the ranch. But before they left, Houck took what hastily packed food they had and distributed it amongthe posse, who packed it in their saddle-pockets. The remainingcowboys lay down for a brief sleep. They were up at dawn, and after ahasty breakfast set out looking for tracks. Houck himself discoveredAndy White's tracks leading from the spot where Gary had been found, and calling the others together, set off across the eastern mesa. 

Meanwhile Andy White was sleeping soundly in a coulee many miles fromthe homestead, and just within sight of a desert ranch, to which he hadplanned to ride at daybreak, ask for food and depart, leaving theimpression that he was Pete Annersley in haste to get beyond the reachof the law. He had stopped at the coulee because he had found grassand water for his horse and because he did not want to risk being foundat the ranch-house. A posse would naturally head for the ranch tosearch and ask questions. Fed and housed he might oversleep and becaught. Then his service to Pete would amount to little. But if herode in at daybreak, ahead of the posse, ate and departed, leaving ahint as to his assumed identity, he could mislead them a day longer atleast. He built all his reasoning on the hope that the posse wouldfind and follow his tracks. 

Under the silent stars he slept, his head on his saddle, and near himlay Pete's black sombrero. 

In the disillusioning light of morning, that which Andy had taken to bea ranch-house dwindled to a goat-herder's shack fronted by abrush-roofed lean-to. Near it was a diminutive corral and a sun-fadedtent. The old Indian herder seemed in no way surprised to see a youngrider dismount and approach cautiously--for Andy had entered into thespirit of the thing. He paused to glance apprehensively back andsurvey the western horizon. Andy greeted the Indian, who grunted hisacknowledgment in the patois of the plains. 

"Any vaqueros ride by here this morning?" queried Andy. 

The herder shook his head. 

"Well, I guess I got time to eat, " said Andy. 

A faint twinkle touched the old Indian's eyes, but his face was asexpressionless as a dried apple. 

"Si, " he said. 

"But not a whole lot of time, " asserted Andy. 

The Indian rose and fetched a pail of goat's milk and some tortillasfrom the shack. He shuffled back to his hermitage and reappeared witha tin cup. Andy, who meanwhile had consumed one leathery tortilla, shook his head. "Never mind the cup, amigo. " He tilted the pail anddrank--paused for breath, and drank again. He set the pail down empty. "I was some dry, " he said, smiling. "Got any more of these rawhideflapjacks?"

The herder nodded, stooped to enter the shack, and came out with ahalf-dozen of the tortillas, which Andy rolled and stuffed in hissaddle-pocket. "Mighty good trail bread!" he said enthusiastically. "You can't wear 'em out. "

Again the herder nodded, covertly studying this young rider who did notlook like an outlaw, whose eye was clear and untroubled. Well, whatdid it matter?--a man must eat. 

The old Indian had given unquestioningly from his poverty, with thesimple dignity of true hospitality. As for who this stranger was, ofwhat he had done--that was none of his affair. A man must eat. 

"I'm payin' for this, "--and Andy proffered a silver dollar. 

The other turned the piece round in his fingers as though hesitating toaccept it. 

"Si. But has not the seņor some little money?"

"That's all right, amigo. Keep it. "

The herder shook his head, and held up two fingers. Andy smiled. "Iget you! You don't aim to bank all your wealth in one lump. Lemmesee? All I got left is a couple of two-bit pieces. Want 'em?" Theherder nodded and took the two coins and handed back the dollar. Thenhe padded stolidly to the shack and reappeared, bearing a purple velvetjacket which was ornamented with buttons made from silver quarters. Heheld it up, indicating that two of the buttons were missing. "Muchacha, " he grunted, pointing toward the south. 

"I get you. Your girl is out looking after the goats, and you aim tokind of surprise her with a full set of buttons when she gets back. She'll ask you right quick where you got 'em, eh?"

A faint grin touched the old Indian's mouth. The young vaquero was ofthe country. He understood. 

"Well, it beats me, " said Andy. "Now, a white man is all for the bigmoney. He'd take the dollar, get it changed, and be two-bits ahead, every time. But I got to drift along. Say, amigo, if any of myfriends come a-boilin down this way, jest tell 'em that Pete--that'sme--was in a hurry, and headed east. Sabe?"

"Si. "

"Pete--with the black sombrero. " Andy touched his hat. 

"Si. 'Pete. '"

"Adios. Wisht I could take a goat along. That milk was surecomfortin'. "

The herder watched Andy mount and ride away. Then he plodded back tothe shack and busied himself patiently soldering tiny rings on thesilver pieces, that the set of buttons for his daughter's jacket mightbe complete. He knew that the young stranger must be a fugitive, otherwise he would not have ridden into the desert so hurriedly. Hehad not inquired about water, nor as to feed for his horse. Truly hewas in great haste!

Life meant but three things to the old Indian. Food, sleep, andphysical freedom. He had once been in jail and had suffered as onlythose used to the open sky suffer when imprisoned. The young vaquerohad eaten, and had food with him. His eyes had shown that he was notin need of sleep. Yet he had all but said there would be men lookingfor him. 

The old Indian rose and picked up a blanket. In the doorway he paused, surveying the western horizon. Satisfied that no one was in sight, hepadded out to where Andy had tied his horse and swept the blanketacross the tracks in the loose sand. Walking backwards he drew theblanket after him, obliterating the hoof-prints until he came to a risewhere the ground was rocky. Without haste he returned and squatted inthe shack. He was patiently working on a silver piece when some onecalled out peremptorily. 

The old Indian's face was expressionless as he nodded to the posse ofcowboys. 

"Seen anything of a young fella ridin' a blue roan and sportin' a blackhat?" asked Houck. 

The Indian shook his head. 

"He's lyin', " asserted a cowboy. "Comes as natural as breathin' tohim. We trailed a hoss to this here wickiup"--the hot lust of theman-hunt was in the cowboy's eyes as he swung down--"and we aim to seewho was ridin' him!"

Houck and his three companions sat their horses as the fourth member ofthe posse shouldered the old Indian aside and entered the shack. "Nothin' in there, " he said, as he reappeared, "but somebody's beenhere this mornin'. " And he pointed to the imprint of a high-heeledboot in the sand of the yard. 

"Which way did he ride?" asked Houck, indicating the footprint. 

The old herder shook his head. "Quien sabe?" he grunted, shrugging hisshoulders. 

"Who knows, eh? Well, you know--for one. And you're goin' to say--orthere'll be a heap big bonfire right here where your shack is. "

Meanwhile one of the men, who had pushed out into the desert and wasriding in a circle, hallooed and waved his arm. 

"He headed this way, " he called. "Some one dragged a blanket over histrail. "

The cowboy who was afoot strode up to the herder. "We'll learn you toplay hoss with this outfit!" He swung his quirt and struck the Indianacross the face. The old Indian stepped back and stiffened. Hissunken eyes blazed with hatred, but he made no sound or sign. He knewthat if he as much as lifted his hand the men would kill him. To himthey were the law, searching for a fugitive. The welt across his faceburned like the sear of fire--the cowardly brand of hatred on theimpassive face of primitive fortitude! This because he had fed ahungry man and delayed his pursuers. 

Long after the posse had disappeared down the far reaches of thedesert, the old Indian stood gazing toward the east, vaguely wonderingwhat would have happened to him had he struck a white man across theface with a quirt. He would have been shot down--and his slayer wouldhave gone unpunished. He shook his head, unable to understand thewhite man's law. His primitive soul knew a better law, "an eye for aneye and a tooth for a tooth, " a law that knew no caste and was as oldas the sun-swept spaces of his native land. He was glad that hisdaughter had not been there. The white men might have threatened andinsulted her. If they had . . . The old herder padded to his shackand squatted down, to finish soldering the tiny rings on the buttonsfor his daughter's jacket. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE BLACK SOMBRERO

When Andy had ridden far enough to feel secure in turning and ridingnorth--in fact, his plan was to work back to the Concho in a widecircle--he reined in and dismounted. From a low ridge he surveyed thewestern desert, approximated his bearings, and had his foot in thestirrup when he saw four tiny dots that bobbed up and down on thedistant sky-line of the west. He had left an easy trail to follow andthe pursuers were riding hard. They were still a long distance fromhim. He led his horse down the far side of the ridge and mounted. Herode straight east for perhaps a quarter of a mile. Then he turned andat right angles to his trail sped north behind the long, low, sandyridge. He could not be seen until the posse had topped it--and eventhen it was probable they would fling down the slope, following histracks until they came to where he had turned. Straight ahead of himthe ridge swung to the left. In half an hour or so he would againcross it, which he hoped to do before he was discovered. Once over theridge, he would head for the Concho. To follow him would mean that hispursuers would be riding directly away from Pete's trail. Many longdesert miles lay between Andy and the Concho, but he argued that hishorse was as fresh as the horses of his pursuers. He would give them agood run. If they overtook him before they reached the ranch, the mostthey could do would be to curse him for misleading them. He reasonedthat the posse was from the T-Bar-T--that at best the sheriff could nothave been advised of the shooting in time to join them. They wouldhave no official right to detain him or interfere with hisprogress--once they knew who he was. 

A trot, a lope, then back to a swinging trot again--and as yet noriders had appeared on the hills. Andy was making good time. Thecrest of the ridge shimmered in the noon sun. At this pace he would beover and down the western side before they saw him. 

When the posse finally caught sight of the man they were after far outacross the level and riding toward the west, they knew at once that hewas making for the Concho and what protection his fellows might affordhim under the circumstances. This did not fit into their scheme. Theman-hunt had tuned their pulses to a high pitch. They wanted to layhands on Gary's slayer--to disarm him and bring him into the town ofConcho themselves--or, if he showed fight, to "get" him. They forgotthat he was little more than a boy. He was an enemy--and potentlydangerous. 

"It's Young Pete, " said a cowboy. "I know him by that black hat. "

Plying quirt and spur the posse flung down the ridge and out across theplain below. They would ride their quarry down before he reached theboundary of the Concho--before he got among his friends. 

Andy turned and glanced back. They were gaining on him. He knew thathis own horse was doing his best. Again he glanced back. The riderswere forcing their horses to a terrific pace that could not last long. In a mile or so they would be close enough to use their rifles. Butthe harder they rode the better Andy liked it. They would be in sorryshape to make the long ride south after Pete, when they realized thatthey were chasing the wrong man. If he could get out of it withoutgetting shot, he would consider himself lucky. Ahead of him lay a flatof brushless land offering no shelter. He hoped that his horse wouldnot be killed by a chance shot. In that event his pride would forcehim to retaliate, until he was either killed or captured. He had aboutmade up his mind to rein up and surrender when he heard the singing_whizz-zip_ of a bullet that sprayed sand ahead of him. Then came thefaint _pop_ of a rifle far behind. He pulled up, swiftly unbuckled hisbelt, and hung his gun on the saddle-horn. Then he stepped away fromhis horse--an unconsciously fine thing to do--and turned toward thedistant posse. Again came that shrill, sinister _whizz-zip_ and he wasstanding bareheaded in the glaring sun as the black sombrero spun roundand settled lightly in the sand beside him. He wisely thrust up hishands--arguing that if the posse could see to shoot with such accuracythey could see and possibly appreciate his attitude. He felt outraged, and wanted to fight. He did not realize at the moment that hispursuers were acting in good faith according to their viewpoint. 

Meanwhile they flung toward him, spreading out fanwise in case of somepossible treachery. Without moving a muscle Andy stood with his handsraised, blinkingly trying to identify each individual rider. 

There was Houck on his big gray cow-horse. To the left rode Simpson, known all over the range as Gary's close friend. Andy half-expected tosee Cotton with the posse, but Cotton was not there. He did notrecognize the two riders on the wings of the posse. 

"Mornin', fellas!" he called as the cowboys swept up. "What's theidea?"

"This!" snarled Simpson as he took out his rope. 

"Hold on!" cried Houck, dismounting and covering White. "This ain'tour man! It's young Andy White!"

"You might 'a' found that out before you started shootin', " said Andy, lowering his hands. "My gun's on the saddle there. "

Despite the fact that it was Andy White, Houck took no chances, butsearched him. Then, "what in hell was _your_ idea?"

"Me? Why, I was ridin' to the Concho when one of you guys shot my hatoff. I reckoned it was about time to pull up. "

"Ridin' to the Concho, eh? I suppose you'll say next that you got lostand thought the Concho was over this way?"

"Nope. I was ridin' to the Concho to report the shootin' of Steve Garyto my boss. "

Houck, who had imagined that White would disclaim any knowledge of theshooting until forced to admit it, took a new tack. "Where's PeteAnnersley?"

"That's jest what I was wonderin'. Last time I see him he was fannin'it east. I took out after him--but I must 'a' missed him. "

"That'll do to tell the sheriff. We want to know what you know aboutthe shootin'-up of Steve. "

"Nothin'. I was over by the shack waiting for Pete when I thought Iheard a couple of shots. Didn't pay no attention to that--'cause Petewas always poppin' his gun at somethin'. Then pretty soon Pete walksin, and I go out with him and help him ketch his hoss. He don't saymuch--and I don't. Then first thing I know he lights on that littlebuckskin hoss of his--"

"And forgets his hat, " interrupted Houck. 

"Nope. He was wearin' a hat the last I seen of him. "

"And ridin' a buckskin cayuse, eh? Now Cotton says it was a blue roan. "

Andy laughed. "That hombre Cotton's got mighty poor eyesight. Why, hecouldn't see good enough to ketch up his own hoss. Pete told me Cottonset out for home afoot. I didn't see him, but I'd take Pete's wordagainst Cotton's any time. "

"Mebby you think we're takin' your word about Young Pete--and theshootin'??

"Why not?"

"We can make you talk!" threatened Simpson. 

"I reckon you could, " said Andy easily. "Four to one--and my gunhangin' over there on the saddle-horn. But suppose you did? How areyou goin' to' know I'll talk straight or lie to you? You ain't throwedany big scare into me yet"--and Andy stooped and caught up his hat andthrust his finger through the hole in the crown--"because I ain't donenothin' to be scared about. I ain't shot nobody and I ain't seennobody get shot. Cotton could 'a' told you that. "

"That's right, " asserted Houck reluctantly. "White here had nothin' todo with the shootin'. Cotton said that. We lost some time trailin'you"--Houck turned to Andy--"but we don't aim to lose any more. Whichway did young Pete ride?"

Andy laughed. "You would say I lied if I told you. But I'm goin' totell you straight. Young Pete took the old Ranger Trail south, throughthe timber. And I want to tell you gentlemen he was goin' like hella-smokin' when I seen him last. Mebby you don't believe that? Andthere's somethin' else--that old Ranger Trail forks three times thisside of Cienegas--and she forks twice afore she crosses the line. She's a dim trail when she's doin' her best acrost the rocks, andthey's places in her where she's as blind as a dead ox. Water is asscarce as cow-punchers at a camp-meetin' and they ain't no feed thisside of Showdown. And Showdown never tore its shirt tryin' to bepolite to strangers. I been there. 'Course, when it comes to rustlersand cardsharps and killers--but you fellas know how that is. I--"

"Come on, boys, " said Houck, reining round. "White here is puttin' upa talk to hold us--and Young Pete's usin' the time. "

Andy watched them ride away, a queer expression lighting his face. "They hate like the Ole Scratch to believe me--and they are hatin'themselves for havin' to. "

He pulled off Pete's hat and turned it over, gazing at the two littleround holes curiously. "Pete, old scout, " he said, smilingwhimsically, "here's hopin' they never come closer to gettin' you thanthey did to gettin' me. Keep a-ridin'--for you sure got to be that'Ridin' Kid from Powder River' this journey--and then some. "

Andy turned the black sombrero round in his hands. "All this herehocus comes of the killin' of a old man that never lifted a fingeragainst nobody--and as game a kid as ever raked a hoss with a spur. But one killin' always means more. I ain't no gunman--or no killer. But, by cracky! some of my ideas has changed since I got that hole inmy hat. I wisht I'd 'a' rode with Pete. I wouldn't ask nothin' betterright now than to stand back to back with him, out in the opensomewhere and let 'em come! Because why? Because the only law that aman's got in this country is hisself--and if he's right, why, crossin'over with his gun explainin' his idees ain't the worst way to go. Anyhow, it ain't any worse than gettin' throwed from a bronc andgettin' his neck broke or gettin' stomped out in a stampede. Them'sjust regular, common ways of goin' out. I just wonder how Pete ismakin' it?"

Andy put on his hat, glanced at the sun, and strode to his pony. Faracross the eastern desert he saw the posse--a mere moving dot againstthe blue. "Wolf-hungry to make a killin' because they're foolin'themselves that they're actin' out the law! Well, come on, Chico, oldhoss, we got to make home before sundown. "

CHAPTER XIX

THE SPIDER

Where the old Ranger Trail, crossing the Blue Mesa, leaves the highmesa and meanders off into the desert, there is a fork which leadssouthwest, to the Apache country--a grim and waterless land--andfinally swings south toward the border. Pete dismounted at this fork, pulled up his slackened cinches, and making certain that he was leavinga plain track, rode down the main trail for half a mile. Then hereined his pony to a bare spot on the grass-dotted tufa, and againdismounted. He looped Blue Smoke's fore feet, then threw him, andpulled his shoes with a pair of wire nippers, and stowed the shoes inhis saddle-pockets. 

He again rode directly down the trail, surmising that the occasionaltrack of a barefoot horse would appear natural enough should the posse, whom he knew would follow him, split up and ride both trails. Fartheron he again swung from the trail to the tufa, never slackening pace, and rode across the broken ground for several miles. He had often seenthe unshod and unbranded ponies of the high country run along a trailfor a mile or so and then dash off across the open. Of course, if theposse took the direct trail to the border, paying no attention totracks, they would eventually overtake him. Pete was done with thecompanionship of men who allowed the wanton killing of a man likeAnnersley to go unpunished. He knew that if he were caught, he wouldmost probably be hanged or imprisoned for the shooting of Gary--if hewere not killed in being taken. The T-Bar-T interests ruled thecourts. Moreover, his reputation was against him. Ever since the raidon Annersley's place Pete had been pointed out as the "kid who stoodoff the raiders and got two of them. " And Pete knew that the very folkwho seemed proud of the fact would be the first to condemn him for thekilling of Gary. He was outlawed--not for avenging the death of hisfoster-father, but actually because he had defended his own life, afact difficult to establish in court and which would weigh littleagainst the evidence of the six or eight men who had heard himchallenge Gary at the round-up. Jim Bailey had been right. Men talkedtoo much as a usual thing. Gary had talked too much. 

Pete realized that his loyalty to the memory of Annersley had earnedhim disrepute. He resented the injustice of this, and all his oldhatred of the law revived. Yet despite all logic of justice as againstlaw--he could see Gary's hand clutching against his chest, his staringeyes, and the red ooze starting through those tense fingers--Petereasoned that had he not been so skilled and quick with a gun, he wouldbe in Gary's place now. As it was, he was alive and had a good horsebetween 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 nailsin the horseshoes and tacked them on again with a piece of rock. Theywould hold until he reached the desert town of Showdown--a place ofill-repute and a rendezvous for outlawry and crime. 

He rode on until he came within sight of the town--a dim huddle of lowbuildings 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 horsein this desert land. At best a posse could not reach Showdown beforenoon the next day, and rather than blunder into Showdown at night andtake unnecessary risks, he decided to rest, and ride in at sunup, whenhe would be able to see what he was doing and better estimate thepossibilities of getting food for himself and his horse and of findingrefuge in some out-of-the-way ranch or homestead. In spite of hisvivid imaginings he slept well. At dawn he caught up his pony and rodeinto town. 

Showdown boasted some fifteen or eighteen low-roofed adobes, the mostpretentious being the saloon. These all faced a straggling road whichran east and west, disappearing at either end of the town as thoughanxious to obliterate itself in the clean sand of the desert. Theenvirons of Showdown were garnished with tin cans and trash, dirt anddesolation. Unlike the ordinary cow-town this place was not sprightly, but morose, with an aspect of hating itself for existing. Even therailroad swung many miles to the south as though anxious to leave thetown 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 ownedShowdown body and--but Showdown had no soul. 

Men arrived and departed along the several desert trails that led inand out of the town. These men seldom tarried long. And they usuallycame alone, perchance from the Blue, the Gila, the T-Bar-T, or frombelow the border, for their business was with the border rustlers andparasites. Sheriffs of four counties seldom disturbed the place, because a man who had got as far south as Showdown was pretty hard toapprehend. From there to the border lay a trackless desert. Showdownwas a rendezvous for that inglorious legion, "The Men Who Can't ComeBack, " renegades who when below the line worked machine guns forwhichever side of the argument promised the more loot. Horse- andcattle-thieves, killers, escaped convicts, came and went--ominous birdsof passage, the scavengers of war and banditry. 

The Spider was lean, with legs warped by long years in the saddle. Hewas called The Spider because of his physical attributes as well asbecause of his attitude toward life. He never went anywhere, yet heaccumulated sustenance. He usually had a victim tangled in his web. It was said that The Spider never let a wounded outlaw die for lack ofproper attention if he considered the outlaw worth saving--as aninvestment. And possibly this was the secret of his power, for he wasever ready to grub-stake or doctor any gentleman in need or wounded ina desert affair--and he had had a large experience in caring forgun-shot wounds. 

Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, noddedcasually to The Spider, and called for a drink. The Spider, who alwaysofficiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling ofliquor, noticed that the young stranger's eyes were clear andsteady--that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he hadarrived in Showdown at sunup. As Pete drank, The Spider sized up hishorse--which looked fresh. He had already noticed that Pete's gun hungwell down and handy, and assumed correctly that it was not worn forornament. The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality--thatthe stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense. 

Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up andentered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riderswere expected to reach Showdown that day--perhaps by noon. Then TheSpider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched ina high key yet was little more than a whisper. 

The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed himfor a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like therush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently leftthe room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glancedup, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swungaround as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes shifted toPete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would haveread: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand. " And Pete's eyeshad 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 aword. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power. Peteturned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely. The Spiderpushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again. Pete shook his head. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and movingquickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patioset with tables and chairs. Pete nodded. 

They were establishing a tentative understanding without speech. Thetest was hard for Pete. The Spider was uncanny--though quick ofmovement and shifty of eye--intensely alive withal. 

As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased. This was but ayouth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of arendezvous. The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wallof the patio opened on a corral. The corral bars opened to thedesert--Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than thepatio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking. The Spiderconsidered this highly commendable. 

Pete knew at a glance that The Spider was absolutely withouthonor--that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and thathe 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 sufficientprovocation offered. Nor did this displease the autocrat of Showdownin the least. He was accustomed to dealing with such men. Yet onething bothered him. Had the stranger made a get-away that would bringa posse to Showdown--as the Mexican had intimated? If so the soonerthe visitor left, the better. If he were merely some cowboy lookingfor easy money and excitement, that was a different matter. Or perhapshe had but stolen a horse, or butchered and sold beef that bore aneighbor's brand. Yet there was something about Pete that impressedThe Spider more deeply than mere horse- or cattle-stealing could. Theyouth's eye was not the eye of a thief. He had not come to Showdown toconsort 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 thehuddled adobes, and slowly filtering into the room. With his back tothe bar, Pete idly flicked bits of a broken match at a knot-hole in thefloor. Tired of that, he rolled a cigarette with one hand, andswiftly. Pete's hands were compact, of medium size, with the fingerjoints lightly defined--the hands of a conjuror--or, as The Spiderthought, of a born gunman. And Pete was always doing something withhis hands, even when apparently oblivious to everything around him. Anovice at reading men would have considered him nervous. He was farfrom nervous. This was proven to The Spider's satisfaction when Malveyentered--"Bull" Malvey, red-headed, bluff and huge, of a gaunt frame, with large-knuckled hands and big feet. Malvey tossed a coin on thebar noisily, and in that one act Pete read him for what he was--a manwho "bullied" his way through life with much bluster and profanity, buta man who, if he boasted, would make good his boast. What appeared tobe hearty good-nature in Malvey was in reality a certain blatantlyboisterous vigor--a vigor utterly soulless, and masking a nature atbottom as treacherous as The Spider's--but in contrast squalid andmean. Malvey would steal five dollars. The Spider would not touch ajob for less than five hundred. While cruel, treacherous, and akiller, The Spider had nothing small or mean about him. And subtle toa degree, he hated the blunt-spoken, blustering Malvey, but for reasonsunadvertised, 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 toname 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 neverlaughed. 

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' to _keep_ that horse out there, perhaps you'd liketo feed him. " And The Spider indicated the direction of the corralwith 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 werequietly curious to find out who he was--and what he had done thatbrought him to Showdown. But Malvey knew nothing about Pete, nor ofany recent trouble over Concho way. And Pete, unsaddling his pony, knew that he would either make good with The Spider or else he wouldmake a mistake, and then there would be no need for further subterfuge. Pete surveyed the corral and outbuildings. The whole arrangement wascleverly planned. He calculated from the position of the sun that itlacked about three hours of noon. Well, so far he had played his handwith 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 Malveywere standing out in the road, gazing toward the north. "I see onlythree of them, " he heard The Spider say in his peculiar, high-pitchedvoice. 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 wasobviously acting his part, but The Spider's attitude seemed sincere. "Pete, " he called, "Malvey says there are four riders drifting in fromthe 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 moreshrewd than they had suspected. And evidently he would be followed toShowdown. 

"It's a killing, " whispered The Spider. "I thought that it was. Howdo you size him up?"

"Pretty smooth--for a kid, " said Malvey. 

"Worth a blanket?" queried The Spider, which meant, worth hiding fromthe 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 middleof his web and made plain his immediate desire. "Strangers are welcomein Showdown, riding single, " he told Pete. "We aren't hooked up toentertain a crowd. If you got friends coming--friends that aresuffering to see you--why, you ain't here when they come. _And youain't been here_. If nobody is following your smoke, why, take yourtime. "

"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' astranger 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 inwhich there was both a challenge and a confession. Yet there was noboastful pride in the confession. It was as though Pete had stated thesimple fact that he had killed a man in self-defense--perhaps more thanone man--and had earned the hatred of those who had the power to makehim pay with his life, whether he were actually guilty or not. 

If this young stranger had three notches in his gun, and thus far hadmanaged to evade the law, there was a possibility of his becoming asatellite among The Spider's henchmen. Not that The Spider cared inthe least what became of Pete, save that if he gave promise of becominguseful, it would be worth while helping him to evade his pursuers thisonce at least. He knew that if he once earned Pete's gratitude, hewould have one stanch friend. Moreover, The Spider was exceedinglycrafty, always avoiding trouble when possible to do so. So he setabout weaving the blanket that was to hide Pete from any one who mightbecome too solicitous about his welfare and so disturb the presentpeace 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 himsouth--to Flores's rancho. Tell Flores he is a friend of mine. Whenyou get a chance, take his horse, and fan it over to Blake's. Leavethe horse there. I want you to set him afoot at Flores's. When I'mready, 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 amany judge of a good animal. "

"He'll give me fifty, mebby. Blake ain't payin' too much for anyhosses 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 infront 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 makethis right with you, " said Pete. 

"Forget it, " said The Spider. 

Showdown dozed in the desert heat. The street was deserted. TheMexican who helped about the saloon was asleep in the patio. TheSpider opened a new pack of cards, shuffled them, and began a game ofsolitaire. Occasionally he glanced out into the glare, blinking andmuttering to himself. Malvey and Pete had been gone about an hour whena lean dog that had lain across from the hitching-rail, rose, shookhimself, and turned to gaze up the street. The Spider called to theman in the patio. He came quickly. "I'm expecting visitors, " said TheSpider in Mexican. The other started toward the front doorway, but TheSpider called him back with a word, and gestured to the door back ofthe bar--the doorway to The Spider's private room. The Mexican enteredthe room and closed the door softly, drew up a chair, and sat close tothe door in the attitude of one who listens. Presently he heard thepatter of hoofs, the grunt of horses pulled up sharply, and the treadof men entering the saloon. The Mexican drew his gun and rested hisforearm across his knees, the gun hanging easily in his half-closedhand. He did not know who the men were nor how The Spider had knownthat they were coming. But he knew what was expected of him in case oftrouble. 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 Spiderglanced up from his card-game, and nodded casually. 

The sound of shuffling feet, and the Mexican knew that the strangerswere facing the bar. He softly holstered his gun. While he could notunderstand English, he knew by the tone of the conversation that thesemen were not the enemies of his weazened master. 

"Seen anything of a kind of dark-complected young fella wearin' a blackStetson 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 raida 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, " blurtedSimpson. 

Houck realized that The Spider knew more than he cared to tell. Simpson had blundered in stating their future plans, Houck tried tocover the blunder. "We like to get some chuck--enough to carry us backto the ranch. "

"I'm short on chuck, " said The Spider. "If you men weredeputies--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 searchingfarther, a fact obvious even to the hot-headed Simpson when at the edgeof the town they tried to buy provisions from a Mexican and were metwith a shrug and a reiterated "No sabe. "

"And that just about settles it, " said Houck as he reined his ponyround and faced north. 

CHAPTER XX

BULL MALVEY

Malvey, when not operating a machine gun for Mexican bandits, wasusually busy evading a posse on the American side of the border. Needless to say, he knew the country well--and the country knew himonly too well. He had friends--of a kind--and he had enemies of everydescription and color from the swart, black-eyed Cholas of Sonora tothe ruddy, blue-eyed Rangers of Texas. He trusted no man--and no manwho knew him trusted him--not even The Spider, though he could havesent Malvey to the penitentiary on any one of several counts. 

Malvey had no subtlety. He simply knew the game and possessed atremendous amount of nerve. Like most red-headed men, he roderough-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 helpnoticing Malvey's hands--huge-knuckled and freckled--and Pete surmisedcorrectly that this man was not quick with a gun. Pete also noticedthat Malvey "roughed" his horse unnecessarily; that he was a goodrider, but a poor horseman. Pete wondered that desert life had nottaught Malvey to take better care of his horse. 

As yet Pete knew nothing of their destination--nor did he care. It wasgood to be out in the open, again with a good horse under him. Theatmosphere of The Spider's saloon had been too tense for comfort. Petesimply wanted to vacate Showdown until such time as he might returnsafely. He had no plan--but he did believe that Showdown would knowhim again. He could not say why. And it was significant of YoungPete's descent to the lower plane that he should consider Showdown safeat any time. 

Pete was in reality never more unsafe than at the present time. Whilespace and a swift pony between his knees argued of bodily freedom, hefelt uneasy. Perhaps because of Malvey's occasional covert glance atBlue Smoke--for Pete saw much that he did not appear to see. Petebecame cautious forthwith, studying the lay of the land. It was a badcountry to travel, being so alike in its general aspect of butte andarroyo, sand and cacti, that there was little to lay hold upon as alandmark. A faint line of hills edged the far southern horizon andthere were distant hills to the east and west. They journeyed acrossan 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 shoneneither animosity nor friendliness. They jogged on, neither speakingfor many miles. When Malvey did speak, his manner was the least bitpatronizing. He could not quite understand Pete, yet The Spider hadseemed to understand him. As Pete had said nothing about the troublethat had driven him to the desert, Malvey considered silence on thatsubject emanated from a lack of trust. He wanted to gain Pete'sconfidence--for the time being at least. It would make it that mucheasier to follow The Spider's instructions in regard to Pete's horse. But to all Malvey's hints Pete was either silent or jestinglyunresponsive. As the journey thinned the possibilities of Pete'scapture, it became monotonous, even to Malvey, who set about planninghow he could steal Pete's horse with the least risk to himself. Asidefrom The Spider's instructions Malvey coveted the pony--a far betterhorse than his own--and he was of two minds as to whether he should notkeep the pony for his own use. The Concho was a long cry fromShowdown--while the horse Malvey rode had been stolen from a moreimmediate neighborhood. As for setting this young stranger afoot inthe desert, that did not bother Malvey in the least. No posse wouldride farther south than Showdown, and with Pete afoot at Flores'srancho, Malvey would be free to follow his own will, either to Blake'sranch or farther south and across the border. Whether Pete returned toShowdown or not was none of Malvey's affair. To get away with thehorse might require some scheming. Malvey made no further attempt todraw Pete out--but rode on in silence. 

They came upon the caņon suddenly, so suddenly that Pete's horse shiedand circled. Malvey, leading, put his own pony down a steep andwinding trail. Pete followed, fixing his eyes on a far green spot atthe bottom of the caņon, and the thin thread of smoke above the treesthat told of a habitation. 

At a bend in the trail, Malvey turned in the saddle: "We'll bush downhere. Friends of mine. "

Pete nodded. 

They watered their horses at the thin trickle of water in the caņon-bedand then rode slowly past a weirdly fenced field. Presently they cameto a rude adobe stable and scrub-cedar corral. A few yards beyond, andhidden by the bushes, was the house. A pock-marked Mexican greetedMalvey gruffly. The Spider's name was mentioned, and Pete wasintroduced as his friend. The horses were corralled and fed. 

As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman--Flores'swife--called to some one in an inner room. Presently Flores's daughterappeared, supple of movement and smiling. She greeted Malvey as thoughhe were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete's direct gaze, andstraightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of asong. The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking--quite worthchanging her dress for. She hoped he would think her pretty. Most menadmired her--she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way--andsome of them had given her presents--a cheap ring, a handkerchief fromOld Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb. BocaDulzura--or "pretty mouth" of the Flores rancho--cared for no man, butshe liked men, especially when they gave her presents. 

When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of "fixingup" because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and hercrimson sash. She affected scorn for his talk--but was naturallypleased. And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased herstill more. 

"This here hombre is Pete, " said Malvey. "He left his other name tohome. " And he laughed raucously. 

Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously. 

Boca was piqued. This young caballero did not seem anxious to knowher--like the other men. He did not smile. 

"Pete, " she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice. "Pete hasnot learned to talk yet--he is so young?"

Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed. Pete stood solemnly eying himfor a moment. Then he turned to the girl. "I ain't used to talkin' towomen--'specially pretty ones--like you. "

Boca clapped her hands. "There! 'Bool' Malvey has never said anythingso clever as that. "

"Bool" Malvey frowned. But he was hungry, and Flores's wife waspreparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes, which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone--very much ofa stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chumAndy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. Hewondered what they were doing--if they were talking about him--andGary. It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the cornerand pulled up his chair to the Concho table. He wished that he mighttalk with some one--he was thinking of Jim Bailey--and tell him justwhat there had been to the shooting. But with these folks . . . 

The shadows were lengthening. Already the lamp on Flores's table waslighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with theold Mexican. Pete had forgotten Boca--almost forgotten where he wasfor the moment, when something touched his arm. He turned a startledface to the girl. She smiled and then whispered quickly, "It is that Ihate that 'Bool' Malvey. He is bad. Of what are you thinking, seņor?"

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 "backthere"--or anywhere. "It was her eyes made me feel that way, " hethought. And, "Doggone it--I'm livin'--anyhow. "

From the general conversation at the table that evening Pete gatheredthat queer visitors came to this place frequently. It was a kind ofisolated, halfway house between the border and Showdown. He heard thename of "Scar-Face, " "White-Eye, " "Sonora Jim, " "Tio Verdugo, " a rareassortment of border vagabonds known by name to the cowboys of the highcountry. The Spider was frequently mentioned. It was evident that hehad some peculiar influence over the Flores household, from therespectful manner in which his name was received by the whole family. And Pete, unfamiliar with the goings and comings of those men, theirquarrels, friendships, and sinister escapades, ate and listened insilence, realizing that he too had earned a tentative place among them. He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of amachine-gun duel between two white men, --renegades and leaders inopposing factions below the border, --and how one of them, shot throughand through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemysharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the othermachine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turnedthe machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of hisown company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him. "Andhe's in El Paso now, " concluded Malvey, "at the hospital. He writ toThe 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'twant to git the idea that any white man is down there fightin' just tohelp 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 felta strange sense of shame at being in his company. He wondered ifFlores 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--decidedto be as careful of what he said as Malvey was careless. Pete hadnever lacked nerve, but he was endowed with considerable caution--afact that The Spider had realized and so had considered him worth thetrouble of hiding--as an experiment. 

After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal--Malveyand Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them--andPete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the caņon atthe faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores'smanner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politenesswhich in no way deceived Pete. And Malvey, whose intent was plainly toget drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line. He hintedthat he had put more than one Mexican out of the way--and he slappedFlores on the back--and Flores laughed. He spoke of raids on thehorse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired inhis drink, openly asserted that he was the "slickest hoss-thief inArizona, " 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' buzzardswhen the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and beleered 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 thecold, deliberate hatred born of instinct. As for old Flores, Petedespised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "adirty bunch of Greasers, " and have nothing to say, was a pretty poorsort 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 gazedat the stars. He was half-asleep when he heard Boca tell Malvey thathe was a pig and the son of a pig. Malvey laughed. There came thesound of a scuffle. Pete glanced over his shoulder. Malvey had hisarm around the girl and was trying to kiss her. Flores was watchingthem, 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 alsothere . . . 

Boca screamed. Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete steppedup. "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 theroom, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face. Suddenly thegirl 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 forhim. They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled freeand rose. In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey'sbrute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey--but he did not intendthat Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malveystaggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. Hesaw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun--when something crasheddown from behind. Pete dimly remembered Boca's white face--and theroom went black. 

Malvey strode forward. 

Old Flores dropped the neck of the shattered bottle and stood gazingdown at Pete. "The good wine is gone. I break the bottle, " saidFlores, grinning. 

"To hell with the wine! Let's pack this young tin-horn out where hewon't be in the way. "

But as Malvey stooped, Boca flung herself in front of him. "Pig!" sheflamed. She turned furiously on her father, whose vacuous grin fadedas she cursed him shrilly for a coward. 

Listless and heavy-eyed came Boca's mother. Without the slightesttrace of emotion she examined Pete's wound, fetched water and washedit, binding it up with a handkerchief. Quite as listlessly she spoketo 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 theplace. Boca's mother turned to Malvey. "You will go, " she saidquietly. Malvey cursed as he stepped from the room. He could faceBoca's fury, or face any man in a quarrel, but there was something inthe deathlike quietness of the sad-eyed Mexican woman that chilled hisblood. He did not know what would happen if he refused to go--yet heknew that something would happen. It was not the first time thatFlores's wife had interfered in quarrels of the border outlawssojourning at the ranch. In Showdown men said that she would as soonknife a man as not. Malvey, who had lived much in Old Mexico, had seenwomen use the knife. 

He went without a word. Boca heard him speak sharply to his horse, asshe and her mother lifted Pete and carried him to the bedroom. 

CHAPTER XXI

BOCA DULZURA

Just before dawn Pete became conscious that some one was sitting nearhim and occasionally bathing his head with cool water. He tried to situp. A slender hand pushed him gently back. "It is good that yourest, " said a voice. The room was dark--he could not see--but he knewthat Boca was there and he felt uncomfortable. He was not accustomedto 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 dotswhirled before his eyes. He realized that he had been hit prettyhard--that he could do nothing but keep still just then. The hot painsubsided as the wet cloth again touched his forehead and he drifted tosleep. When he awakened at midday he was alone. 

He rose, and steadying himself along the wall, finally reached thedoorway. Old Flores was working in the distant garden-patch. Beyondhim, Boca and her mother were pulling beans. Pete stepped out dizzilyand glanced toward the corral. His horse was not there. 

Pete was a bit hasty in concluding that the squalid drama of theprevious 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 boorishnesstoward Boca; Flores equally sincere in his indifference, and Bocaherself actually frightened by the turn Malvey's drink had taken. Thatold Flores had knocked Pete out with a bottle was the one andextravagant act that even Malvey himself could hardly have anticipatedhad the whole miserable affair been prearranged. In his drunkenstupidity Flores blindly imagined that the young stranger was the causeof the quarrel. 

Pete, however, saw in it a frame-up to knock him out and make away withhis horse. And back of it all he saw The Spider's craftily flung webthat held him prisoner, afoot and among strangers. "They worked itslick, " he muttered. 

Boca happened to glance up. Pete was standing bareheaded in the noonsunlight. With an exclamation Boca rose and hastened to him. YoungPete's eyes were sullen as she begged him to seek the shade of theportal. 

"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 thatthe girl was innocent of plotting against him. He decided to confidein her--even play the lover if necessary--and he hated pretense--to winher sympathy and help; for he knew that if he ever needed a friend itwas now. 

Boca steadied him to the bench just outside the doorway, and fetchedwater. He drank and felt better. Then she carefully unrolled thebandage, 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 ofstop my head from swimmin' round, " suggested Pete. 

"Si, I will get it. "

Pete wondered how far he could trust the girl--whether she would reallyhelp him or whether her kindness were such as any human being wouldextend to one injured or in distress--"same as a dog with his legbroke, " thought Pete. But after he drank the coffee he ceased worryingabout the future and decided to take things an they came and make thebest of them. 

"Perhaps it is that you have killed a man?" ventured Boca, curious toknow why he was there. 

Pete hesitated, as he eyed her sharply. There seemed to be no motivebehind her question other than simple curiosity. "I've put better menthan Malvey out of business, " he asserted. 

Boca eyed him with a new interest. She had thought that perhaps thisyoung seņor had but stolen a horse or two--a most natural inference inview of his recent associate. So this young vaquero was a boy in yearsonly?--and outlawed! No doubt there was a reward for his capture. Boca had lightly fancied Young Pete the evening before; but now shefelt a much deeper interest. She quickly cautioned him to say nothingto her father about the real reason for his being there. Rather Petewas to say, if questioned, that he had stolen a horse about whichMalvey 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 itis that you will say that you have stolen a horse. "

"I reckon he would, "--and Pete gently felt the back of his head. "SoI'll tell him like you say. I'm dependin' a whole lot on you--to gitme out of this, " he added. 

"You will rest, " she told him, and turned to go back to her work. "Iam 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 toride, he would ask Boca to find a horse for him. He knew that theremust be saddle-stock somewhere in the caņon. Men like Flores alwayskept several good horses handy for an emergency. Meanwhile Petedetermined to rest and gain strength, even while he pretended that hewas unfit to ride. When he _did_ leave, he would leave in a hurry andbefore old Flores could play him another trick. 

For a while Pete watched the three figures puttering about thebean-patch. Presently he got up and stepped into the house, drank somecoffee, and came out again. He sat down on the bench and took mentalstock of his own belongings. He had a few dollars in silver, hiserratic 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 leftthem. He was about to return to the shade of the portal when henoticed the tracks of unshod horses in the dust. So old Flores hadother horses in the caņon? Well, in a day or so Pete would show theMexican a trick with a large round hole in it--the hole representingthe space recently occupied by one of his ponies. Incidentally Peterealized that he was getting deeper and deeper into the meshes of TheSpider's web--and the thought spurred him to a keener vigilance. Sofar he had killed three men actually in self-defense. But when he metup with Malvey--and Pete promised himself that pleasure--he would notwait for Malvey to open the argument. "Got to kill to live, " he toldhimself. "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 hisfriends had all gone back on him--a condition of mind occasioned by hismisfortunes rather than by any logical thought, for at that very momentJim Bailey was searching high and low for Pete in order to tell himthat Gary was not dead--but had been taken to the railroad hospital atEnright, operated on, and now lay, minus the fragments of three or fourribs, as malevolent as ever, and slowly recovering from a wound thathad at first been considered fatal. 

Young Pete was not to know of this until long after the knowledge couldhave 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 withThe Spider's apparently sincere assertion that he knew nothing whateverof Peters whereabouts. 

Paradoxically, those very qualities which won him friends now kept Petefrom those friends. The last place toward which he would have chosento ride would have been the Concho--and the last man he would haveasked for help would have been Jim Bailey. Pete felt that he was doingpretty well at creating trouble for himself without entangling his bestfriends. 

"Got to kill to live, " he reiterated. 

"Como 'sta, seņor?" Old Flores had just stepped from behind thecrumbling 'dobe wall of the stable. 

"Well, it ain't your fault I ain't a-furnishin' a argument for thecoyotes. "

"The seņor would insult Boca. He was drunk, " said Flores. 

"Hold on there! Don't you go cantelopin' off with any little ole idealike that sewed up in your hat. _Which_ seņor was drunk?"

Flores shrugged his shoulders. "Who may say?" he half-whined. 

"Well, I can, for one, " asserted Pete. "_You_ was drunk and _Malvey_was drunk, and the two of you dam' near fixed me. But that don'tcount--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 seņor is welcome to rest and get well. What is done is done, andcannot be mended. But when the seņor would ride, I can find a horse--agood horse and not a very great price. "

"I'm willin' to pay, " said Pete, who thought that he had already prettywell 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 seņor. " The oldMexican gestured toward Pete's own saddle. 

Pete was about to retort hastily when he reconsidered. The only way tomeet trickery was with trickery. "All right, " he said indifferently. "You'll sure get all that is comin' to you. "

CHAPTER XXII

"A DRESS--OR A RING, PERHAPS"

All that day Pete lay in the shade of the 'dobe feigning indifferenceto Boca as she brought him water and food, until even she was deceivedby his listlessness, fearing that he had been seriously injured. Notuntil evening did he show any sign of interest in her presence. Withthe shadows it grew cooler. Old Flores sat in the doorway smoking. His wife sat beside him, gazing at the far rim of the evening caņon. Presently she rose and stepped round to where Pete and Boca weretalking. "You will go, " said Boca's mother abruptly. "Boca shall finda horse for you. "

Pete, taken by surprise, --Boca's mother had spoken just when Pete hadasked Boca where her father kept the horses, --stammered anacknowledgment of her presence; but the Mexican woman did not seem tohear him. "To-night, " she continued, "Boca will find a horse. It isgood that you go--but not that you go to Showdown. "

"I sure want to thank you both. But, honest, I wouldn't know whereelse to go but to Showdown. Besides, I got a hunch Malvey was headedthat way. "

"That is as a man speaks, " said the seņora. "My man was like thatonce--but now--"

"I'm broke--no dineros, " said Pete. 

"It is my horse that he shall have--" Boca began. 

But her mother interrupted quietly. "The young seņor will return--andthere are many ways to pay. We are poor. You will not forget us. Youwill come again, alone in the night. And it is not Malvey that willshow you the way. "

"Not if I see him first, seņora. "

"You jest--but even now you would kill Malvey if he were here. "

"You sure are tellin' Malvey's fortune, " laughed Pete. "Kin you tellmine?"

"Again you jest--but I will speak. You will not kill Malvey, yet youshall find your own horse. You will be hunted by men, but you will notalways be as you are now. Some day you will have wealth, and then itis that you will remember this night. You will come again at night, and alone--but Boca will not be here. You will grow weary of life frommuch suffering, even as I. Then it is that you will think of thesedays and many days to come--and these days shall be as wine in your oldage--" Boca's mother paused as though listening. "But like wine--"and again she paused. 

"Headache?" queried Pete. "Well, I know how that feels, without thewine. That fortune sounds good to me--all except that about Boca. Now, mebby you could tell me which way Malvey was headed?"

"He has ridden to Showdown. "

"So that red-headed hoss-thief fanned it right back to his boss, eh?He must 'a' thought I was fixed for good. "

"It is his way. Men spake truly when they called him the bull. He isbig--but he is as a child. "

"Well, there's goin' to be one mighty sick child for somebody to nurse, right soon, " stated Pete. 

"I have said that it is bad that you ride to Showdown. But you will gothere--and he whom men call The Spider--he shall be your friend--evenwith his life. "

As quietly as she came the Mexican woman departed, leaving Boca andPete gazing at each other in the dusk. "She makes me afraidsometimes, " whispered Boca. 

"Sounds like she could jest plumb see what she was talkin' about. Kindof second-sight, I reckon. Wonder why she didn't put me wise to Malveywhen I lit in here with him? It would 'a' saved a heap of trouble. "

"It is the dream, " said Boca. "These things she has seen in a dream. "

"I ain't got nothin' against your ole--your mother, Boca, but by theway I'm feelin', she's sure due to have a bad one, right soon. "

"You do not believe?" queried Boca quite seriously. 

"Kind of--half. I don't aim to know everything. "

"She said you would come back, " and Boca smiled. 

"_That_ dream'll sure come true. I ain't forgettin'. But I ain'tgoin' to wait till you're gone. "

Boca touched Pete's hand. "And you will bring me a present. Adress--or a ring, perhaps?"

"You kin jest bank on that! I don't aim to travel where they make 'emreg'lar, but you sure get that present--after I settle with Malvey. "

"That is the way with men, " pouted Boca. "They think only of thequarrel. "

"You got me wrong, seņorita. I don't want to kill nobody. The bigidee is to keep from gittin' bumped off myself. Now you'd think awhole lot of me if I was to ride off and forgit all about what Malveydone?"

"I would go with you, " said Boca softly. 

"Honest? Well, you'd sure make a good pardner. " Pete eyed the girlwith a new interest. Then he shook his head. "I--you'd sure make agood pardner--but it would be mighty tough for you. I'd do mostanything--but that. You see, Chicita, I'm in bad. I'm like to getmine most any time. And I ain't no ladies' man--nohow. "

"But you will come back?" queried Boca anxiously. 

"As sure as you're livin'! Only you want to kind o' eddicate your oleman to handle bottles more easy-like. He ought to know what they'remade for. "

"Your head--it is cool, " said Boca, reaching up and touching Pete'sforehead. 

"Oh, I'm feelin' fine, considerin'. "

"Then I am happy, " said Boca. 

Pete never knew just how he happened to find Boca's hand in his own. But he knew that she had a very pretty mouth, and fine eyes; eyes thatglowed softly in the dusk. Before he realized what had happened, Bocawas in his arms, and he was telling her again and again that "he surewould come back. "

She murmured her happiness as he kissed her awkwardly, and quickly, asthough bidding her a hasty farewell. But she would not let him go withthat. "Mi amor! Mi corazone!" she whispered, as she clasped her handsbehind his head and gently drew his mouth to hers. 

Pete felt embarrassed, but his embarrassment melted in the soft warmthof her affection and he returned her kisses with all the ardor ofyouth. Suddenly she pushed him away and rose. Her mother had calledher. 

"About twelve, " whispered Pete. "Tell your ole man I'll bush out here. It's a heap cooler. "

She nodded and left him. Pete heard Flores speak to her gruffly. 

"Somebody ought to put that ole side-of bacon in the well, "soliloquized Pete. "I could stand for the ole lady, all right, andBoca sure is a lily . . . But I was forgettin' I got to ride toShowdown to-night. "

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DEVIL-WIND

As Pete lay planning his departure--he wondered if Boca would think tofind him a canteen and food for his long ride--the stars, hithertoclear-edged and brilliant, became blurred as though an almost invisiblemist had drifted between them and the earth. He rubbed his eyes. Yes, there was no mistake about it. He was wide awake, and the sky waschanging. That which had seemed a mist now appeared more like a finedust, that swept across the heavens and dimmed the desert sky. Itoccurred to him that he was at the bottom of a fairly deep caņon andthat that impalpable dust meant wind, A little later he heard it, --atfirst a faint, far-away sound like the whisper of many voices; then asoft, steady hiss as when wind-driven sand runs over sand. A hot windsprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled caņon. It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf andshrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When thedevil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery. Horses and cattle stand with heads lowered and flanks drawn in, suffering an invisible torture from which there is no escape. The dawnbrings no relief--no freshening of the air. The heat drives on--threedays--say those who know the southern desert--and no man rides thetrails, but seeks what shade may be, and lies torpid and silent--or ifhe speaks, it is to curse the land. 

Pete knew that this devil-wind would make old Flores restless. Hestepped round to the doorway and asked for water. From the darknesswithin the adobe came Flores's voice and the sound of a match againstwood. The Mexican appeared with a candle. 

"My head feels queer, " stated Pete, as an excuse for disturbing Flores. "I can't find the olla--and I'm dead for a drink. "

"Then we shall drink this, " said Flores, fetching a jug of wine frombeneath the bench. 

"Not for mine! I'm dizzy enough, without that. "

"It is the devil-wind. One may get drunk and forget. One may thensleep. And if one sleeps, it is not so bad. "

Pete shook his head, but tasted the wine that Flores poured for him. If the old man would only get drunk enough to go to sleep . . . TheMexican's oily, pock-marked face glistened in the flickeringcandle-light. He drank and smacked his lips. "If one is to die of theheat--one might as well die drunk, " he laughed. "Drink, seņor!"

Pete sipped the wine and watched the other as he filled and emptied hisglass again. "It is the good wine, " said Flores. The candle-lightcast a huge, distorted shadow of the Mexican's head and shoulders onthe farther wall. The faint drone of the hot wind came to them fromthe plains above. The candle-flame fluttered. Flores reached down forthe jug and set it on the table. "All night we shall drink of the goodwine, for no man may sleep. ", "I'm with you, " said Pete. "Only I ain't so swift. "

"No man may sleep, " reiterated Flores, again emptying his tumbler. 

"How about the women-folks?" queried Pete. 

Flores waved his hand in a gesture indicative of supreme indifferenceto what the "women-folks" did. He noticed that Pete was not drinkingand insisted that he drink and refill his glass. Pete downed the rawred wine and presently complained of feeling sleepy. Flores grinned. "I do not sleep, " he asserted--"not until this is gone"--and he struckthe jug with his knuckles. Pete felt that he was in for a longsession, and inwardly cursed his luck. Flores's eyes brightened and hegrew talkative. He spoke of his youth in Old Mexico; of the cattle andthe women of that land. Pete feigned a heaviness that he did not feel. Presently Flores's talk grew disconnected; his eye became dull and hisswarthy face was mottled with yellow. The sweat, which had rolled downhis cheeks and dripped from his nose, now seemed to coagulate in tiny, oily globules. He put down a half-empty tumbler and stared at Pete. "No man sleeps, " he mumbled, as his lids drooped. Slowly his chin sankto his chest and he slumped forward against the table. Pete started toget up. Flores raised his head. "Drink--seņor!" he murmured, andslumped forward, knocking the tumbler over. A dark red line streakedthe table and dripped to the floor. 

Something moved in the kitchen doorway. Pete glanced up to see Bocastaring at him. He gestured toward her father. She noddedindifferently and beckoned Pete to follow her. 

"I knew that you would think me a lie if I did not come, " she told him, as they stood near the old corral--Pete's impatience to be goneevident, as he shouldered his saddle. "But you will not ride tonight. You would die. "

"It's some hot--but I aim to go through. "

"But no--not to-night! For three days will it be like this! It isterrible! And you have been ill. "

She pressed close to him and touched his arm. "Have I not been yourfriend?"

"You sure have! But honest, Boca, I got a hunch that it's time to fanit. 'T ain't that I'm sore at your old man now--or want to leaveyou--but I got a hunch somethin' is goin' to happen. "

"You think only of that Malvey. You do not think of me, " complainedBoca. 

"I'm sure thinkin' of you every minute. It ain't Malvey that'sbotherin' me now. "

"Then why do you not rest--and wait?"

"Because restin' and waitin' is worse than takin" a chanct. I got togo. "

"You must go?"

Pete nodded. 

"But what if I will not find a horse for you?"

"Then I reckon you been foolin' me right along. "

"That is not so!" Boca's hand dropped to her side and she turned fromhim. 

"'Course it ain't! And say, Boca, I'll make it through all right. AllI want is a good hoss--and a canteen and some grub. "

"I have made ready the food and have a canteen for you--in my room. "

"Then let's go hunt up that cayuse. "

"It is that you will die--" she began; but Pete, irritated by argumentand the burning wind that droned through the caņon, put an end to itall by dropping the saddle and taking her swiftly in his arms. Hekissed her--rather perfunctorily. "My little pardner!" he whispered. 

Boca, although sixteen and mature in a sense, was in reality littlemore than a child. When Pete chose to assert himself, he had much thestronger will. She felt that all pleading would be useless. "You havethe reata?" she queried, and turning led him past the corral and alongthe fence until they came to the stream. A few hundred yards down thestream she turned, and cautioning him to follow closely, entered a sortof lateral caņon--a veritable box at whose farther end was Flores'scache of horses, kept in this hidden pasture for any immediate need. Pete heard the quick trampling of hoofs and the snort of startledhorses. 

"We will drive them on into the corral, " said Boca. 

Pete could see but dimly, but he sensed the situation at once. Thecaņon was a box, narrowing to a natural enclosure with the open endfenced. He had seen such places--called "traps" by men who made abusiness of catching wild horses. 

Several dim shapes bunched in the small enclosure, plunging andcircling as Pete found and closed the bars. 

"The yellow horse is of the desert--and very strong, " said Boca. 

"They all look alike to me, " laughed Pete. "It's mighty dark, rightnow. " He slipped through the bars and shook out his rope. The horsescrowded away from him as he followed. A shape reared and backed. Peteflipped the noose and set his heels as the rope snapped taut. He heldbarely enough slack to make the snubbing-post, but finally took a turnround it and fought the horse up. "Blamed if he ain't the buckskin, "panted Pete. 

The sweat dripped from his face as he bridled and saddled the half-wildanimal. It was doubly hard work in the dark. Then he came to thecorral bars where Boca stood. "I'm all hooked up, Boca. "

"Then I shall go back for the cantina and the food. "

"I'll go right along with you. I'll wait at the other corral. "

Pete followed her and sat a nervous horse until she reappeared, withthe canteen and package of food. The hot wind purred and whisperedround them. Above, the stars struggled dimly through the haze. Petereached down and took her hand. She had barely touched his fingerswhen the horse shied and reared. 

"If Malvey he kill you--I shall kill him!" she whispered fiercely. 

"I'm comin' back, " said Pete. 

A shadow flung across the night; and Boca. Was standing gazing intothe black wall through which the shadow had plunged. Far up the trailshe could hear quick hoofbeats, and presently above the drone of thewind came a faint musical "Adios! Adios!"

She dared not call back to him for fear of waking her father, in spiteof the fact that she knew he was drugged beyond all feeling and sound. And she had her own good reason for caution. When Flores discoveredhis best horse gone, there would be no evidence that would entangle heror her mother in wordy argument with him for having helped the youngvaquero to leave--and against the direct commands of The Spider, whohad sent word to Flores through Malvey that Pete was to remain at therancho till sent for. 

At the top of the caņon trail Pete reined in and tried to get hisbearings. But the horse, fighting the bit, seemed to have a clear ideaof going somewhere and in the general direction of Showdown. "Youought to know the trail to Showdown, " said Pete. "And you ain't tryin'to git back home, so go to it! I'll be right with you. "

The heavy, hot wind seethed round him and he bent his head, tying hisbandanna across his nose and mouth. The buckskin bored into the night, his unshod hoofs pattering softly on the desert trail. His first "finefrenzy" done, he settled to a swinging trot that ate into the milesceaselessly. Twice during the ride Pete raised the canteen andmoistened his burning throat. Slowly he grew numb to the heat and thebite of the whipping sand, and rode as one in a horrible dream. He hadbeen a fool to ride from comparative safety into this blind furnace ofburning wind. Why had he done so? And again and again he askedhimself this question, wondering if he were going mad. It had beenyears and years since he had left the Flores rancho. There was a girlthere--Boca Dulzura--or had he dreamed of such a girl? Pete felt theback of his head. "No, it wa'n't a dream, " he told himself. 

A ghastly dawn burned into Showdown, baring the town's ugliness as itcrept from 'dobe to 'dobe as though in search of some living thing totorture with slow fire. The street was a wind-swept emptiness, smoothwith fine sand. Pete rode to the hitching-rail. The Spider's placewas dumb to his knocking. He staggered round to the western side ofthe saloon and squatted on his heels. "Water that pony after a while, "he muttered. Strange flashes of light danced before his eyes. Hishead pained dully and he ached all over for lack of sleep. A suddentrampling brought him to his feet. He turned the corner of the saloonjust in time to see the buckskin lunge back. The reins snapped like athread. The pony shook its head and trotted away, circling. Petefollowed, hoping that the tangle of dragging rein might stop him. 

Half-dazed, Pete followed doggedly, but the horse started to run. Petestaggered back to the hitching-rail, untied the end of the broken reinand tossed it across the street. He did not know why he did this; hesimply did it mechanically. 

He was again afoot, weak and exhausted from his night's ride. "Ireckon that ole Mexican woman--was right, " he muttered. "But I got onepardner yet, anyhow, " and his hand slid to his holster. "You and meag'in' the whole dam' town! God, it's hot. "

He slumped to the corner of the saloon and squatted, leaning againstthe wall. He thought of Boca. He could hear her speak his namedistinctly. A shadow drifted across his blurred vision. He glancedup. The Spider, naked to the waist, stood looking down at him, leanlygrotesque in the dawn light. 

"You 're going strong!" said The Spider. 

"I want Malvey, " whispered Pete. 

The Spider's lips twitched. "You'll get some coffee and beans first. Any man that's got enough sand to foot it from Flores here--can camp onme _any_ time--coming or going. "

"I'm workin' this case myself, " stated Pete sullenly. 

"You play your own hand, " said The Spider. And for once he meant it. He could scarcely believe that Young Pete had made it across the deserton foot--yet there was no horse in sight. If Young Pete could forcehimself to such a pace and survive he would become a mighty useful tool. 

"Did Malvey play you?" queried The Spider. 

"You ought to know. "

"He said you were sick--down at Flores's rancho. "

"Then he's here!" And Pete's dulling eyes brightened. "Well, I ain'tas sick as he's goin' to be, Spider. "

CHAPTER XXIV

"A RIDER STOOD AT THE LAMPLIT BAR"

Pete was surprised to find the darkened saloon cooler than the opendesert, even at dawn; and he realized, after glancing about, that TheSpider had closed the doors and windows during the night to shut outthe heat. 

"In here, " said The Spider, opening the door back of the bar. 

Pete followed, groping his way into The Spider's room. He started backas a match flared. The Spider lighted a lamp. In the sudden soft glowPete beheld a veritable storehouse of plunder: gorgeous serapes fromOld Mexico--blankets from Tehuantepec and Oaxaca, rebosas of woven silkand linen and wool, the cruder colorings of the Navajo and Hopisaddle-blankets, war-bags and buckskin garments heavy with the beadworkof the Utes and Blackfeet, a buffalo-hide shield, an Apache bow andquiver of arrows, skins of the mountain lion and lynx, and hanging fromthe beam-end a silver-mounted saddle and bridle and above it a Mexicansombrero heavy with golden filigree. 

"You've rambled some, " commented Pete. 

"Some. What's the matter with your head?"

"Your friend Flores handed me one--from behind, " said Pete. 

The Spider gestured toward a blanket-covered couch against the wall. "Lay down there. No, on your face. Huh! Wait till I get some water. "

Pete closed his eyes. Presently he felt the light touch of fingers andthen a soothing coolness. He heard The Spider moving about the room. The door closed softly. Pete raised his head. The room was dark. Hethought of Malvey and he wondered at The Spider's apparent solicitude. He was in The Spider's hands--for good or ill . . . Sleep blotted outall sense of being. 

Late that afternoon he awoke to realize that there was some one in theroom. He raised on his elbow and turned to see The Spider gazing downat him with a peculiar expression--as though he were questioninghimself and awaiting an answer from some outside source. 

Pete stretched and yawned and grinned lazily. "Hello, pardner! I wasdreamin' of a friend of mine when I come to and saw"--Pete hesitated, sat up and yawned again--"another friend that I wa'n't dreamin' about, "he concluded. 

"What makes you think I'm your friend?" queried The Spider. 

"Oh, hell, I dunno, " said Pete, rubbing the back of his head andgrinning boyishly. "But there's no law ag'in' my feelin' that way, isthere? Doggone it, I'm plumb empty! Feel like my insides had beentakin' a day off and had come back just pawin' the air to git to work. "

"Malvey's in town. "

Pete's mouth hardened, then relaxed to a grin. 

"Well, if he's as hungry as I am he ain't worryin' about me. "

"He's got your horse. "

"That don't worry me none. "

"I told Malvey to get your horse from you and set you afoot at Flores'. "

"And he sure made a good job of it, didn't he? But I don't sabe yourgame in hog-tyin' me down to Flores's place. "

"I figured you'd be safer afoot till you kind of cooled down. "

Pete tried to read The Spider's face, but it was as impersonal as thedesert itself. "Mebby you figured to hold me there till you was goodand ready to use me, " said Pete. 

The Spider nodded. 

"Well, there's nothin' doin'. I ain't no killer or no hoss-thieflookin' for a job. I got in bad up north--but I ain't lookin' for nomore trouble. If Malvey and me lock horns--that's my business. Butyou got me wrong if you reckon I'm goin' to throw in with your outfit. I kin pay for what I eat a couple of times, anyhow. But I ain't hirin'out to no man. "

"Go back in the patio and Juan will get you some chuck, " said TheSpider abruptly. 

"Which I'm payin' for, " said Pete. 

"Which you're paying for, " said The Spider. 

Following its usual course, the devil-wind died down suddenly at duskof the third day. A few Mexicans drifted into the saloon that eveningand following them several white men up from the border. Pete, who satin the patio where he could watch the outer doorway of the saloon, smoked and endeavored to shape a plan for his future. He was vaguelysurprised that a posse had not yet ridden into Showdown; for The Spiderhad said nothing of Houck and his men, and Pete was alert to thatcontingency, in that he had planned to slip quietly from the patio tothe corral at the back, in case they did ride in, estimating that hewould have time to saddle a horse and get away before they could searchthe premises, even if they went that far; and he doubted that theywould risk that much without The Spider's consent. Would The Spidergive such consent? Pete doubted it, not because he trusted The Spiderso much, but rather because the deliberate searching of premises by aposse would break an established precedent, observed in more than onedesert rendezvous. That simple and eloquent statement, "Go right aheadand search--but you'll search her in smoke, " had backed down more thanone posse, as Pete knew. 

Already the monotony of loafing at The Spider's place had begun to wearon Pete, who had slept much for two days and nights, and he was itchingto do something. He had thought of riding down and across the borderand had said so to The Spider, who had advised him against it. Duringtheir talk Malvey's name was mentioned. Pete wondered why thatindividual had chosen to keep from sight so long, not aware that TheSpider had sent word to Malvey, who was at Mescalero's ranch, a fewmiles east of Showdown, that a posse from the Blue had ridden in andmight be somewhere in the vicinity. 

Little by little Pete began to realize that his present as well as hisfuture welfare depended on caution quite as much as upon sheer courage. Insidiously The Spider's influence was working upon Pete, who saw inhim a gambler who played for big stakes with a coldness andsoullessness that was amazing--and yet Pete realized that there wassomething hidden deep in The Spider's cosmos that was intensely human. For instance, when Pete had given up the idea of crossing the borderand had expressed, as much by his countenance as his speech, hisimperative need to be out and earning a living, The Spider had offeredto put him to work on his ranch, which he told Pete was of considerableextent, and lay just north of the national boundary and well out of theway of chance visitors. "Cattle"--The Spider had said--"and somehorses. "

Pete thought he knew about how that ranch had been stocked, and why itwas located where it was. But then, cattle-stealing was not confinedto any one locality. Any of the boys riding for the Blue or the Conchoor the T-Bar-T were only too eager to brand a stray calf and considerthat they were but serving their employer's interests, knowing thattheir strays were quite as apt to be branded by a rival outfit. So itwent among men supposed to be living under the law. 

The Spider's proffer of work was accepted, but Pete asserted that hewould not leave Showdown until he had got his horse. 

"I'll see that you get him, " said The Spider. 

"Thanks. But I aim to git him myself. "

And it was shortly after this understanding that Pete sat in the patioback of the saloon--waiting impatiently for Malvey to show up, andhalf-inclined to go out and look for him. But experience had taughtPete the folly of hot-headed haste, so, like The Spider, he withdrewinto himself, apparently indifferent to the loud talk of the men in thesaloon, the raw jokes and the truculent swaggering, with theimplication, voiced loudly by one half-drunken renegade, that thestranger was a short-horn and naturally afraid to herd in with "thebunch. "

"He's got business of his own, " said The Spider. 

"That's different. I 'poligish. "

The men laughed, and the bibulous outlaw straightway considered himselfa wit. But those who carried their liquor better knew that TheSpider's interruption was significant. The young stranger was playinga lone hand, and the rules of the game called for strict attention totheir own business. 

Presently a Mexican strode in and spoke to The Spider. The Spidercalled to a man at one of the tables. The noisy talk ceased suddenly. "One, " said The Spider. "From the south. "

Pete heard and he shifted his position a little, approximating thedistance between himself and the outer doorway. Card-games wereresumed as before when a figure filled the doorway. Pete's hand slidslowly to his hip. His fingers stiffened, then relaxed, as he got tohis feet. 

It was Boca--alone, and smiling in the soft glow of lamplight. TheSpider hobbled from behind the bar. Some one called a laughinggreeting. "It's Boca, boys! We'll sure cut loose to-night! When Bocacomes to town the bars is down!"

Pete heard--and anger and surprise darkened his face. These men seemedto know Boca too well. One of them had risen, leaving his card-game, and was shaking hands with her. Another asked her to sing "La Paloma. "Even The Spider seemed gracious to her. Pete, leaning against thedoorway of the patio, stared at her as though offended by her presence. She nodded to him and smiled. He raised his hat awkwardly. Boca readjealousy in his eye. She was happy. She wanted him to care. "Ibrought your saddle, seņor, " she said, nodding again. The men laughed, turning to glance at Pete. Still Pete did not quite realize thesignificance of her coming. "Thanks, " he said abruptly. 

Boca deliberately turned her back on him and talked with The Spider. She was hurt, and a little angry. Surely she had been his good friend. Was Pete so stupid that he did not realize why she had ridden toShowdown?

The Spider, who had just learned why she was there, called to hisMexican, who presently set a table in the patio. Slowly it dawned onPete that Boca had made a long ride--that she must be tired and hungry. He felt ashamed of himself. She had been a friend to him when hesorely needed a friend. And of course these men knew her. No doubtthey had seen her often at the Flores rancho. She had brought hissaddle back--which meant that she had found the buckskin, riderless, and fearing that something serious had happened, had caught up the ponyand ridden to Showdown, alone, and no doubt against the wishes of herfather and mother. It was mighty fine of her! He had never realizedthat girls did such things. Well, doggone it! he would let her knowthat he was mighty proud to have such a pardner!

The Spider hobbled to the patio and placed a chair for Boca, whobrushed past Pete as though he had not been there. 

"That's right!" laughed Pete. "But say, Boca, what made _me_ sore wasthe way them hombres out there got fresh, joshin' you and askin' you tosing, jest like they had a rope on you--"

"You think of that Malvey?"

"Well, I ain't forgittin' the way he--"

Boca's eyes flashed. "Yes! But here it is different. The Spider, heis my friend. It is that when I have rested and eaten he will ask meto sing. Manuelo will play the guitar. I shall sing and laugh, for Iam no longer tired. I am happy. Perhaps I shall sing the song of 'TheOutlaw, ' and for you. "

"I'll be listenin'--every minute, Boca. Mebby if I ain't jest_lookin'_ at you--it'll be because--"

"Si! Even like the caballero of whom I shall sing. " And Boca hummed atune, gazing at Pete with unreadable eyes, half-smiling, half-sad. Howyoung, smooth-cheeked, and boyish he was, as he glanced up and returnedher smile. Yet how quickly his face changed as he turned his headtoward the doorway, ever alert for a possible surprise. Boca pushedback her chair. "The guitar, " she called, nodding to The Spider. 

Manuelo brought the guitar, tuned it, and sat back in the corner of thepatio. The men in the saloon rose and shuffled to where Boca stood, seating themselves roundabout in various attitudes of expectancy. Pete, who had risen, recalled The Spider's terse warning, and steppedover to the patio doorway. Manuelo had just swept the silver stringsin a sounding prelude, when The Spider, behind the bar, gestured toPete. 

"No, it ain't Malvey, " said The Spider, as Pete answered his abruptsummons. "Here, take a drink while I talk. Keep your eye on thefront. Don't move your hands off the bar, for there's three men outthere, afoot, just beyond the hitching-rail. There was five, a minuteago. I figure two of 'em have gone round to the back. Go ahead--drinka little, and set your glass down, natural. I'm joshin' with you, see!"--and The Spider grinned hideously. "Smile! Don't make a breakfor the patio. The boys out there wouldn't understand, and Boca mightget hurt. She's goin' to sing. You turn slow, and listen. When yourback's turned, those hombres out there will step in. " The Spiderlaughed, as though at something Pete had said. "You're mightysurprised to see 'em and you start to talk. Leave the rest to me. "

Pete nodded and lifted his glass. From the patio came the sound ofBoca's voice and the soft strumming of the guitar. Pete heard buthardly realized the significance of the first line or two of thesong--and then:

 "A rider stood at the lamplit bar, tugging the knot of his neckscarf loose, While some one sang to the silver strings, in the moonlight patio. "

It was the song of "The Outlaw. " Pete turned slowly and faced thepatio. Manuelo swept the strings in a melodious interlude. Boca, hervivid lips parted, smiled at Pete even as she began to sing again. Pete could almost feel the presence of men behind him. He knew that hewas trapped, but he kept his gaze fixed on Boca's face. The Spiderspoke to some one--a word of surprised greeting. In spite of his holdon himself Pete felt the sweat start on his lip and forehead. He wascurious as to what these men would look like; as to whether he wouldknow them. Perhaps they were not after him, but after some of the menin the patio--

"Annersley!"

Pete swung round, his hands up. He recognized two of the men--deputiesof Sheriff Sutton of Concho. The third man was unknown to him. 

"You're under arrest for the killing of Steve Gary. "

"How's that?" queried The Spider. 

"Steve Gary. This kid shot him--over to the Blue. We don't want anytrouble about this, " continued the deputy. "We've got a couple of menout back--"

"There won't be any trouble, " said The Spider. 

"No--there won't be any trouble, " asserted Pete. "Gimme a drink, Spider. "

"No, you don't!" said the deputy. "You got too many friends outthere, " and he gestured toward the patio with his gun. 

"Not my friends, " said Pete. 

Boca's song ended abruptly as she turned from her audience to glance inPete's direction. She saw him standing with upraised hands--and infront of him three men--strangers to Showdown. 

Came the shuffling of feet as the men in the patio turned to see whatshe was staring at. 

"Sit still!" called The Spider. "This ain't your deal, boys. They gotthe man they want. "

But Boca, wide-eyed and trembling, stepped through the doorway. 

"That's close enough!" called a deputy. 

She paused, summoning all of her courage and wit to force a laugh. "Si, seņor. But you are mistaken. It is not that I care what you dowith _him_. I do but come for the wine for which I have asked, butthere was no one to bring it to me, "--and she stepped past the end ofthe bar into The Spider's room. She reappeared almost instantly with abottle of wine. 

"I will open that for you, " said The Spider. 

"Never mind!" said one of the deputies; "the lady seems to know how. "

Boca took a glass from the counter. "I will drink in the patio with myfriends. " But as she passed round the end of the bar and directlybeneath the hanging lamp, she turned and paused. "But no! I willdrink once to the young vaquero, with whom is my heart and my life. "And she filled the glass and, bowing to Pete, put the glass to her lips. 

The deputy nearest Pete shrugged his shoulder. "This ain't a show. "

"Of a truth, no!" said Boca, and she swung the bottle. It shiveredagainst the lamp. With the instant darkness came a streak of red andthe close roar of a shot. Pete, with his gun out and going, leaptstraight into the foremost deputy. They crashed down. Staggering tohis feet, Pete broke for the outer doorway. Behind him the room was apit of flame and smoke. Boca's pony reared as Pete jerked the reinsloose, swept into the saddle, and down the moonlit street. He heard ashot and turned his head. In the patch of moonlight round The Spider'splace he saw the dim, hurrying forms of men and horses. He leanedforward and quirted the pony with the rein-ends. 

[Illustration: "Of a truth, no!" said Boca, and she swung the bottle. ]

Back in The Spider's place men grouped round a huddled something on thefloor. The Spider, who had fetched a lamp from his room, stooped andpeered into the upturned face of Boca. A dull, black ooze spread andspread across the floor. 

"Boca!" he shrilled, and his face was hideous. 

"Did them coyotes git her?"

"Who was it?"

"Where's the kid?"

The Spider straightened and held the lamp high. "Take her in there, "and he gestured toward his room. Two of the men carried her to thecouch and covered her with the folds of the serape which had slippedfrom her shoulders as she fell. 

"Say the word, Spider, and we'll ride 'em down!" It was "Scar-Face"who spoke, a man notorious even among his kind. 

The Spider, strangely quiet, shook his head. "They'll ride back here. They were after Young Pete. She smashed the lamp to give him a chanceto shoot his way out. They figured he'd break for the back--but hewent right into 'em. They don't know yet that they got her. And hedon't know it. " He hobbled round to the back of the bar. "Have adrink, boys, and then I'm going to close up till--" and he indicatedhis room with a movement of the head. 

Young Pete, riding into the night, listened for the sound of runninghorses. Finally he pulled his pony to a walk. He had ridden north--upthe trail which the posse had taken to Showdown, and directly away fromwhere they were searching the desert for him. And as Pete rode, hethought continually of Boca. Unaware of what had happened--yet herealized that she had been in great danger. This worried him--anuncertainty that became an obsession--until he could no longer masterit with reason. He had ridden free from present hazard, unscratchedand foot-loose, with many hours of darkness before him in which toevade the posse. He would be a fool to turn back. And yet he did, slowly, as though an invisible hand were on his bridle-rein; forcinghim to ride against his judgment and his will. He reasoned, shrewdly, that the posse would be anywhere but at The Spider's place, just then. 

In an hour he had returned and was knocking at the door, surprised thatthe saloon was closed. 

At Pete's word, the door opened. The Spider, ghastly white in thelamplight, blinked his surprise. 

"Playin' a hunch, " stated Pete. And, "Boca here?" he queried, as heentered. 

"In there, " said The Spider, and he took the lamp from the bar. 

"What's the use of wakin' her?" said Pete. "I come back--I got ahunch--that somethin' happened when I made my get-away. But if she'sall right--"

"You won't wake her, " said The Spider, and his voice sounded strangeand far-away. "You better go in there. "

A hot flash shot through Pete. Then came the cold sweat of a dreadanticipation. He followed The Spider to where Boca lay on the couch, as though asleep. Pete turned swiftly, questioning with his eyes. TheSpider set the lamp on the table and backed from the room. Breathinghard, Pete stepped forward and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca'spretty mouth smiled up at him--but her eyes were as dead pools in thenight. 

The full significance of that white face and those dull, unseeing eyes, swept through him like a flame. "Pardner!" he whispered, and flunghimself on his knees beside her, his shadow falling across her head andshoulders. In the dim light she seemed to be breathing. Long he gazedat her, recalling her manner as she had raised her glass: "I drink tothe young vaquero, with whom is my heart--_and my life_. "

Dully Pete wondered why such things should happen; why he had not beenkilled instead of the girl, and which one of the three deputies hadfired the shot that had killed her. But no one could ever knowthat--for the men had all fired at him when the lamp crashed down--yethe, closer to them than Boca, had broken through their blunderingfusillade. He knew that Boca had taken a great risk--and that she musthave known it also. And she had taken that risk that he might win free. 

Too stunned and shaken to reason it out to any definite conclusion, Pete characteristically accepted the facts as they were as he thrustaside all thought of right or wrong and gave himself over to tearlessmourning for that which Boca had been. That dead thing with dark, staring eyes and faintly smiling lips was not Boca. But where was shethen?

Slowly the lamplight paled as dawn fought through the heavy shadows ofthe room. The door swung open noiselessly. The Spider glanced in andsoftly closed the door again. 

The Spider, he of the shriveled heart and body, did the most humanthing he had done for years. At the little table opposite the bar hesat with brandy and a glass and deliberately drank until he feltneither the ache of his old wounds nor the sting of this fresh thrustof fate. Then he knew that he was drunk, but that his keen, crookedmind would obey his will, unfeelingly, yet with no hesitation and nostumbling. 

He rose and hobbled to the outer door. A vagrant breeze stirred thestale air in the room. Back in the patio his Mexican, Manuelo, laysnoring, wrapped in a tattered blanket. The Spider turned from thedoorway and gazed at the sanded spot on the floor, leaning against thebar and drumming on its edge with his nervous fingers. "He'll see herin every night-fire when he's alone--and he'll talk to her. He willsee her face among the girls in the halls--and he'll go cold and speakher name, and then some girl will laugh. He will eat out his heartthinking of her--and what she did for him. He's just a kid--but whenhe comes out of that room . . . He won't give a damn if he's bumped offor not. He'll play fast--and go through every time! God! I ought toknow!"

The Spider turned and gazed across the morning desert. Far out rode agroup of men. One of them led a riderless horse. The Spider's thinlips twisted in a smile. 

CHAPTER XXV

"PLANTED--OUT THERE"

Malvey, loafing at the ranch of Mescalero, received The Spider'smessage about the posse with affected indifference. He had Pete'shorse in his possession, which in itself would make trouble should hebe seen. When he learned from the messenger that Young Pete was inShowdown, he fumed and blustered until evening, when he saddled BlueSmoke and rode south toward the Flores rancho. From Flores's place hewould ride on south, across the line to where he could always findemployment for his particular talents. Experience had taught him thatit was useless to go against The Spider, whose warning, whether it werebased on fact or not, was a hint to leave the country. 

The posse from Concho, after circling the midnight desert and failingto find any trace of Pete, finally drew together and decided to waituntil 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 trailpassed, and waited. 

The deputy sat his horse, as though waiting for some one. Malvey atonce thought of Young Pete--then of The Spider's warning--and finallythat the solitary horseman might be some companion from below theborder, cautiously awaiting his approach. Half-inclined to ride wide, he hesitated--then loosening his gun he spurred his restless ponytoward 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 identifythe strange horseman by his voice, if possible. It also was achallenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such. Malvey's slowmind awakened to the situation. A streak of red flashed from his handas he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle andbegan firing over it, shielded by his pony. A rifle snarled in thedraw. Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him. Another slug shattered his thigh. Cursing, he lunged sideways, as BlueSmoke bucked. Malvey toppled and fell--an inert bulk in the dim lightof 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 flickeredout. "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'tsteal no more hosses. "

"Catch up his cayuse, " commanded the chief deputy. 

Two of them, after a hard ride, finally put Blue Smoke within reach ofa 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 BullMalvey, " said the deputy, who recognized the dead outlaw. 

Dawn was just breaking when the chief deputy, disgusted with what hetermed their "luck, " finally evolved a plan out of the many discussedby his companions. "We got the cayuse--which will look good to theT-Bar-T boys. We ain't down here for our health and we been up againstit from start to finish--and so far as I care, this is the finish. Getit right afore we start. Young Pete is dead. We got his horse. " Hepaused 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 ishim--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 blueroan. 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 collectthat reward. We'll split her even--and who's goin' to say we didn'tearn it?"

"Suits me, " said a deputy. His companions nodded. 

"Then let's get busy. The sand's loose here. We can drag a blanketover this--and leave the rest to the coyotes. "

They scraped a long, shallow hole in the arroyo-bed and buried Malveyalong with his saddle and bridle. 

The Spider smiled as he saw them coming. He was still smiling as hewatched them ride up the street and tie their tired ponies to thehitching-rail. He identified the led horse as the one Malvey hadstolen 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 himunusually queer just then. His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiarfaint, bluish film. His manner was over-deliberate. There wassomething back of it all that they could not fathom. Moreover, theplace was darkened. Some one had hung blankets over the windows. Thedeputies--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 tothe Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room--TheSpider's own room, back of the bar. While the Mexican preparedbreakfast, the posse accepted their chief's invitation to have a drink, which they felt they needed. Presently The Spider led the way to hisroom. The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold asthey peered in. A lamp was burning on the table. There were plates, knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon . . . Beyond thelamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them. Hiseyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep. 

The Spider held up his hand. "You're planted--out there. Thesegentlemen say so. So you ain't here!"

Pete's belt and gun lay on the floor. The Spider was in hisshirt-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. Whatyou 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 TheSpider. " The chief deputy stepped to the table and peered across it ata huddled something on the couch, over which was thrown a shimmeringserape. 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 knewwhat had happened--that he and his men were responsible for this. Hishand 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, andglancing 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 wewant. "

"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 aMexican standing in the doorway. The Mexican's hands were held belthigh and they were both "filled. "

"Get the first man that moves, " said The Spider in Mexican. And as hespoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the strokeof a snake. Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, ascold as the eyes of a rattler. The deputy read his own doom and thedeath of at least two of his men should he move a muscle. He had YoungPete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed. Thedeputy lowered his gun. 

Pete blinked and drew a deep breath. "Give me a gun, Spider--and we'llshoot it out with 'em, right here. "

The Spider laughed. "No. You're planted out there. These gents sayso. I'm working this layout. "

"Put up your gun, Ed, " said the chief, addressing the deputy who hadThe 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 chiefdeputy, "that Showdown is run peaceful _and that I run her_. "

When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete. "Want to ride back toConcho?"

Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hearthe question. Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which hehad dipped in a water-bucket--as casually busy as though he had neverhad a gun in his hand. Something in the Mexican's supreme indifferencetouched Pete's sense of humor. He shrugged his shoulders. 

"Who's goin' to tell her father?" he queried, gesturing toward theinner 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 inwith you. "

CHAPTER XXVI

THE OLLA

The Spider's system of bookkeeping was simple, requiring neither pennor paper, journal nor day-book. He kept a kind of mental loose-leafledger with considerable accuracy, auditing his accounts withimpartiality. For example, Scar-Face and three companions just up fromthe border recently had been credited with twenty head of Mexicancattle 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 Mexicanfaction whose only assets at the time were ammunition and hope. Scar-Face had met this chieftain by appointment at an abandonedranch-house. Argument ensued. The Mexican talked grandiloquently of"Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality. " Scar-Face held out for cash. TheMexican leader needed beef. Scar-Face needed money. As he had rathercarelessly informed the Mexican that he could deliver the cattleimmediately, and realizing his mistake, --for he knew that the Mexicanwould straightway summon his retainers and take the cattle in the nameof "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality, "--Scar-Face promptly shot thisself-appointed savior of Mexico, mortally wounded one of his twocompanions, and finally persuaded the other to help drift the cattlenorth with a promise of a share of the profits of the enterprise. 

The surviving Mexican rode to Showdown with Scar-Face and hiscompanions, received his share of the sale in cash, --which hesquandered at The Spider's place, --and straightway rode back across theborder to rejoin his captainless comrades and appoint himself theirleader, gently insinuating that he himself had shot the captain whom hehad apprehended in the treachery of betraying them to a rivalaggregation of ragged Liberties, Fraternities, and Equalities. 

The Spidery mental ledger read: "Scar-Face--Debit, chuck, liquor, andlodging"--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'ssystem of accounts, Pete was heavily in debt to him. Not that TheSpider would have ever mentioned this, or have tried to collect. Butwhen he offered Pete a job on his ranch he shrewdly put Pete in the wayof meeting his obligations. 

Cattle were in demand, especially in Mexico, so ravaged by lawlesssoldiery that there was nothing left to steal. One outlaw chieftain, however, was so well established financially that his agents were ableto secure supplies from a mysterious source and pay for them with gold, which also came from an equally mysterious source--and it was withthese agents that The Spider had had his dealings. His bank account inEl Paso was rolling up fast. Thus far he had been able to supply beefto the hungry liberators of Mexico; but beef on the hoof was becomingscarce on both sides of the border. Even before Pete had come toShowdown, The Spider had perfected a plan to raid the herds of thenorthern ranches. Occasional cowboys drifting to Showdown had givenhim considerable information regarding the physical characteristics ofthe country roundabout these ranches, the water-holes, trails, andgrazing. 

The Spider knew that he could make only one such raid, with any chanceof 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 hisranch. True, they would not find it there. He would see to it thatthe cattle were pushed across the border without delay. But a secondattempt would be out of the question. The chief factor in the successof the scheme would be the prompt handling of the herd upon itsarrival. 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 andturn the herd over to the agents of the Mexican soldiery and collectthe money on the spot, while his cowboys guarded the herd from apossible raid by the Mexicans themselves. He knew that should thenorthern ranchmen happen to organize quickly and in force, they wouldnot hesitate to promptly lynch the raiders, burn his buildings, takeall his horses worth taking, and generally put the ranch out ofbusiness. 

Thus far the ranch had paid well as a sort of isolated clearing-housefor The Spider's vicarious accounts. The cowboys who worked there werepicked men, each of whom received a straight salary, asked noquestions, and rode with a high-power rifle under his knee and a keeneye toward the southern ranches. 

Pete, riding south, bore an unsigned letter from The Spider, withinstructions to hand it to the foreman of "The Olla" and receivefurther instructions from that gentleman. Pete knew nothing of thecontemplated raid, The Spider shrewdly surmising that Pete would balkat the prospect of stealing cattle from his own countrymen. And it wasbecause of this very fact that The Spider had intrusted Pete--by letterto the foreman--with the even greater responsibility of receiving themoney for the cattle and depositing it in a certain bank in El Paso. Heretofore, such payments had been made to The Spider's representativein that city--the president of the Stockmen's Security and SavingsBank--who had but recently notified The Spider that he could no longeract in the capacity of agent on account of local suspicion, alreadyvoiced in the current newspapers. Hereafter The Spider would have todeal directly with the Mexican agents. And The Spider unhesitatinglychose Pete as his representative, realizing that Pete was shrewdlycapable, fearless, and to be trusted. 

Toward evening of the third day out of Showdown, Pete came upon a mostunexpected barrier to his progress--a wire fence stretching east andwest; a seemingly endless succession of diminishing posts. Heestimated that there must he at least forty thousand acres under fence. According to location, this was The Spider's ranch--the Olla--Petereined around and rode along the fence for a mile or so, searching fora gateway; but the taut barbed wire ran on and on, toward a sun thatwas rounding swiftly down to the western horizon. He dismounted andpulled the staples from several lengths of wire until he had enoughslack to allow the top wire to touch the ground. He stood on the wiresand jockeyed Blue Smoke across, tied him to a post, and tacked the wireback in place. 

Headed south again, he had just passed a clump of chaparral when upfrom the draw came a tall, muscular cowboy, riding a big horse--and afast one, thought Pete. 

"Evenin', " drawled the cowboy--a slow-speaking Texan, who was evidentlywaiting 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, goahead 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 kindof 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 itthat 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 arattler 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 theway you're headed. That's a pretty horse you're settin' on. If itwa'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 overthere that's been holdin' a gun on me ever since we been talkin', "--andPete 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 atime--but he don't like a crowd, nohow. "

A figure loomed in the dusk--a man on foot who carried a rifle acrosshis arm. Pete could not distinguish his features, but he saw that theman was tall, booted and spurred, and evidently a line-rider with theTexan. 

"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 spokehe rolled a cigarette. His pony shied at the flare of the match, butPete caught an instant glimpse of a lean-faced, powerfully built man ofperhaps fifty years or more who answered The Spider's description ofthe 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 alongdown the fence till you meet Harper. Tell him it's all right. " Andthe 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 theranch-buildings came in sight--a dim huddle of angles against thestarlit sky. To his surprise the central building was roomy andfurnished with a big table, many chairs, and a phonograph, while thefloor was carpeted with Navajo blankets, and a big shaded hanging lampillumined the table on which were scattered many dog-eared magazinesand a few newspapers. Pete had remarked upon the stables while turninghis own horse into the corral. "We got some fast ones, " was all thatthe foreman chose to say, just then. 

Pete and the foreman had something to eat in the chuck-house, andreturned to the larger building. Brent read The Spider's letter, rolled the end of his silver-gray mustache between his thumb andforefinger, 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 youcome to throw in with The Spider?"

Pete hesitated. Why should he tell this man anything other than thathe had been sent by The Spider with the letter which--he had beentold--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, " statedthe foreman. 

"That's a dam' lie!" flared Pete. 

"I reckon you'll do, " said Brent, as he folded the letter. The Spiderhad made that very statement in his letter to Brent for the purpose offinding out, through the foreman, whether or not Pete had taken it uponhimself to read the letter before delivering it. And Brent, aware ofThe Spider's methods, realized at once why his chief had misstated thefacts. It was evident that Pete had not read the letter, otherwise hewould most probably have taken his cue from The Spider's assertionabout the bank robbery and found himself in difficulties, for directlyafter 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 likehim run a whizzer on me after I run a good hoss ragged to git here withhis doggone letter--and then git stuck up like I was a hoss-thief? Yougot another guess, uncle. "

The old cowman's eyes twinkled. "You speak right out in meetin', don'tyou, son?" His drawl was easy and somehow reminded Pete of PopAnnersley. "Now there's some wouldn't like that kind of talk--evenfrom 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 somehet 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 wholedoggone outfit runnin' this here world. What does a fella git, anyhow, for stickin' up for himself, if he runs against a killer? He gitsbumped off--or mebby he kills the other fella and gits run out of thecountry or hung. Pardners stick, don't they? Well, how would it gityou if you had a pardner that--well, mebby was a girl and she gotkilled by a bunch of deputies jest because she was quick enough tospoil their game? Would you feel like shakin' hands with every doggonehombre 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'mwrong--from the start--but I figure all a fella gits out of this gameis a throwdown, comin' or goin'--'for the deck is stacked and the wheelis 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 youwas twenty. Every ten years you had to hand some fella his finish tokeep 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 plentyof work down there for a good cow-hand. And a man's name ain't printedon his face. Nobody's got a rope on you. "

"I git you, " said Pete. "But I throwed in with The Spider--and thatgoes. "

"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 onthe third button of Brent's shirt. "What about Steve Gary?" askedPete, and even Brent, old hand as he was, felt the sinistersignificance in that slow question. The Spider's letter had said to"give him a try-out, " which might have meant almost anything to acasual reader, but to Brent it meant just what he had been doing thatevening--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, " saidBrent. "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 yourrope on that ain't branded 'J. E. ', which is pet stock and no good atworkin' cattle. You met up with Ed Brevoort this evenin'. Well, youcan ride fence with Ed and he'll show you the high spots andhollows--and the line--south. If you run onto any strangers ridin' tooclose to the line, find out what they want. If you can't find out, getword to me. That goes for strangers. But if you get to arguin' withany of my boys--talk all you like--but don't start a smoke--_for youwon't get away with it_. The Spider ain't payin' guns to shoot up hisown outfit. If you're lookin' for real trouble, all you got to do isto 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 theOlla. "

"Which is some different from takin' my hoss and fannin' it easy forTexas, " said Pete, grinning. 

"Some different, " said Brent. 

CHAPTER XXVII

OVER THE LINE

Few cattle grazed across the Olla's well-fenced acres--and these cattlewere of a poor strain, lean Mexican stock that would never run intoweight as beef. Pete had expected to see many cattle--and much work tobe done. Instead, there were few cattle; and as for work--he had beenput to riding line with big Ed Brevoort. For two weeks he had donenothing else. Slowly it dawned upon Pete that The Spider's ranch waslittle more than a thoroughfare for the quick handling of occasionalsmall bands of cattle from one questionable owner to another. He sawmany brands, and few of them were alike, and among them none that werefamiliar. Evidently the cattle were from the south line. Thesaddle-stock was branded "J. E. " and "The Olla. " These brands appearedon none of the cattle that Pete had seen. About a month after hisarrival, and while he was drifting slowly along the fence withBrevoort, Pete caught sight of a number of horsemen, far out beyond theranch-line, riding slowly toward the north. He spoke to Brevoort, whonodded. "We're like to be right busy soon. "

Brevoort and Pete rode to the ranch-house that evening to get suppliesfor their line shack. The place was all but deserted. The cook wasthere--and the Mexican José who looked after the "fast ones" in thestables; but Brent, Harper, Sandy Bell, and the rest of the men weregone. Pete thought of the horsemen that he had seen--and of Brevoort'sremark, 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 theywould 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 bayhorse--"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 BlueSmoke occasionally stopped and sniffed, and always toward the north. Near the northwestern angle of the fence, Pete thought he could hearthe distant drumming of hoofs. Blue Smoke fretted and fought the bit. Pete dismounted and peered into the darkness. The rhythmic stride of arunning horse came to him--not the quick patter of a cow-pony, but thelong, sweeping stride of a racer. 

Then out of the night burst a rider on a foam-flecked horse that rearedalmost 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 swungto the saddle. "We'll jest jog over to the shack and report. "

When he arrived at the line shack, Brevoort was talking with thehard-riding messenger. Near them stood the thoroughbred, his flanksheaving, 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 hundredhead, " the messenger was saying. "Brent'll be in to-morrow, long 'boutnoon. 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. TellMoody that Harper is in, and that the boys will be here in a couple ofdays. He'll know what to do. "

Pete rode at a high lope, leading the thoroughbred, and wondering whythe messenger had not gone on to the corral. Moody, the cook, agrizzled, heavy-featured man, too old for hard riding, expressed nosurprise at Pete's message, but awakened the Mexican stableman and toldhim 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 hegave Pete a package of food which he had been preparing while theMexican was at the stable. 

When Pete returned to the line shack he found Brevoort sitting in thedoorway smoking, and the messenger asleep on the ground, his head onhis saddle. 

"Here's your horse, " said Brevoort, "and some chuck. "

Harper sat up quickly, too quickly for a man who had ridden as far ashe had. Pete wondered at the other's hardihood and grit, for Harperwas instantly on his feet and saddling the fresh horse, andincidentally cursing the Olla, Brent, and the universe in general, witha 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 soundof his hoofbeats was swallowed up in the abyss of the night. 

Pete turned in. Brevoort rode out to drift along the line fence untildaylight. 

And Pete dreamed strange dreams of night-riders who came and wentswiftly and mysteriously; and of a dusty, shuffling herd that wound itsslow way across the desert, hazed by a flitting band of armed riderswho continually glanced back as though fearful of pursuit. Suddenlythe 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 gazingdown at him wistfully. He tried to speak to her, but could not. Nordid she speak to him, but laid her hand on his forehead, pressing downhis eyelids. Her hand was dry and hot. Pete tried to open hiseyes--to raise his hand, to speak. Although his eyes were closed andBoca's hot hand was pressed down on them, Pete knew that round-aboutwas a light and warmth of noonday . . . Boca's hand drew back--andPete lay staring straight into the morning sun which shone through theopen doorway. In the distance he could see Brevoort riding slowlytoward him. Pete raised on his elbow and threw back the blankets. Ashe rose and pulled on his overalls he thought of the messenger. Heknew that somewhere back on the northern trail the men of the Olla werepushing a herd of cattle slowly south, --cattle from the T-Bar-T, theBlue, and . . . He suddenly recalled Harper's remark--"And countin' theConcho stuff . . . " Pete thought of Jim Bailey and Andy White, and ofpleasant days riding for the Concho. But after all, it was none of hisaffair. He had had no hand in stealing the cattle. He would do wellenough to keep his own hide whole. Let the cattlemen who lived underthe law take care of their own stock and themselves. And curiouslyenough, Pete for the first time wondered what had become of Malvey--ifthe posse had actually shot him, or if they had simply taken the horseand 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; andcall me about noon. "

"The old man ain't takin' chances, " remarked Pete. 

"You're wrong there, " asserted Brevoort. "He's takin' the long chanceevery time, or he wouldn't be foreman of this outfit. You'll find thatout if you stick round here long enough. If you don't call it takin' achance pullin' off a trick like this one that's comin', jest try ityourself. "

"He handles men easy, " asserted Pete, recalling Brent's rather fatherlyadvice in regard to Texas and the opportunity for a young man to gostraight. 

"You sure please me most to death, " drawled Brevoort. "You been aright quiet little pardner, and smilin', so I'm going to tell yousomethin' that you can keep right on bein' quiet about. Sam Brentwould send you or me or any man into a gun-fight, or a posse, or ajail, and never blink his eye, if he thought it was good business forhim. He'd do it pleasant, too, jest like he was sendin' you to adance, 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 talkingabout was in sight and riding hard. Presently Brent was close enoughto nod to them. Although he had ridden far and fast, he was as casualas sunshine. Neither in his voice nor his bearing was the least traceof fatigue. 

"I'm goin' to need you, " he told Pete. "We're short of hands rightnow. If you need anything over in the line shack, go git it and comealong down after Ed and me. "

Pete took the hint and left Brevoort and Brent to ride to the housetogether while he rode over to the shack and warmed up some coffee andbeans. In an hour he was at the house. A thoroughbred stood at thehitching-rail. Pete noticed that the animal carried Brevoort's saddle. Evidently there was to be more hard riding. As Pete entered the bigroom, he also noticed that Brevoort was heavily armed, and carried anextra belt of cartridges. Brent was examining a rifle when Petestepped in. "You may need this, " said Brent, handing the rifle andscabbard to Pete. "Go over to the bunk-house and get another belt andsome shells. "

When Pete returned, Blue Smoke was in the corral and his own saddle wason a big bay that looked like a splendid running-mate for Brevoort'smount. Pete busied himself slinging the rifle, curious as to what hisnew venture would or could be, yet too proud to show that he wasinterested. 

Brevoort, hitching up his belt, swung to his horse. Without hesitationPete followed. Well-fed, eager and spirited, the horses lunged outinto the open and settled into a long, swinging stride--a gait that wasnew to Pete, accustomed as he was to the shorter, quick action of thecow-pony. 

They rode south, across the sunlit expanse of emptiness between thehacienda and the line. A few hundred yards beyond the fence, Brevoortreined in. "Mexico, " he said, gesturing round about. "Our job is toride 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, ifshe goes through. If she don't, it's like to be the finish of theOlla. "

"Meanin' if the T-Bar-T and the Concho gits busy, there's like to besome 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, " drawledthe Texan. "Hold your horse down to a walk. We'll save speed for aspell. No, I wasn't figurin' on this. You see, when I hired out toBrent, I knew what I was doin'--so I told him I'd jest earn my pay onthe white side of the border--but no Mexico for mine. That was theunderstandin'. Now he goes to work and sends you and me down into thishere country on a job which is only fit for a Greaser. I'm goin' tosee 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 thedry-spot clean to the Ortez--and he knows every hoss-thief in thissun-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 Cholascallin' 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 littleMexican. " And Brevoort gazed curiously at Pete. 

"Seein' as you feel that way about it, Ed, I got somethin' I beenmillin' over in my head. Now, when The Spider sent me down here hesaid he had some important business he wanted me to handle. Brent wasto tell me. Now I don't see anything important about ridin' line orchasin' into Mexico to wake up a bunch of Greasers and tell 'em to getbusy. Uncle Sammy Brent's got somethin' hid up his sleeve, Ed. "

Brevoort, riding slowly beside Pete, turned from gazing across thedesert 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 andwhy Brent, in turn, had sent Pete on this dangerous mission. "Is TheSpider much of a friend of yours?" queried Brevoort suddenly. 

"Why, I dunno. 'Course he acted like he was--but you can't tell abouthim. 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 overthis a minute. " And Brevoort drew a folded slip of paper from hisshirt-pocket and handed it to Pete. It was a brief note addressed toBrevoort and signed "J. E. " It instructed Brevoort to accompany PeteAnnersley to El Paso after the sale of the cattle and to see to it thatthe money which Annersley would have with him was deposited to thecredit 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 didyou 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, " saidBrevoort. 

"And Brent--" Pete hesitated for fear of committing himself even thoughhe trusted Brevoort. But Brevoort had no hesitation. He anticipatedPete's thought and spoke frankly. 

"Brent figured it fine. I knew why he sent you and me on thisride--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 backhe'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 ofanother crook. But I would 'a' said Brent was straight. I say TheSpider's money goes into that there bank. "

"Same here. I ain't so dam' honest that it hurts me, but I quit whenit comes to stealin' from the man that's payin' my wages. "

"Then I reckon you and me is pardners in this deal, " and Pete, boyishlyproffered his hand. 

Big Ed Brevoort grasped Pete's hand, and held it till the horses shiedapart. "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 stridethat brought their riders nearer and nearer to the Ortez rancho and theMexican agent of the guerilla captain whose troops were so sadly inneed of beef. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

A GAMBLE

On either side of a faint trail rose the dreary, angling grotesques ofthe cactus, and the dried and dead stalks of the soapweed. Beyond, tothe south, lay a sea of shimmering space, clear to the light blue thatedged the sky-line. The afternoon sun showed copper-red through afaint haze which bespoke a change of weather. The miles between theOlla and that tiny dot on the horizon--the Ortez hacienda--seemedendless, because of no pronounced landmarks. Pete surmised that itwould be dark long before they reached their destination. Incidentallyhe was amazed by the speed of the thoroughbreds, who ran so easily, yetwith a long, reaching stride that ate into the miles. To Pete theyseemed more like excellent machines than horses--lacking the pertindividuality of the cow-pony. Stall-fed and groomed to a satin-smoothglow, stabled and protected from the rains--pets, in Pete'sestimation--yet he knew that they would run until they dropped, holdingthat long, even stride to the very end. He reached out and patted hishorse on the neck. Instantly the sensitive ears twitched and thestride lengthened. Pete tightened rein gently. "A quirt would onlymake him crazy, " he thought; and he grinned as he saw that Brevoort'shorse had let out a link or two to catch up with its mate. 

The low sun, touching the rim of the desert, flung long crimson shaftsheavenward--in hues of rose and amethyst, against the deep umber andthe purple of far spaces. From monotonous and burning desolation thedesert had become a vast momentary solitude of changing beauty andenchantment. Then all at once the colors vanished, space shrank, andoccasional stars trembled in the velvet roof of the night. And onestar, brighter than the rest, grew gradually larger, until it became asolitary camp-fire on the level of the plain. 

"Don't like the looks of that, " said Brevoort, as he pulled up hishorse. "It's out in front of the 'dobe--and it means the Ortez has gotcompany. "

"Soldiers?"

"Looks like it. "

"Arguilla's men?"

"I reckon so. And they're up pretty clost to the line--too clost tosuit me. We'll ride round and do our talkin' with Ortez. "

"Ain't they friendly?" queried Pete. 

"Friendly, hell! Any one of 'em would knife you for the hoss you'reridin'! Hear 'em sing! Most like they're all drunk--and you know whatthat means. Just follow along slow; and whatever you run into don'tget off your hoss. "

"Ain't them there coyotes friendly to Ortez?"

"S' long as he feeds 'em. But that don't do us no good. Ought to besome of the Ortez riders hangin' round somewhere. They don't mix muchwith Arguilla's men. "

"She's a lovely lay-out, " said Pete. "But I'm with you. "

Circling the ranch, Brevoort and Pete rode far out into the desert, until the camp-fire was hidden by the ranch-buildings. Then theyangled in cautiously, edging past the 'dobe outbuildings and thecorrals toward the hacienda. "Don't see anybody around. Guess they're all out in front drinkin' with the bunch, " whispered Brevoort. Just as Pete was about to make a suggestion, a figure rose almostbeneath the horse's head, and a guttural Mexican voice told him tohalt. Pete complied, telling the Mexican that they were from the Olla, that they had a message for Ortez. 

"No use arguin', " said Brevoort--and Pete caught Brevoort's meaning asanother man appeared. 

"Ask him if Arguilla is here, " said Brevoort. And Pete knew that thesewere Arguilla's men, for none of the Ortez vaquero's carriedbolt-action rifles. 

The sentry replied to Pete's question by poking him in the ribs withthe muzzle of his rifle, and telling his to get down muy pronto. 

"Tell him our message is for Arguilla--not Ortez, " suggested Brevoort. "There's something wrong here. No use startin' anything, " he addedhastily, as he dismounted. "Ortez is agent for Arguilla's outfit. Ifyou get a chance, watch what they do with our horses. "

"We came to see El Comandante, " said Pete as the sentries marched themto the house. "We're his friends--and you'll be coyote-meat beforemornin' if you git too careless with that gun. "

The sentry grunted and poked Pete in the back with his rifle, informinghim in that terse universal idiom that he could "tell it to ElComandante. "

From the outer darkness to the glare of the light in the 'dobe was ablinding transition. Pete and Brevoort blinked at the three figures inthe main room: Arguilla, who sat at the long table, his heavy featuresglistening with sweat, his broad face flushed to a dull red, had hishand on a bottle of American whiskey, from which he had just filled hisglass. Near him sat the owner of the rancho, Ortez, a man much older, bearded and lean, with face lined and interlined by weather and age. At the closed door stood a sentry. From without came raucous laughterand the singing of the soldiers. The sentry nearest Pete told Arguillathat the Gringoes had been caught sneaking in at the back of thehacienda. 

Pete briskly corrected this statement. "We're from the Olla--about thecattle--for your army, " added Pete, no whit abashed as he profferedthis bit of flattery. 

"Si! You would talk with the patron then?"--and Arguilla gesturedtoward Ortez. 

"We got orders from Brent--he's our boss---to make our talk to you, "said Pete, glancing quickly at Brevoort. 

"How did you know that I was here with my army?" queried Arguilla. 

"Shucks! That's easy. It's in all the papers, " asserted Pete, ratherproud of himself, despite the hazard of the situation. 

Arguilla's chest swelled noticeably. He rose and strutted up and downthe room, as though pondering a grave and weighty question. Presentlyhe turned to Ortez. "You have heard, seņor?"

Ortez nodded. And in that nod Brevoort read the whole story. Ortezwas virtually a prisoner on his own ranch. The noble captain ofLiberty had been known to use his best friends in this way. 

"When will the cattle arrive at the Olla?" asked Arguilla, seatinghimself. 

"To-morrow, Seņor Comandante. That is the word from Sam Brent. "

"And you have come for the money, then?"

Pete barely hesitated. "No. Brent said there ain't no hurry aboutthat. He said you could figure on two hundred head"--Pete recalledHarper's statement--"and that you would send your agent over to theOlla with the cash. "

Arguilla glanced at Ortez. "You have heard, seņor?"

Ortez nodded dejectedly. He had heard, but he dare not speak. As thetrusted agent of the financiers backing Arguilla, he had but recentlybeen given the money for the purchase of these supplies, and almost onthe heels of the messenger bearing the money had come Arguilla, who atonce put Ortez under arrest, conveyed the money to his own coffers, andtold the helpless Ortez that he could settle with the Gringo Brentaccording to the understanding between them. 

Brevoort, silently eying Arguilla, saw through the scheme. Arguillahad determined to have both the money and the cattle. This explainedhis unwonted presence at the Ortez hacienda. 

Arguilla took a stiff drink of whiskey, wiped his mustache and turnedto Brevoort. "You have heard?" he said. 

Brevoort knew enough Mexican to understand the question. "We'll tellBrent that everything is all right, " he said easily. "But he's a dam'liar, " he added in an undertone to Pete. Brevoort had made the mistakeof assuming that because he did not understand Mexican, Arguilla didnot understand English. Arguilla did not hear all that Brevoort said, but he caught the one significant word. His broad face darkened. These Gringoes knew too much! He would hold them until the cattle hadbeen delivered--and then they could join his army--or be shot. A meredetail, in either event. 

"Put these men under arrest!" he commanded the sentries. "If theyescape--you are dead men. "

"What's the idee--" began Pete, but the noble captain waved his hand, dismissing all argument, along with the sentries, who marched theirprisoners to the stable and told them plainly that they had much rathershoot them than be bothered with watching them; a hint that Petetranslated for Brevoort's benefit. 

One of the sentries lighted a dusty lantern and, placing it on thefloor of a box stall, relieved his captives of their belts and guns. The sentries squatted at the open end of the stall and talked togetherwhile Brevoort and Pete sat each in a corner staring at the lantern. 

Presently Brevoort raised his head. "Find out if either of 'em sabeAmerican talk, " he whispered. 

"You sabe my talk?" queried Pete. 

One of the sentries turned to stare at Pete. The Mexican shook hishead. 

"You're a liar by the watch--and your father was a pig and the son of apig, wasn't he?" asked Pete, smiling pleasantly. 

"Si!" said the Mexican, grinning as though Pete had made a friendlyjoke. 

"And the other fella there, with ears like the barndoor in a wind, he'sjest nacherally a horn-toad that likes whiskey and would jest as soonknife his mother as he would eat a rattlesnake for supper, eh?" AndPete smiled engagingly. 

"Si. It is to laugh. "

"You sabe whiskey?"

The Mexican shook his head. 

"You sabe dam' fool?" Pete's manner was serious as though seekinginformation. 

Again the Mexican shook his head. 

"He sure don't, " said Pete, turning to Brevoort--"or he'd 'a' jestnacherally plugged me. If a Chola don't know what whiskey or dam' foolmeans, he don't know American. "

Meanwhile the two guards had turned to the natural expedient ofgambling for Pete's belt and gun. The elaborately carved holster hadtaken their fancy. Pete and his companion watched them for a while. 

Presently Pete attracted Brevoort's attention by moving a finger. "Hear anything?" he whispered. 

"I hear 'em eatin', " said Brevoort. He was afraid to use the word"horses. "

Pete nodded. "Speakin' of eatin'--you hungry, Ed?"

"Plumb empty. But I didn't know it till you asked me. "

"Well, I been feelin' round in the hay--and right in my corner is anest full of eggs. There's so doggone many I figure that some of 'emis gettin' kind of ripe. Did you ever git hit in the eye with a ripeegg?"

"Not that I recollect'. "

"Well, you would--if you had. Now I don't know what that swelled upgent in there figures on doin' with us. And I don't aim to hang aroundto find out. These here Cholas is gamblin' for our hosses, right now. It kind of looks to me like if we stayed round here much longer weain't goin' to need any hosses or anything else. I worked for aMexican onct--and I sabe 'em. You got to kind of feel what they mean, and never mind what they are sayin'. Now I got a hunch that we don'tget back to the Olla, never--'less we start right now. "

"But how in--"

"Wait a minute. I'm goin' to dig round like I was goin' to take asleep--and find these here eggs. Then I'm goin' to count 'em nacheral, and pile 'em handy to you. Then we rig up a deal like we was gamblin'for 'em, to kind of pass the time. If that don't git them two coyotesinterested, why, nothin' will. Next to gamblin' a Chola likes to_watch_ gamblin' better 'n 'most anything. When you git to win all myeggs, I make a holler like I'm mad. You been cheatin'. And if themtwo Cholas ain't settin' with their mouths open and lookin' at us, why, I don't know Cholas. They're listenin' right now--but they don't sabe. Go ahead and talk like you was askin' me somethin'. "

"What's your game after we start beefin' about the eggs?"

"You pick up a couple--and I pick up a couple. First you want to moveround so you kin swing your arm. When I call you a doggone bald-faceshort-horn, jest let your Chola have the eggs plumb in his eye. Ifthey bust like I figure, we got a chanct to jump 'em--but we got tomove quick. They's a old single-tree layin' right clost to your elbow, kind of half under the hay. Mebby it'll come handy. I figure to kickmy friend in the face when I jump. Do I find them eggs?"

"Dig for 'em, " drawled the Texan. 

"If we miss the first jump, then they shoot, and that'll be our finish. But that's a heap better 'n gittin' stood up against a 'dobe wall. Ijest found them eggs. "

And Pete uttered an exclamation as he drew his hand from the strawbehind him, and produced an egg. The Mexicans glanced up. Pete dug inthe straw and fetched up another egg--and another. Brevoort leanedforward as though deeply interested in some sleight-of-hand trick. Eggafter egg came from the abandoned nest. The Mexicans laughed. Thesupply of eggs seemed to be endless. 

Finally Pete drew out his hand, empty. "Let's count 'em, " he said, andstraightway began, placing the eggs in a pile midway between himselfand his companion. "Twenty-eight. She was a enterprisin' hen. "

"I'll match for 'em, " said Brevoort, hitching round and facing Pete. 

"I'll go you!" And straightway Brevoort and Pete became absorbed inthe game, seemingly oblivious to the Mexicans, who sat watching, withopen mouths, utterly absorbed in their childish interest. Two Gringoeswere gambling for bad eggs. 

Pete won for a while. Then he began to lose. "They're ripe all right. I can tell by the color. Plumb ready to bust. The Cholas sabe that. Watch 'em grin. They 're waitin' for one of us to bust a egg. That'llbe a big joke, and they'll 'most die a-laughin'--'cause it's ajoke--and 'cause we're Gringoes. "

"Then here's where I bust one, " said Brevoort. "Get a couple in yourhand. Act like you was chokin' to death. I'll laugh. Then I'll kindof get the smell of that lame egg and stand up quick. Ready?"

"Shoot, " said Pete. 

Brevoort tossed an egg on the pile. Several of the eggs broke with afaint "plop. " Pete wrinkled his nose, and his face expressed suchutter astonishment, disgust, even horror, as the full significance ofthe age of those eggs ascended to him, that he did not need to act hispart. He got to his feet and backed away from those eggs, even asBrevoort rose slowly, as though just aware that the eggs were notaltogether innocent. The two Mexicans had risen to their knees androcked back and forth, laughing at the beautiful joke on the Gringoes. Plop!--Plop!--Plop! and three of the four eggs targeted an accuratetwelve o'clock. Pete leaped and kicked viciously. His high heelcaught one choking Mexican in the jaw just as Brevoort jumped and swungthe single-tree. Pete grabbed up his belt and gun. 

Brevoort had no need to strike again. 

"You go see if the horses are saddled. I'll watch the door, " saidBrevoort. 

Arguilla was awakened from a heavy sleep by the sound of a shot and theshrill yelp of one of his men. A soldier entered and saluted. "TheAmericans have gone, " he reported. 

Arguilla's bloated face went from red to purple, and he reached for hisgun which lay on the chair near his bed. But the lieutenant who hadreported the escape faced his chief fearlessly. 

Arguilla hesitated. "Who guarded them?" he asked hoarsely. 

The lieutenant named the men. 

"Take them out and shoot them--at once. "

"But, Seņor Comandante, they may not stand. The Americans have beatenthem so that they are as dead. "

"Then shoot them where they lay--which will be easier to do. "

CHAPTER XXIX

QUERY

Far out across the starlit gloom the two thoroughbreds raced side byside. They seemed to know what was required of them. A mile, twomiles, three miles, and the night-fire of Arguilla's men was aflickering dot against the black wall of the night. 

Brevoort pulled his horse to a walk. "We done left 'em looking at eachother, " he drawled. 

"Two of 'em ain't, " said Pete succinctly. 

Brevoort chuckled. "I was tryin' that hard not to laugh when yousmelled them aigs, that I come nigh missin' my chanct. You sure aresome play-actor. "

"Play-actor nothin'! I was doggone near sick. I kin smell 'em yet. Say, I'd like to know what'll happen to them two Cholas. "

"Ain't you satisfied with what we done to 'em?"

"Yep. But Arguilla won't be. I'd hate to be in their boots--" Fromthe south came the faint, sinister "pop! pop!" of rifle shots. Peteturned quickly toward his companion. "Right now, " he concluded, shrugging his shoulders. 

"We got trouble of our own, " said Brevoort. "Brent tried to run hisiron on us--but he got hold of the wrong iron. Now the deal will haveto go through like The Spider figured. Mebby Brent knows thatArguilla's men are at the Ortez--and mebby he don't. But we don't say. We ride in and repo't that Ortez says O. K. --that his vaqueros arecomin' for the cattle and that he is comin' with the cash. Brent won'tbat an eye. I know him. He'll jest tell you to take the dough andride to Sanborn and take the train for El Paso. Then he'll vamose. "

"How's that?"

"'Cause he knows that this is the finish. When he was handlin' stockfrom south of the line, --in small bunches, and pushin' it throughfast, --we was all right. The Mexican punchers was doin' the stealin', sellin' the stuff to Brent. And Brent was sellin' to Arguilla'sagent--which is Ortez. All Ortez did was pay for it and turn it overto Arguilla. Mexicans was stealin' from Mexicans and sellin' to Brentcheap, 'cause he paid cash, and Brent was sellin' it to Mexicans. Thefellas that stole the stuff knew better 'n to try to sell to Arguilla. All they would 'a' got would 'a' been a promise. So they sells toBrent, who bought mighty cheap, but paid real money. That worked fine. But when Brent starts stealin' from white men on his side of theline--why, he knows that it is the finish--so he figures on a bighaul--or The Spider does--kind of takes them ranchers up north bysurprise and gets away with a couple of hundred head. But he knows, assure's he's a foot high, that they'll trail him--so he forgets that TheSpider said you was to collect from Ortez and bank the dough--andfigures on collectin' it himself. "

"Kind of a cold deal, eh, Ed?"

"All crooked deals is cold. "

"But I wonder why Brent didn't send me down to the Ortez alone. Whatdid he ring you in for?"

"Brent figured that I'd get wise to his scheme. You see, theunderstandin' with The Spider is, that I'm fo'man of the Olla, caseBrent gets bumped off. Mebby The Spider thinks I'm square. Mebby hejest plays me against Brent to keep us watchin' each other. I dunno. "

"You figure Arguilla will send old man Ortez over the line with thecash?"

"Yes. He will now. We done spoiled his game by gittin' loose. But Idon't say that Arguilla won't try to raid the Olla and get that moneyback, after he's got the cattle movin' south. You see thehigh-steppers that are backin' Arguilla ain't trustin' him with a wholelot of cash, personal. 'Course, what he loots is his. But their moneyis goin' for grub and ammunition. They figure if he gets enough cash, he'll quit. And they don't want him to quit. He thinks he's the bigsmoke--but all he is is hired man to big money. "

"He's been played, right along--same as us, eh?"

"Same as us. "

"Well, Ed, I don't mind takin' a long chanct--but I sure don't aim tolet any man make a monkey of me. "

"Then you want to quit this game, " said Brevoort. "Why don't you kindof change hosses and take a fresh start? You ain't been in the game solong but what you can pull out. "

"I was thinkin' of that. But what's a fella goin' to do? Here we be, ridin' straight for the Olla. Right soon the sun'll be shinin' and thehosses millin' round in the corral and gittin' warmed up, and Brent'llbe tellin' us he can use us helpin' push them cattle through to thesouth end: and I reckon we'll change our saddles and git right to work, thinkin' all the time of quittin', but keepin' along with the job jestthe same. A fella kind of hates to quit any job till it's done. And Ifigure this here deal ain't even started to make trouble--yet. Waittill the T-Bar-T outfit gits a-goin'; and mebby the Concho, and theBlue Range boys. "

"Hand over your canteen a minute, " said Brevoort. "I lost mine in theget-away. "

Dawn found them inside the south line fence. In an hour they were atthe 'dobe and clamoring for breakfast. The cook told them that Brentwas at the north line camp, and had left no word for them. 

Brevoort glanced quickly at Pete. Evidently Brent had not expectedthem to return so soon, if at all. 

After breakfast they sauntered to the bunk-house, and pulled off theirboots and lay down. 

It was about noon when the cook called them. "The bunch is back, " hesaid. "Harper just rode in. He says the old man is sore aboutsomethin'. "

"The Spider?" queried Brevoort. 

"Nope, Sam. "

"Goin' to ride over?" asked Pete, after the cook had left. 

"No. But I'm goin' to throw a saddle on one of the never-sweats andI'm goin' to pick a good one. "

"I reckon Blue Smoke'll do for me. You goin' to pull your freight, Ed?"

"We got our runnin' orders. The minute old man Ortez hands over thatcash, there'll be a hole in the scenery where we was. "

"That's my idee. But suppose we make it through to El Paso all right. What do we do next?"

"That's kind of like jumpin' off the aidge of the Grand Caņon andaskin' yourself what you're goin' to do while you're in the air. Weain't lit yet. "

CHAPTER XXX

BRENT'S MISTAKE

Following the trail that Brevoort and Pete had taken from the Ortezrancho, Arguilla and his men rode north and with them rode Ortez andseveral of his vaqueros. Within a few miles of the Olla the raggedsoldiery swung west to the shelter of the low hills that ran parallelto the Olla line, while Ortez and his men rode directly to the Ollafence and entered a coulee near the big gate, where they waited thearrival of Brent and the herd. 

About two hours before sundown one of Arguilla's lieutenants appearedon the edge of the coulee where he could overlook the country. At hissignal the soldiers were to join the Ortez riders, but not until Brentand his men had the cattle delivered. 

Arguilla, who was to keep out of sight, had told Ortez to pay theamount stipulated by Brent--and at the old established rate of twentydollars a head--which meant that upon receipt of the cattle Ortez wouldgive the foreman of the Olla four thousand dollars in gold. Ortez knewthat Arguilla contemplated killing Brent and his men and recovering themoney. Although his sympathies were with his own people, Ortez feltthat such treachery was too black, even for a leader of guerillas. 

He realized that the first word of warning to Brent would mean his owndoom and the death of his men in the battle which would follow, for heknew the Gringo cowboys would fight to the last man. Against this heweighed the probability of a fight if he did not speak. In eitherevent he would be dishonored in the eyes of the powers who had trustedhim with handling the finances of the cause. It was in this state ofmind that he waited for the arrival of the men whom he considereddoomed, never imagining for a moment that Brent himself anticipatedtreachery. 

The sun had almost touched the western sky-line when a solitary riderspurred out from the great gate of the Olla and up to Ortez, whorecognized in him one of the young vaqueros that had escaped fromArguilla's guards the preceding night. 

"Here's our tally. " Pete handed Ortez a slip of paper. "Two hundredand three head. My patron says to call it two hundred even, and togive you a receipt for the money when you turn it over to me. "

Arguilla's lieutenant had expected to see the herd turned over to Ortezbefore the payment of any moneys. He hesitated as to whether or not heshould ride to the rim of the coulee and signal his company tointerfere with the transaction then and there in the name of hissuperior officer. The lieutenant did not believe that Ortez would turnover the money for a mere slip of paper. But Ortez, strangely enough, seemed only too eager to close the transaction. Stepping to his horse, he took two small canvas sacks from his saddle-pockets. Still thelieutenant hesitated. He had had no instructions covering such acontingency. 

"I await your receipt, seņor, " said Ortez as he handed the money toPete. 

Pete drew a folded slip of paper from his pocket and gave it quickly toOrtez. "Brent'll push the cattle through muy pronto. " And whirlinghis horse round under spur, he was halfway back to the Olla gate beforethe lieutenant thought of signaling to Arguilla. 

From the vantage of the higher ground the lieutenant could see that thegate was already open--that the Gringos were slowly pushing the cattlethrough, and out to the desert. He waved his serape. Almost on theinstant Arguilla's men appeared in the distance, quirting their poniesas they raced toward the coulee. The lieutenant turned and gazed atthe herd, which, from bunching through the gateway, had spread outfanwise. Already the Ortez vaqueros were riding out to take charge. But something was happening over near the Olla gate. The Americancowboys had scattered and were riding hard, and behind them faintflashes cut the dusk and answering flashes came from those who fled. The lieutenant shouted and spread his arms, signaling Arguilla to stopas he and his men swung round the mouth of the coulee below. Somethirty riders from the T-Bar-T, the Blue Range, and the Concho sweptthrough the gateway and began shooting at the Ortez vaqueros. Arguillasaw that his own plan had gone glimmering. Ortez had in some wayplayed the traitor. Moreover, they were all on American territory. The herd had stampeded and scattered. In the fading light Arguilla sawone after another of the Ortez vaqueros go down. Did this noblecaptain of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity rush to the rescue of hiscountrymen? He did not. Cursing, he swung his horse toward the south, followed by his amazed and altogether uncomprehending soldiery. Therehad been too many Gringoes in that wild, shrilling cavalcade to suithis fancy. Meanwhile the Mexican lieutenant wisely disappeared downthe western edge of the coulee and rode wide until he deemed it safe tochange his course and follow in the dusty wake of his noble leader's"strategic retreat. "

Only one of the Ortez riders escaped the sudden and furious visitationof the northern cattlemen, and he escaped because his horse, mortallywounded, had fallen upon him. In the succeeding darkness he was passedunnoticed by the returning Americans. 

The Olla men, also taken by surprise, had acted quickly. Bettermounted than most of their pursuers, who rode tired horses, the Ollariders spread at the first warning shout. Familiar with the country, they were able to get away unscathed, partly because the attention ofthe pursuers was centered chiefly on the herd. 

It had been a case of each man for himself with the Olla riders, theexceptions to this being Brevoort and Pete, who had ridden togetherfrom the moment that Pete had shouted that sudden warning to hiscompanions at the gateway, where they had sat their horses waiting forhim to return from his mission to Ortez. Brent himself had posted alookout at the northern gateway of the ranch, with instructions towatch for any possible pursuit. This cowboy, wise in his generation, had caught sight of a large body of riders bearing down from the north. He knew by the way they rode that they meant business. He knew alsothat they were too many for the Olla men. He focused his glass onthem, got one good look, and calmly turned his horse and rode along theline fence to an arroyo, where he dismounted and waited until thevisiting gentlemen had got well onto the Olla territory. Then hemounted and took his leisurely way toward space. He knew that theOlla, as a safe and paying proposition, had ceased to exist. 

Brent, mounted on one of the thoroughbreds, lost no time in heading forSanborn and the railroad, once he had ridden clear of the runningskirmish with the northerners. He surmised that Pete and Brevoortwould make for Sanborn--and they had The Spider's money. Brent alsoknew that he had a faster horse than either of them. If he could reachSanborn ahead of them, he would have the advantage of cover--and oftaking them by surprise . . . 

The country was fairly open from the eastern boundary of the Olla towithin a few miles of Sanborn, where a veritable forest of cacti hadsprung up--one of those peculiar patches of desert growth, outlined ina huge square as definitely as though it had been planted by man. Thewagon-road passed close to the northern edge of this freakish forest, and having passed, swung off toward the railroad, which it finallyparalleled. It was in this vantage-ground of heavy shadow that Brenthad planned to waylay Brevoort and Pete. To avoid chance discovery, Brent had ridden considerably out of his way to keep clear of theregular trail from the Olla to Sanborn, and had lost more time than herealized. Brevoort, on the contrary, had taken the regular trail, which joined the main wagon-road. 

Pete and Brevoort rode easily, as the local made the Sanborn stop atsix in the morning. Moreover, they did not care to spend any greatlength of time in Sanborn. They had planned to leave their horses atthe livery stable--to be called for later. 

At first they talked of the raid, the probable fate of Ortez and hismen, and of Arguilla's flight. And from that they came to consideringtheir own plans which, if successful, would find them in El Paso withseveral thousand dollars which belonged in reality to Arguilla'sbackers. There was an unvoiced but evident understanding between themthat they would keep together so long as safety permitted. Pete hadmade up his mind to look for work on some southern ranch--and have donewith the high trails of outlawry. Brevoort, falling into his mood, asmuch because he liked Pete as anything else, had decided to "throw in"with him. Had Pete suggested robbing a bank, or holding up a train, the big, easy-going Texan would have fallen in with the suggestionquite as readily, not because Pete had any special influence over him, but purely because Pete's sprightliness amused and interested him. Moreover, Pete was a partner that could be depended upon in fairweather or foul. 

Their plan once made, they became silent, each busy with his own moreintimate thoughts: Brevoort wondering what Pete would say if he were tosuggest dividing the money and making for the coast and Alaska--andPete endeavoring to reconcile himself to the idea that The Spider wasactually Boca's father. For Pete had been thinking of Boca, even whilehe had been talking with Brevoort. It seemed that he always thought ofher just before some hidden danger threatened. He had been thinking ofher--even aside from her presence in the patio--that night when theposse had entered Showdown. He had thought of her while riding to theOrtez rancho--and now he was thinking of her again . . . He raised hishead and glanced around. The starlit desert was as soundless as thevery sky itself. The soft creak of the saddles, the breathing of thehorses, the sand-muffled sound of their feet . . . Directly aheadloomed a wall of darkness. Pete touched Brevoort's arm and gesturedtoward it. 

"They call it the Devil's Graveyard, " said Brevoort. "A sizable bunchof cactus alongside the road. We're closer to Sanborn than I figured. "

"Well, we can't go any slower 'less we git off and set down, " Peteremarked. "Blue Smoke here is fightin' the bit. He ain't no graveyardhoss. "

"I notice he's been actin' nervous--and only jest recent. "

"He always runs his fool head off--if I let him, " asserted Pete. Andhe fell silent, thinking of Boca and the strange tricks that Fate playson the righteous and wicked alike. He was startled out of his reverieby Brevoort. "Mebby I'm dreamin', " whispered the Texan, "but I'm plumbcertain I seen somethin' drift into that cactus-patch. "

"Cattle, " said Pete. 

"No. No cattle in these parts. "

"Stray--mebby. "

"I dunno. Jest sit light in your saddle and watch your hoss's ears. He'll tell you right quick if there's another hoss in there. "

Pete knew that the Texan would not have spoken without some pertinentreason. They were drawing close to the deeper shadow of the cacti, which loomed strangely ominous in the faint light of the stars. Brevoort's horse, being the faster walker, was a little ahead andseemingly unconscious of anything unusual in the shadows, when BlueSmoke, range-bred and alert, suddenly stopped. 

"Put 'em up--quick!" came from the shadows. 

Pete's hand dropped to his holster, but before he could jerk out hisgun, Brevoort had fired at the sound--once, twice, three times . . . Pete heard the trampling of a frightened horse somewhere in the brush. 

"I got him, " Brevoort was saying. 

Pete's face was cold with sweat. "Are you hit, Ed?" he said. 

"No, he missed me. He was right quick, but I had him lined againstthat openin' there before he said a word. If he'd 'a' stood back andkept still he could have plugged us when we rode past. He was too sureof his game. "

"Who was it, Ed?"

"I got one guess. We got the money. And he got what was comin' tohim. " Brevoort swung down and struck a match. "I owed you that, Brent, " he said as the match flared up and went out. 

"Brent!" exclaimed Pete. 

Brevoort mounted and they rode on past the sinister place, in the chillsilence of reaction from the tense and sudden moment when death hadspoken to them from the shadows where now was silence and thatvoiceless thing that had once been a man. "Got to kill to live!" Peteshivered as they swung from the shadows and rode out across the open, and on down the dim, meandering road that led toward the faint, greenish light glimmering above the desert station of Sanborn. 

CHAPTER XXXI

FUGITIVE

Rodeo, Hachita, Monument--long hours between each town as the local didits variable thirty-five miles an hour across the southern end of NewMexico. It was Pete's first experience in traveling by rail, and trueto himself he made the most of it. He used his eyes, and came to theconclusion that they were aboard a very fast train--a train that "wouldsure give a thoroughbred the run of its life"--Pete's standard of speedbeing altogether of the saddle--and that more people got on and offthat train than could possibly have homes in that vast and uninhabitedregion. The conductor was an exceedingly popular individual. Everyone called him by his "front name, " which he acknowledged pleasantly inlike manner. Pete wondered if the uniformed gentleman packed a gun;and was somewhat disappointed when he discovered that that protuberancebeneath the conductor's brass-buttoned coat was nothing more deadlythan a leather wallet, pretty well filled with bills and loosesilver--for that isolated railroad did a good cash business anddiscriminating conductors grew unobtrusively wealthy. And what wasstill more strange to Pete was the fact that the conductor seemed toknow where each person was going, without having to refer to anypenciled notation or other evident data. 

The conductor was surprisingly genial, even to strangers, for, havingannounced that the next station was El Paso, he took the end seat ofthe combination baggage and smoking car, spread out his report sheet, and as he sorted and arranged the canceled tickets, he chatted withPete and Brevoort, who sat facing him. Had they heard the news?Brevoort shook his head. Well, there had been a big fight down alongthe line, between the northern cattlemen and Arguilla's soldiers. Itwas rumored that several American cowboys had been killed. He hadheard this from the agent at Hermanas, who had "listened in" on thewire to El Paso. Perhaps they had heard about it, though, as they hadcome up from that way. No? Well, the El Paso papers already had thenews, by wire. How was the cattle business going, anyway?

Brevoort said that it was pretty fair. 

The conductor knew of a nice little hotel near the station--in fact hestopped there himself. El Paso was the end of his run. If the boyswere going to see the town, they couldn't do better than to stop atthis hotel. Clean beds, good food, quiet, and reasonable as to rates. 

Pete was about to say something when Brevoort touched him gently withhis knee. 

"We was lookin' for a place like that, " said Brevoort, suddenlyloquacious. "We sure aim to see this town. We just been paid off--wewas workin' for the Bar-Cross--and we figured on seein' a little highlife a-fore we went to punchin' again. Is that hotel you was speakin'about open all night?"

The conductor chuckled. "Ain't been closed a minute for six years thatI know. Mostly railroad men. And say, if you figure on being in townmore than a couple of days, you can save money by taking your room bythe week. "

"Thanks, " said Brevoort. "We aim to stay a week, anyhow. "

"Well, they'll use you all right, " asserted the conductor. "And ifyou're looking for a place to buy anything--clothes or collars orshirts--why, right across from the hotel there's as fine a littleclothing-store as you can find in town. The man that runs is a friendof mine, and he'll use you white. Just tell him I sent you. Stokes ishis name--Len Stokes. "

"Thanks, neighbor, " said Brevoort, and Pete thought that Brevoort'stone was the least bit sarcastic. 

"That's all right, " said the genial conductor. "I always like to seethe boys have a good time. "

Pete himself was a trifle suspicious of the conductor's solicitude asto their welfare, naturally unaware that that worthy official got arake-off on all customers mentioning his name at the hotel andclothing-store. 

He gathered up his reports and tickets, snapped a rubber band roundthem, and dropped them in his capacious pocket. "We're eight minuteslate, " he remarked, glancing at his watch. "Now what--" He rose andmade for the end door as the train slowed up and stopped at an isolatedsiding. Pete glanced out and saw a little red box of a building, fouror five empty freight cars, and a curve of rail that swung off southfrom the main line. No passengers got on or off the train, but Petenoticed that the conductor was talking earnestly with a hollow-cheeked, blue-overalled man who had just handed him a slip of paper. 

The conductor waved his arm. The train pulled out. A little later hecame and took his seat opposite Pete. Conductor Stokes seemed evenmore genial than ever, elaborating on the opportunities for "a goodtime" in El Paso, and reiterating the hope that they would makethemselves at home at his hotel. He joked and talked familiarly aboutthe more notorious sections of the town, warned them to be on thelookout for thugs, and finally excused himself and entered the baggagecompartment. 

Pete saw Brevoort lean forward and hastily snatch up a crumpled slip ofpaper which had dropped from the conductor's pocket as he got up. Brevoort scanned the paper, crumpled it, and tossed it out in the aisle. 

"We didn't see that, " he told Pete. 

"What was it?"

"Forget it, " said Brevoort, as the door opened and the conductor, glancing about, finally saw and recovered the service wire. "Runningorders, " he said, as he stuffed it in his pocket and moved on down theaisle. Pete gazed out of the window, apparently absorbed in looking atthe desert. Brevoort rolled a cigarette, and nodded casually. 

The door in the far end of the car slammed. Brevoort turned to Pete. "Look straight ahead and--listen. That paper you saw was a telegraphfrom the agent at Sanborn sayin' a man had been found shot, and towatch out for two cow-punchers that bought tickets for El Paso--whichis us. That's how we came to stop at the junction back there, whichain't a regular stop. It means there'll be a marshal waitin' for us atEl Paso. "

"Then let's git off this doggone thing, " suggested Pete. 

"She stops onct before we git in, " said Brevoort. "It's gittin'dark--and we got one chanct. When she slows down, we go into thebaggage-car there and tell the boss we're lookin' for our war-bag, which we didn't have. Jest about the time she stops, we drop off. Theside door's open. "

"We'll be plumb afoot, " said Pete. 

"Yes. And we'll have to hole up somewhere till we git somestore-clothes--and change our looks--and mebby our luck, which isrunnin' bad right now. "

"Do we split up when we hit town?" queried Pete. 

"We got to: and you want to git rid of that there cash just as quick asyou kin. Got any of your own money on you?"

"Got a couple of month's pay. You got the tickets. I'll give youthat. "

"Forget it! Small change don't count right now. Awhile back I wasthinkin' of puttin' it up to you that we split the big money and take alittle pasear up to Alaska, where it ain't so warm. The Spider dassentsqueal to the law, bein' in bad hisself. We could sure make a get-awaywith it. But that there telegraph done settled that deal. "

"It was settled afore that, Ed. "

"Meanin' you wouldn't split, anyhow?"

"That's what. "

"But it's crooked money, Pete. And it ain't lucky. Supposin' we getcaught? Who gits the money? The Spider, or Arguilla's bunch, or youor me? Not on your life! The cops get it--and keep it. "

"That's all right. But if I git through, these here pesos goes to thatbank. Anyhow, you said it ain't lucky money. So I aim to git awayfrom it pronto. Then I'm square with The Spider--and I quit. "

"You can't shake the game that easy, Pete. I quit when we started forSanborn--and what did we run into? And you bein' with me gits you inbad, likewise. "

"If that's what's botherin' you, why, I'll take the chanct, and stick, "said Pete. 

"Nope. Right now I'm lookin' out for myself, and nobody else. If theykin hang that last deal onto me--and you know what I mean--why, yourUncle Ed'll sure have to take the long trail. And I aim to keepa-ridin' in the sun for a spell yet. We're gittin' clost to town. Mebby we can drop off easy and sift out of sight without any fuss. Then we got a chanct to change our clothes and git rid of that dough. They'll be lightin' the lamps right soon. Them saddle-bags buckled?"

"They sure are. "

"All right. When you hear 'em whistle for the crossin' jest stand upand drop 'em out of the window. Nobody kin see you from behind. Thenwe mosey into the baggage-car and tell the agent in there we're lookin'for our war-bag. Bein' express messenger, he packs a gun. You want tostep lively for that side door. "

"I git you, Ed. What's all them lights out there?"

"That's the town. She's jest whistlin' for the crossin'. Dump yourfreight--easy, like you was lookin' out at the scenery. That's her. Now, stretch your arms and kind of look round. The conductor is out onthe back platform. Come on!"

The express messenger was leaning from the side door in the act ofswinging a parcel to the local agent at the Grossing, when Brevoort andPete entered. With his back toward them and absorbed in launching thepackage he did not see them as they angled quickly to the other doorand dropped off into the night. The train slowed almost to a stop, thegrinding brakes eased, and it drew away, leaving Pete and Brevoortsquatting behind a row of empty oil barrels along the track. 

CHAPTER XXXII

EL PASO

As the tail-lights of the train disappeared, Pete and Brevoort rose andwalked down the track several hundred yards. Pete was certain thatthey had retraced too far, but Brevoort assured him that he knew aboutwhere to look for the saddle-bags. "I noticed that we passed a pile ofnew ties, jest after you dropped 'em, " said the Texan. 

Pete insisted that they had come too far until they almost walked intothe ties. They searched about in the darkness, feeling along theground with their feet, until finally Brevoort stumbled over thesaddle-bags at the bottom of the ditch along the right-of-way. Hepicked them up. Pete was still rummaging around as Brevoortstraightened. For an instant the Texan was tempted to keep up thepretense of searching and so drift farther from Pete, until under coverof darkness he could decamp with the money--across the border and makea fresh start with it--as he told himself, "something to start on. "

But suddenly, and most absurdly alien to his present mood, came thevivid recollection of Pete's face when he had smelled thoseunforgettable eggs in the box-stall of the Ortez stables. Why thisshould have changed Brevoort's hasty inclination is explainable, perhaps, through that strange transition from the serious to thehumorous; that quick relief from nervous tension that allows a man toreadjust himself toward the universe. Brevoort cursed softly tohimself as he strode to Pete. "Here they are. Found them back there apiece. Now we got to foot it acrost this end of the town and driftwide of the white-lights. Down to the south end we kin get somethin'to eat, and some new clothes. Them Jew stores is open late. "

Following the river road they skirted the town until opposite theMexican quarter, where, Brevoort explained, they would be comparativelysafe, so long as they attended to their own business. 

Pete was amazed by the lights and the clamor--a stringed orchestraplaying in this open front, and a hot-dog vender declaiming in thisopen front; a moving-picture entrance brilliantly illuminated, and aconstant movement of folk up and down the streets in free-and-easyfashion, and he almost forgot the cumulative hazards of theircompanionship in experiencing his first plunge into city life. Brevoort, who knew the town, made for a Mexican lodging-house, wherethey took a room above the noisy saloon, washed, and after downing adrink of vile whiskey, crossed the street to a dingy restaurant. Laterthey purchased some inconspicuous "town-clothes" which they carriedback to their room. 

Pete was for staying right where they were until morning, but Brevoort, naturally restless, suggested that they go to a moving-picture theater. They changed their clothes. Pete felt decidedly uncomfortable in thecoat, and was only persuaded to wear it when Brevoort pointed out thatit was a case of either leave their guns in the room or wear somethingto cover them. Then came the question of what they were to do with themoney. Pete was for taking it along with them, but Brevoort vetoed thesuggestion. "It's as safe here as in a bank, " he said, and taking thetwo sacks from the saddle-pockets he lowered each one gently into thebig water-pitcher. "Nothin' in there but water, which don't interest aChola nohow. But I'll cinch it. " Which he did downstairs, as he drewa handful of gold pieces from his pocket, counted them carefully, andleft something like fifty dollars with the proprietor, asking him totake care of the money for them, as they did not want to get "plumbbroke" the first night in town. The Mexican grinned understandingly. He was familiar with the ways of cowboys. Their money would be safewith him. 

Outside Pete asked Brevoort if he had not "jest about made a present offifty to that Mex. "

"Not any. He figures he'll get his share of it when we git to hittin'the high-spots--which we don't aim to hit, this journey. That Mexicansure thinks he's got all the money we own except what's on us rightnow. So he won't ever think of goin' through our stuff upstairs. Thatfifty was insurance on the big money. Let's go where we kin git a realdrink--and then we'll have a look at a show. "

The "real drink" was followed by another. When Brevoort suggested athird, Pete shook his head. "It's all right, if you want to hit it, Ed--but it's takin' a big chanct. Somethin' might slip. 'T ain't thedrinkin'--but it's the drinkin' right now. "

"Reckon you 're right, " concurred Brevoort. "But I ain't had a drinkfor so long--let's go see that show. "

They crowded into a cheap and odoriferous nickel theater, andstraightway Pete forgot where he was and all about who he was inwatching the amazing offerings of the screen. The comedy featurepuzzled him. He thought that he was expected to laugh--folks all roundhim were laughing--but the unreality of the performance left himstaring curiously at the final tangle of a comedy which struggled to befunny to the bitter end. His attention was keen for the next picture, a Western drama, entitled "The Battle of the Border, " which ran swiftlyto lurid climax after climax, until even Pete's unsophisticated minddoubted that any hero could have the astounding ability to get out oftight places as did the cowboy hero of this picture. This sprightlyadventurer had just killed a carload of Mexicans, leaped from the roofof an adobe to his horse, and made off into the hills--they were realhills of the desert country, sure enough--as buoyantly as though he hadjust received his pay-check and was in great haste to spend it, neveronce glancing back, and putting his horse up grades at a pace thatwould have made an old-timer ashamed of himself had he to ride sixtymiles to the next ranch before sundown--as the lead on the picturestated. Still, Pete liked that picture. He knew that kind ofcountry--when suddenly he became aware of the tightly packed room, thefoul air laden with the fumes of humanity, stale whiskey, and tobacco, the shuffling of feet as people rose and stumbled through the darknesstoward the street. Pete thought that was the end of the show, but asBrevoort made no move to go, he fixed his attention on the screenagain. Immediately another scene jumped into the flickering square. Pete stiffened. Before him spread a wide caņon. A tiny rider wascoming down the trail from the rim. At the bottom was a Mexican 'dobe, a ramshackle stable and corral. And there hung the Olla beneath anacacia. A saddle lay near the corral bars. Several horses moved aboutlazily . . . The hero of the recent gun-fight was riding into the yard. . . Some one was coming from the 'dobe. Pete almost gasped as aMexican girl, young, lithe, and smiling, stepped into the foregroundand held out her hands as the hero swung from his horse. The girl wastaller and more slender than Boca--yet in the close-up which followed, while her lover told her of the tribulations he had recentlyexperienced, the girl's face was the face of Boca--the same sweetlycurved and smiling mouth, the large dark eyes, even the manner in whichher hair was arranged . . . 

Pete nudged Brevoort. "I reckon we better drift, " he whispered. 

"How's that, Pete?"

"The girl there in the picture. Mebby you think I'm loco, but there'ssomethin' always happens every time I see her. "

"You got a hunch, eh?"

"I sure got one. "

"Then we play it. " And Brevoort rose. They blinked their way to theentrance, pushed through the crowd at the doorway, and started towardtheir room. "I didn't want to say anything in there, " Brevoortexplained. "You can't tell who's sittin' behind you. But what was yougettin' at, anyhow?"

"You recollect my tellin' you about that trouble at Showdown? And thegirl was my friend? Well, I never said nothin' to you about it, but Igit to thinkin' of her and I can kind of see her face like she wastryin' to tell me somethin', every doggone time somethin's goin' to gowrong. First off, I said to myself I was loco and it only happenedthat way. But the second time--which was when we rode to the Ortezranch--I seen her again. Then when we was driftin' along by thatcactus over to Sanborn I come right clost to tellin' you that I seenher--not like I kin see you, but kind of inside--and I knowed thatsomethin' was a-comin' wrong. Then, first thing I know--and I surewasn't thinkin' of her nohow--there is her face in that picture. Itell you, Ed, figuring out your trail is all right, and sure wise--butI'm gettin' so I feel like playin' a hunch every time. "

"Well, a drink will fix you up. Then we'll mosey over to the room. Our stuff'll be there all right. "

"'T ain't the money I'm thinkin' about. It's you and me. "

"Forget it!" Brevoort slapped Pete on the shoulder. "Come on in hereand have something. "

"I'll go you one more--and then I quit, " said Pete. For Pete began torealize that Brevoort's manner was slowly changing. Outwardly he wasthe same slow-speaking Texan, but his voice had taken on a curiousinflection of recklessness which Pete attributed to the few butgenerous drinks of whiskey the Texan had taken. And Pete knew whatwhiskey could do to a man. He had learned enough about that when withthe horse-trader. Moreover, Pete considered it a sort of weakness--toindulge in liquor when either in danger or about to face it. He had nomoral scruples whatever. He simply viewed it from a utilitarian angle. A man with the fine edge of his wits benumbed by whiskey was apt toblunder. And Pete knew only to well that they would have need for allof their wits and caution to get safely out of El Paso. And to blundernow meant perhaps a fight with the police--for Pete knew that Brevoortwould never suffer arrest without making a fight--imprisonment, andperhaps hanging. He knew little of Brevoort's past record, but he knewthat his own would bulk big against him. Brevoort had taken anotherdrink after they had tacitly agreed to quit. Brevoort was the olderman, and Pete had rather relied on his judgment. Now he felt thatBrevoort's companionship would eventually become a menace to theirsafety. 

"Let's get back to the room, Ed, " he suggested as they came out of thesaloon. 

"Hell, we ain't seen one end of the town yet. "

"I'm goin' back, " declared Pete. 

"Got another hunch?"--and Brevoort laughed. 

"Nope. I'm jest figurin' this cold. A good gambler don't drink whenbe's playin'. And we're sure gamblin'--big. "

"Reckon you're right, pardner. Well, we ain't far from our blankets. Come on. "

The proprietor of the rooming-house was surprised to see them return sosoon and so unauspiciously. He counted out Brevoort's money and gaveit back to him. 

"Which calls for a round before we hit the hay, " said Brevoort. 

The room upstairs was hot and stuffy. Brevoort raised the window, rolled a cigarette and smoked, gazing down on the street, which hadbecome noisier toward midnight. Pete emptied the pitcher and stowedthe wet sacks of gold in his saddle-pockets. 

"Told you everything was all right, " said Brevoort, turning to watchPete as he placed the saddlebags at the head of the bed. 

"All right, so far, " concurred Pete. 

"Say, pardner, you losin' your nerve? You act so dam' serious. Hell, we ain't dead yet!"

"No, I ain't losin' my nerve. But I'm tellin' you I been plumb scaredever since I seen that picture. I don't feel right, Ed. "

"I ain't feelin' so happy myself, " muttered Brevoort, turning towardthe window. 

Pete, sitting on the edge of the bed, noticed that Brevoort's face wastense and unnatural. Presently Brevoort tossed his cigarette out ofthe window and turned to Pete. "I been thinkin' it out, " he beganslowly. "That hunch of yours kind of got me goin'. The best thing wekin do is to get out of this town quick. We got to split--no way roundthat. We're all right so far, but by to-morrow they'll be watchin'every train and every hotel, and doggin' every stranger to see whathe's doin'. What you want to do is to take them sacks, wrap 'em up inpaper, put ole E. H. Hodges's name on it--he's president of theStockmen's Security Bank here, and a ole pal of The Spider's--and packit over to the express company and git a receipt. _They'll_ sure gitthat money to the bank. And then you want to fan it. If you jest wasto walk out of town, no'th, you could catch a train for Alamogordo, mebby, and then git a hoss and work over toward the Organ Range, whichis sure open country--and cattle. You can't go back the way wecome--and they'll be watchin' the border south. "

"Where is that express outfit, anyhow?"

"You know that street where we seen the show? Well, if you keep righton you'll come to the Square and the express company is right on thecorner. "

"All right, Ed. But what you goin' to do?"

"I'm goin' to git a soogun to-morrow mornin', roll my stuff and headfor the border, afoot. I'm a ranch-hand lookin' for work. I knowwhere I kin get acrost the river. Then I aim to hit for the dry spot, bush out, and cross the line where they won't be lookin' for a manafoot, nohow. "

"Why don't you git to movin' right now?" Brevoort smiled curiously. "They's two reasons, pardner; one is that I don't want to git stood upby a somebody wantin' to know where I'm goin' at night with mywar-bag--and I sure aim to take my chaps and boots and spurs and stuffalong, for I'm like to need 'em. Then you ain't out of town yet. "

"Which is why you're stickin' around. "

"If we only had a couple of hosses, Pete. It's sure hell bein' afoot, ain't it?"

"It sure is. Say, Ed, we got to split, anyhow. Why don't you git togoin'? It ain't like you was quittin' me cold. "

"You're a mighty white kid, Pete. And I'm goin' to tell you right nowthat you got a heap more sense and nerve than me, at any turn of thegame. You been goin' round to-night on cold nerve and I been travelin'on whiskey. And I come so clost to gittin' drunk that I ain't sure Iain't yet. It was liquor first started me ridin' the high trail. "

Brevoort had seated himself on the bed beside Pete. As the big Texanrolled a cigarette, Pete saw that his hands trembled. For the firsttime that evening Pete noticed that his companion was under a hightension. He could hardly believe that Brevoort's nerve was reallyshaken. 

The street below had grown quieter. From below came the sound of adoor being closed. Brevoort started, cursed, and glanced at Pete. "Closin' up for the night, " he said. Pete quickly shifted his gaze tothe open window. He did not want Brevoort to know that he had noticedthe start, or those hands that trembled. 

They rose early, had breakfast at the restaurant across the street, andreturned to the room, Brevoort with a sogun in which he rolled andcorded his effects and Pete with some brown paper in which he wrappedthe sacks of gold. Brevoort borrowed a pencil from the proprietor andaddressed the package. 

"But how's the bank goin' to know who it's from?" queried Pete, "That's right. I'll put The Spider's name here in the corner. Say, doyou know we're takin' a whole lot of trouble for a man that wouldn'tlift a hand to keep us from bein' sent up?" And Brevoort weighed thepackage thoughtfully. "By rights we ought to hang onto this dough. Weearned it. "

"I sure don't want any of it, Ed. I'm through with this game. "

"I reckon you're right. Well, next off, you git it to that expressoffice. I'll wait till you git back. "

"What's the use of my comin' back, anyhow?" queried Pete. "We paid forour room last night. "

"Ain't you goin' to take your stuff along? You can pack it same asmine. Then when you git to a ranch you are hooked up to ride. "

"Guess you're right, Ed. Well, so-long. "

"See you later. "

Brevoort, who seemed to have recovered his nerve, added, "I aim tolight out jest as quick as you git back. "

Pete was so intent on his errand that he did not see Conductor Stokes, who stood in the doorway of the El Paso House, talking to a man who hada rowdy rolled under his arm, wore overalls, and carried a dinner-pail. The conductor glanced sharply at Pete as he passed, then turnedabruptly, and stepped to a man who stood talking to the clerk at thedesk. 

"I jest saw one of 'em, " said the conductor. "I never forget a face. He was rigged out in town-clothes--but it was him--all right. "

"You sure, Len?"

"Pretty darned sure. "

"Well, we can find out. You set down over there in the window and bereading a paper. I'll go out and follow him. If he comes back thisway, you take a good look at him and give me the high sign if it's oneof 'em. And if it is, he'll be connectin' up with the other one, sooner or later. I'll jest keep my eye on him, anyway. You say he hadon a dark suit and is dark-complexioned and young?"

"Yes--that one. The other was bigger and taller and had light hair andgray eyes. Both of 'em were in their range clothes on number three. "

"All right. " And the plain-clothes man hastened out and up the streetuntil he had "spotted" Pete, just entering the doorway of the expressoffice. 

Pete came out presently, glanced about casually, and started back forthe room. Half a block behind him followed the plain-clothes man, whoglanced in as he passed the hotel. The conductor nodded. Theplain-clothes man hastened on down the street. He saw Pete turn acorner several blocks south. When the detective arrived at the cornerPete was just entering the door of the little clothing-store next tothe restaurant. Presently Pete came out and crossed to the saloon. The detective sauntered down the opposite walk and entering therestaurant telephoned to headquarters. Then he called for coffee andsat watching the saloon across the way. 

Brevoort, who had been sitting on the bed gazing down at the street, saw Pete turn the corner and enter the store. He also saw theplain-clothes man enter the restaurant and thought nothing of it untilpresently he saw another man enter the place. These two were talkingtogether at the table near the front window. Brevoort grew suspicious. The latest arrival had not ordered anything to eat, nor had he greetedthe other as men do when they meet. And they did not seem quite thetype of men to dine in such a place. Pete, cording his belongings inthe new sogun, heard Brevoort muttering something, and turned his head. 

"I'm watchin' a couple of fellas acrost the street, " explainedBrevoort. "Keep back out of sight a minute. "

Pete, on his knees, watched Brevoort's face. "Anything wrong, Ed?" hequeried presently. 

"I dunno. Jest step round behind me. Kin you see that eatin'-place?"

"Yes. "

"Did you see either of them guys when you was out on the street?"

"Why, no. Hold on a minute! That one with the gray clothes wasstandin' on the corner by the express office when I come out. Irecollec' now. He was smokin' a cigar. "

"Yes. And he thrun it away when he went in there. I seen him at thetelephone there on the desk--and pretty soon along comes his friend. Looks kind of queer that he was up at the Square when you was, and thentrails down here where we be. "

"You think mebby--"

"I dunno. If it is we better drift out at the back afore any of 'emgits round there. "

"And leave our stuff, eh?"

"Yes. We got to move quick. They 're sizin' up this buildin' rightnow. Don't show yourself. Wait! One of 'em is comin' out and he'sheaded over here. "

Brevoort drew back, and stepping to the door opened it and strodeswiftly down the dim hall to a window at its farther end. Below thewindow was a shed, and beyond the farther edge of the shed-roof was analley. He hastened back to the room and closed and locked the door. "You loco?" he growled. Pete had drawn a chair to the window and wassitting there, looking out as casually as though there was no dangerwhatever. 

"I thought you made your get-away, " said Pete, turning. "I was jestkeepin' that hombre interested in watchin' me. Thought if he seensomebody here he wouldn't make no quick move to follow you. "

"So you figured I quit you, eh? And you go and set in that winda sothey'd think we was in the room here? And you done it to give me achanct? Well, you got me wrong. I stick. "

"Then I reckon somebody's goin' to git hurt, " said Pete, "for I'm goin'to stick too. "

Brevoort shook his head. "The first guy most like come over to ask theboss who's up here in this room. The boss tells him about us. Now, them coyotes sure would like it a heap better to git us out on thestreet--from behind--than to run up against us holed up here, for theyfigure somebody'll git hurt. Now you slip down that hall, easy, anddrop onto the shed under the winda and fan it down the alley backthere. You got a chanct. I sized up the layout. "

"Nothin' doin'. Why don't you try it yourself?"

"'Cause they'll git one of us, anyhow, and it'll be the fella thatstays. "

"Then I'll flip a dollar to see which stays, " said Pete. 

Before Brevoort could speak, Pete drew a dollar from his pocket andflipped it toward his companion. It fell between them. "I say heads, "said Pete. And he glanced at the coin, which showed tails. "Thedollar says you go, Ed. You want to git a-movin'!"

Brevoort hesitated; Pete rose and urged him toward the door. "So-long, Ed. If you'd 'a' stayed we'd both got shot up. I'll set in the windaso they'll think we 're both here. "

"I'll try her, " said Brevoort. "But I'd 'a' stayed--only I knowed youwouldn't go. So-long, pardner. " He pulled his gun and softly unlockedthe door. There was no one in the hall--and no one on the narrowstairway to the right. He tiptoed to the window, climbed out, and lethimself down to the shed-roof. From the roof he dropped to the alley, glanced round, and then ran. 

Pete locked the door and went back to his chair in front of the window. He watched the man in the restaurant, who had risen and waved his hand, evidently acknowledging a signal from some one. It was the man Petehad seen near the express office--there was no doubt about that. Petenoticed that he was broad of shoulder, stocky, and wore a heavy goldwatch-chain. He disappeared within the doorway below. Presently Peteheard some one coming up the uncarpeted stairway--some one who walkedwith the tread of a heavy person endeavoring to go silently. A briefinterval in which Pete could hear his own heart thumping, and some oneelse ascended the stairway. The boards in the hallway creaked. Someone rapped on the door. 

"I guess this is the finish, " said Pete to himself. Had he beenapprehended in the open, in a crowd on the street, he would not havemade a fight. He had told himself that. But to be run to earth thisway--trapped in a mean and squalid room, away from the sunlight and noslightest chance to get away . . . He surmised that these men knewthat the men that they hunted would not hesitate to kill. Evidentlythey did not know that Brevoort was gone. How could he hold them thatBrevoort might have more time? He hesitated. Should he speak, or keepsilent?

He thought it better to answer the summons. "What do you want?" hecalled. 

"We want to talk to your partner, " said a voice. 

"He's sleepin', " called Pete. "He was out 'most all night. "

"Well, we'll talk with you then. "

"Go ahead. I'm listenin'. "

"Suppose you open the door. "

"And jest suppose I don't? My pardner ain't like to be friendly ifhe's woke up sudden. "

Pete could hear the murmuring of voices as if in consultation. Then, "All right. We'll come back later. "

"Who'll I say wants to see him?" asked Pete. 

"He'll know when he sees us. Old friends of his. "

Meanwhile Pete had risen and moved softly toward the door. Standing toone side he listened. He heard footsteps along the hall--and the soundof some one descending the stairs. "One of 'em has gone down. Theother is in the hall waitin', " he thought. "And both of 'em scared tobust in that door. "

He tiptoed back to the window and glanced down. The heavy-shoulderedman had crossed the street and was again in the restaurant. Pete sawhim step to the telephone. Surmising that the other was telephoningfor reinforcements, Pete knew that he would have to act quickly, orsurrender. He was not afraid to risk being killed in a running fight. He was willing to take that chance. But the thought of imprisonmentappalled him. To be shut from the sun and the space of therange--perhaps for life--or to be sentenced to be hanged, powerless tomake any kind of a fight, without friends or money . . . He thought ofThe Spider, of Boca, of Montoya, and of Pop Annersley; of Andy Whiteand Bailey. He wondered if Ed Brevoort had got clear of El Paso. Heknew that there was some one in the hall, waiting. To make a break forliberty in that direction meant a killing, especially as Brevoort wassupposed to be in the room. "I'll keep 'em guessin', " he told himself, and went back to his chair by the window. And if there was supposed tobe another man in the room, why not carry on the play--for the benefitof the watcher across the street? Every minute would count for oragainst Brevoort's escape. 

Thrusting aside all thought of his own precarious situation, Pete begana brisk conversation with his supposed companion. "How does your headfeel?" he queried, leaning forward and addressing the empty bed. Henodded as if concurring in the answer. 

Then, "Uh-huh! Well, you look it, all right!"

"You don't want no breakfast? Well, I done had mine. "

 .................... 

"What's the time? 'Bout ten. Goin' to git up?"

 .................... 

Pete gestured as he described an imaginative incident relative to hissupposed companion's behavior the preceding night. "Some folks beenhere askin' for you. " Pete shook his head as though he had been askedwho the callers were. He had turned sideways to the open window tocarry on this pantomimic dialogue. He glanced at the restaurant acrossthe street. The heavy-shouldered man had disappeared. Pete heard afaint shuffling sound in the hall outside. Before he could turn thedoor crashed inward. He leapt to his feet. With the leap his handflashed to his side. Unaccustomed to a coat, his thumb caught in thepocket just as the man who had shouldered the flimsy door down, reeledand sprawled on the floor. Pete jerked his hand free, but in that lostinstant a gun roared in the doorway. He crumpled to the floor. Theheavy-shouldered man, followed by two officers, stepped into the roomand glanced about. 

"Thought there was two? Where's the other guy?" queried the policeman. 

The man on the floor rose and picked up his gun. 

"Well, we got one, anyhow. Bill, 'phone the chief that one of 'em gotaway. Have 'em send the wagon. This kid here is done for, I guess. "

"He went for his gun, " said the heavy-shouldered man. "It's a dam'good thing you went down with that door. Gave me a chance to get him. "

"Here's their stuff, " said an officer, kicking Pete's pack that laycorded on the floor. 

"Well, Tim, " said the man who had shouldered the door down, "you stayhere till the wagon comes. Bill and I will look around when he getsback. Guess the other one made for the line. Don't know how he workedit. Keep the crowd out. "

"Is he all in?" queried the officer. 

"No; he's breathin' yet. But he ain't got long. He's a young bird tobe a killer. "

Late that afternoon Pete was taken from the Emergency to the GeneralHospital. Lights were just being turned on in the surgical ward andthe newsboys were shouting an extra, headlining a border raid by theMexicans and the shooting of a notorious bandit in El Paso. 

The president of the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank bought apaper as he stepped into his car that evening and was driven towardhome. He read the account of the police raid, of the escape of one ofthe so-called outlaws, the finding of the murdered man near Sanborn, and a highly colored account of what was designated as the invasion ofthe United States territory by armed troops of Mexico. 

Four thousand dollars in gold had been delivered to him personally thatday by the express company--a local delivery from a local source. "Jim's man, " he said to himself as the car passed through the Plaza andturned toward the eastern side of the town. Upon reaching home thepresident told his chauffeur to wait. Slitting an envelope he wrappedthe paper and addressed it to James Ewell, Showdown, Arizona. 

"Mail it at the first box, " he said. "Then you can put the car up. Iwon't need it to-night. "

The surgeon at the General Hospital was bending over Pete. The surgeonshook his head, then turning he gave the attendant nurse a few briefdirections, and passed on to another cot. As the nurse sponged Pete'sarm, an interne poised a little glittering needle. "There's just achance, " the surgeon had said. 

At the quick stab of the needle, Pete's heavy eyes opened. The littlegray-eyed nurse smiled. The interne rubbed Pete's arm and steppedback. Pete's lips moved. The nurse bent her head. "Did--Ed"--Pete'sface twitched--"make it?"

"You mustn't talk, " said the nurse gently. And wishing with all herheart to still the question that struggled in those dark, anxious eyes, she smiled again. "Yes, he made it, " she said, wondering if Ed werethe other outlaw that the papers had said had escaped. She walkedbriskly to the end of the room and returned with a dampened towel andwiped the dank sweat from Pete's forehead. He stared up at her, hisface white and expressionless. "It was the coat--my hand caught, " hemurmured. 

She nodded brightly, as though she understood. She did not know whathis name was. There had been nothing by which to identify him. Andshe could hardly believe that this youth, lying there under that blackshadow that she thought never would lift again, could be the desperatecharacter the interne made him out to be, retailing the newspaperaccount of his capture to her. 

It was understood, even before the doctor had examined Pete, that hecould not live long. The police surgeon had done what he could. Petehad been removed to the General Hospital, as the Emergency was crowded. 

The little nurse was wondering if he had any relatives, any one forwhom he wished to send. Surely he must realize that he was dying! Shewas gazing at Pete when his eyes slowly opened and the faintest traceof a smile touched his lips. His eyes begged so piteously that shestepped close to the cot and stooped. She saw that he wanted to askher something, or tell her something that was worrying him. "What didit matter?" she thought. At any moment he might drift intounconsciousness . . . 

"Would you--write--to The Spider--and say I delivered the--goods?"

"But who is he--where--"

"Jim Ewell, Showdown--over in--Arizona. "

"Jim Ewell, Showdown, Arizona. " she repeated. "And what name shall Isign?"

"Jest Pete, " he whispered, and his eyes closed. 

Pete's case puzzled Andover, the head-surgeon at, the General. It wasthe third day since Pete's arrival and he was alive--but just alive andthat was all. One peculiar feature of the case was the fact that thebullet--a thirty-eight--which had pierced the right lung, had not goneentirely through the body. Andover, experienced in gun-shot wounds, knew that bullets fired at close range often did freakish things. There had been a man recently discharged from the General asconvalescent, who had been shot in the shoulder, and the bullet, striking the collar-bone, had taken a curious tangent, following up themuscle of the neck and lodging just beneath the ear. In that casethere had been the external evidence of the bullet's location. In thiscase there was no such evidence to go by. 

The afternoon of the third day, Pete was taken to the operating roomand another examination made. The X-ray showed a curious blur near theright side of the spine. To extract the bullet would be a difficultand savage operation, an operation which the surgeon thought hispatient in his present weakened condition could not stand. Pete lay ina heavy stupor, his left arm and the left side of his face partiallyparalyzed. 

The day after his arrival at the General two plain-clothes men came toquestion him. He was conscious and could talk a little. But they hadlearned nothing of his companion, the killing of Brent, nor howBrevoort managed to evade them. They gathered little of Pete's historysave that he told them his name, his age, and that he had no relativesnor friends. On all other subjects he was silent. Incidentally theofficials gave his name to the papers, and the papers dug into theirback files for reference to an article they had clipped from the"Arizona Sentinel, " which gave them a brief account of the Annersleyraid and the shooting of Gary. They made the most of all this, writinga considerable "story, " which the president of the Stockmen's Securityread and straightway mailed to his old acquaintance, The Spider. 

The officers from the police station had told Pete bluntly that hecould not live, hoping to get him to confess to or give evidence as tothe killing of Brent. Pete at once knew the heavy-shouldered man--theman who had shot him down and who was now keen on getting evidence inthe case. 

"So I'm goin' to cross over?" Pete had said, eying the other curiously. "Well, all I wish is that I could git on my feet long enough--to--get acrack at you--on an even break. I wouldn't wear no coat, neither. "

The fact that Pete had bungled seemed to worry him much more than hiscondition. He felt that it was a reflection on his craftmanship. Theplain-clothes man naturally thought that Pete was incorrigible, failingto appreciate that it was the pride of youth that spoke rather than thepersonal hatred of an enemy. 

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE SPIDER'S ACCOUNT

That the news of Pete's serious condition should hit The Spider as hardas it did was as big a surprise to The Spider himself as it could everhave been to his closest acquaintance. Yet it was a fact--and TheSpider never quarreled with facts. 

The spider of the web-weaving species who leaves his web, invitesdisaster unless he immediately weaves another, and The Spider ofShowdown was only too well aware of this. Always a fatalist, he tookthings as they came, but had never yet gone out of his way to tempt thepossibilities. 

Shriveled and aged beyond his natural years, with scarcely a truefriend among his acquaintances, weary of the monotony of life--not inincident but in prospect--too shrewd to drug himself with drink, andrealizing that the money he had got together both by hook and by crookand banked in El Paso could never make him other than he was, he facedthe alternative of binding himself to Pete's dire need and desperatecondition, or riding to Baxter and taking the train from thence to ElPaso--his eyes open to what he was doing, both as a self-appointedSamaritan and as a much-wanted individual in the town where Pete layunconscious, on the very last thin edge of Nothingness. 

The Spider's preparations for leaving Showdown were simple enough. Hehad his Mexican bale and cord the choicest of the rugs and blankets, the silver-studded saddle and bridle, the Bayeta cloth--rare andpriceless--and the finest of his Indian beadwork. Each bale wastagged, and on each tag was written the name of Boca's mother. Allthese things were left in his private room, which he locked. Whetheror not he surmised what was going to happen is a question--but he didnot disregard possibilities. 

His Mexican was left in charge of the saloon with instructions to keepit open as usual, tell no one where his master had gone, and wait forfurther instructions. 

The Spider chose a most ordinary horse from his string and wore a mostordinary suit of clothes. The only things in keeping with his linedand weathered face were his black Stetson and his high-heeled boots. He knew that it would be impossible to disguise himself. He would befoolish to make the attempt. His bowed legs, the scar running fromchin to temple, his very gait made disguise impossible. To those whodid not know him he would be an "old-timer" in from the desert. Tothose who did know him . . . Well, they were not many nor over-anxiousto advertise the fact. 

He left at night, alone, and struck south across the desert, ridingeasily--a shrunken and odd figure, but every inch a horseman. Justbeneath his unbuttoned vest, under his left arm, hung theservice-polished holster of his earlier days. He had more than enoughmoney to last him until he reached El Paso, and a plentiful stock ofcigars. It was about nine o'clock next morning when he pulled up atFlores's 'dobe and dismounted stiffly. Flores was visibly surprisedand fawningly obsequious. His chief was dressed for a long journey. It had been many years since The Spider had ridden so far fromShowdown. Something portentous was about to happen, or had happened. 

Flores's wife, however, showed no surprise, but accepted The Spider'spresence in her usual listless manner. To her he addressed himself asshe made coffee and placed a chair for him. They talked of Boca---andonce The Spider spoke of Boca's mother, whom the Seņora Flores hadknown in Mexico. 

Old Flores fed The Spider's horse, meanwhile wondering what had drawnthe chief from the security of his web. He concluded that The Spiderwas fleeing from some danger---the law, perhaps, or from some ancientgrudge that had at last found him out to harry him into the desert, ahunted man and desperate. The Mexican surmised that The Spider hadmoney with him, perhaps all his money--for local rumor had it that TheSpider possessed great wealth. And of course he would sleep there thatnight . . . 

Upon returning to the 'dobe Flores was told by The Spider to saynothing of having seen him. This confirmed the old Mexican's suspicionthat The Spider had fled from danger. And Flores swore by the saintsthat none should know, while The Spider listened and his thin lipstwitched. 

"You'd knife me in my bed for less than half the money on me, " he toldFlores. 

The Mexican started back, as though caught in the very act, and whinedhis allegiance to The Spider. Had he not always been faithful?

"No, " said The Spider, "but the seņora has. "

Flores turned and shuffled toward the corral. The Spider, standing inthe doorway of the 'dobe, spoke to Flores's wife over his shoulder: "IfI don't show up before next Sunday, seņora, get your man to take you toShowdown. Juan will give you the money, and the things I left upthere. "

"You will not come back, " said the Mexican woman. 

"Don't know but that you are right--but you needn't tell Flores that. "

An hour later The Spider had Flores bring up his horse. He mounted andturned to glance round the place. He shrugged his shoulders. In a fewminutes he was lost to sight on the trail south which ran along thecaņon-bed. 

That night he arrived at Baxter, weary and stiff from his long ride. He put his horse in the livery-stable and paid for its keep inadvance--"a week, " he said, and "I'll be back. "

Next morning he boarded the local for El Paso. He sat in thesmoking-compartment, gazing out on the hurrying landscape. At noon hegot off the train and entered an eating-house across from the station. When he again took his seat in the smoker he happened to glance out. On the platform was a square-built, sombrero'd gentleman, his back tothe coach and talking to an acquaintance. There was something familiarin the set of those shoulders. The Spider leaned forward that he mightcatch a glimpse of the man's face. Satisfied as to the other'sidentity, he leaned back in his seat and puffed his cigar. The Spidermade no attempt to keep from sight. The square-shouldered man was thetown marshal of Hermanas. As the train pulled out, the marshal turnedand all but glanced up when the brakeman, swinging to the steps of thesmoker, reached out and playfully slapped him on the shoulder. The carslid past. The Spider settled himself in his seat. 

With the superstition of the gambler he believed that he would find anenemy in the third person to recognize him, and with a gambler's stolidacceptance of the inevitable he relaxed and allowed himself to plan forthe immediate future. On Pete's actual condition would depend whatshould be done. The Spider drew a newspaper clipping from his pocket. The El Paso paper stated that there was one chance in a thousand ofPete recovering. The paper also stated that there had been moneyinvolved--a considerable sum in gold--which had not been found. Theentire affair was more or less of a mystery. It was hinted that themoney might not have been honestly come by in the first place, and--sententiously--that crime breeds crime, in proof of which, thearticle went on to say; "the man who had been shot by the police wasnone other than Pete Annersley, notorious as a gunman in the service ofthe even more notorious Jim Ewell, of Showdown, or 'The Spider, ' as hewas known to his associates. " Followed a garbled account of the raidon the Annersley homestead and the later circumstance of the shootingof Gary, all of which, concluded the item, spoke for itself. 

"More than Pete had a chance to do, " soliloquized The Spider. "Theygot the kid chalked up as a crook--and he's as straight as a die. " Andstrangely enough this thought seemed to please The Spider. 

Shouldering through the crowd at the El Paso station, The Spider rubbedagainst a well-dressed, portly Mexican who half-turned, showed surpriseas he saw the back of a figure which seemed familiar--the bowed legsand peculiar walk--and the portly Mexican, up from the south becausecertain financial interests had backed him politically were becomingdecidedly uncertain, named a name, not loudly, but distinctly and withpeculiar emphasis. The Spider heard, but did not heed nor hurry. Ablack-shawled Mexican woman carrying a baby blundered into the portlyMexican. He shoved her roughly aside. She cursed him for a pig whorobbed the poor--for he was known to most Mexicans--and he so farforgot his dignity and station as to curse her heartily in return. TheSpider meanwhile was lost in the crowd that banked the station platform. 

El Paso had grown--was not the El Paso of The Spider's earlier days, and for a brief while he forgot his mission in endeavoring mentally toreconstruct the old town as he had known it. Arrived at the Plaza heturned and gazed about. "Number two, " he said to himself, recallingthe portly Mexican--and the voice. He shrugged his shoulders. 

His request to see the president of the Stockmen's Bank was bornehesitatingly to that individual's private office, the messengerreturning promptly with instructions to "show the gentleman in. "

Contrary to all precedent the president, Hodges, was not portly, but aman almost as lean as The Spider himself; a quick, nervous man, forceful and quite evidently "self-made. "

"Sit down, Jim. "

The Spider pulled up a chair. "About that last deposit--"

The president thrust his hand into a pigeon-hole and handed The Spidera slip of paper. 

"So he got here with the cash before they nailed him?" And The Spideryface expressed surprise. 

"The money came by express--local shipment. I tried to keep it out ofthe papers. None of their dam' business. "

"I'm going to close my account, " stated The Spider. 

"Going south?"

"No. I got some business in town. After that--"

"You mean you've got _no_ business in town. Why didn't you write?"

"You couldn't handle it. Figure up my credit--and give me a draft forit, I'll give you my check. Make it out to Peter Annersley, " said TheSpider. 

"One of your gunmen, eh? I see by the papers he's got a poor chance ofusing this. "

"So have I, " and The Spider almost smiled. 

Hodges pushed back his chair. "See here, Jim. You've got no businessin this town and you know it! And you've got enough money to keep youcomfortable anywhere--South America, for instance. Somebody'll spotyou before you've been here twenty-four hours. Why don't you let mecall a taxi--there's a train south at eleven-thirty. "

"Thanks, E. H. --but I'm only going over to the hospital. "

"You sure will, if you stick around this town long. "

"I'm going to see that boy through, " said The Spider. 

"Then you're not after any one?"

"No, not that way. "

"Well, you got me guessing. I thought I knew you. "

"Mebby, Ed. Now, if the boy comes through all right, and I don't, Iwant you to see that he gets this money. There's nobody in town canidentify him but me--and mebby I won't be around here to do it. If hecomes here and tells you he's Pete Annersley and that The Spider toldhim to come, hand him the draft. 'Course, if things go smooth, I'lltake care of that draft myself. "

"Making your will, Jim?"

"Something like that. "

"All right. I might as well talk to the moon. I used to think thatyou were a wise one--"

"Just plain dam' fool, same as you, E. H. The only difference is thatyou're tryin' to help _me_ out--and I aim to help out a kid that isplumb straight. "

"But I have some excuse. If it hadn't been for you when I was downsouth on that Union Oil deal--"

"Ed, we're both as crooked as they make 'em, only you play your gamewith stocks and cash, inside--and I play mine outside, and she's a lonehand. This kid, Pete, is sure a bad hombre to stack up against--buthe's plumb straight. "

"You seem to think a whole lot of him. "

"I do, " said The Spider simply. 

The president shook his head. The Spider rose and stuck out his hand. "So-long, Ed. "

"So-long, Jim. I'll handle this for you. But I hate like hell tothink it's the last time I _can_ handle a deal for you. "

"You can't tell, " said The Spider. 

The president of the Stockmen's Security sat turning over the papers onhis desk. It had been a long while since he had been in thesaddle--some eighteen or twenty years. As a young man he had been sentinto Mexico to prospect for oil. There were few white men in Mexicothen. But despite their vicarious callings they usually stood by eachother. The Spider, happening along during a quarrel among the nativesand the oil-men, took a hand in the matter, which was merely incidentalto his profession. The oil-men had managed to get out of that part ofthe country with the loss of but two men--a pretty fair average, asthings went those days. Years afterwards the president of theStockmen's Security happened to meet The Spider in El Paso--and he didnot forget what he owed him. The Spider at that time had considerablegold which he finally banked with the Stockmen's Security at theother's suggestion. The arrangement was mutually agreeable. TheSpider knew that the president of the Stockmen's Security would neverdisclose his identity to the authorities--and Hodges felt that as asort of unofficial trustee he was able to repay The Spider for hisconsiderable assistance down in Mexico. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

DORIS

Contrast to the rules of the hospital, the head-surgeon was chattingrather intimately with Pete's nurse. They were in the anteroom of thesurgical ward. She was getting ready to go on duty. 

"No, Miss Gray, " said the surgeon positively, "he can't hold out muchlonger unless we operate. And I don't think he could stand anoperation. He has amazing vitality, he's young, and in wonderfulcondition--outdoor life and pretty clean living. But he don't seem tocare whether he lives or not. Has he said anything to you about--"The surgeon paused and cleared his throat. 

"No. He just stares at me. Sometimes he smiles--and, Dr. Andover, I've been here two years--and I'm used to it, but I simply can't helpfeeling--that he ought to have a chance. "

The surgeon studied her wistful face and for a moment forgot that hewas the head-surgeon of the General, and that she was a nurse. Heliked Doris Gray because of her personality and ability. Two years ofhard work at the General had not affected her quietly cheerful manner. 

"You're wearing yourself out worrying about this case, " said thesurgeon presently. "And that won't do at all. "

She flushed and her seriousness vanished. "I'm willing to, " she saidsimply. 

The doctor smiled and shook his finger at her. "Miss Gray, you know agood nurse--"

"I know, Dr. Andover, but he hasn't a friend in the world. I asked himyesterday if I should write to any one, or do anything for him. Hejust smiled and shook his head. He doesn't seem to be afraid ofanything--nor interested in anything. He--oh, his eyes are just likethe eyes of a dog that is hurt and wants so much to tell you something, and can't. I don't care what the newspapers say--and those men fromthe police station! I don't believe he is really bad. Now pleasedon't smile and tell me I'm silly. "

"I thought you just said he didn't have a friend in the world. "

"Oh, I don't count--that way. " Then hurriedly: "I forgot--he did askme to write to some one--the first day--a Jim Ewell, in Arizona. Heasked me to say he had 'delivered the goods. ' I don't know that Ishould have done it without reporting it, but--well, you said hecouldn't live--"

"Some outlaw pal of his, probably, " said Andover, frowning. "But thathas nothing to do with his--er--condition right now. "

"And sometimes he talks when he is half-conscious, and he often speaksto some one he calls 'The Spider, '" asserted Doris. 

"Queer affair. Well, I'll think about it. If we do operate, I'll wantyou--"

The surgeon was interrupted by a nurse who told him there was a man whowanted to see Peter Annersley: that the man was insistent. Thehead-nurse was having supper, and should the caller be allowed in aftervisiting hours?

"Send him in, " said the surgeon, and he stepped into thesuperintendent's office. Almost immediately The Spider sidled acrossthe hallway and entered the room. The surgeon saw a short, shriveled, bow-legged man, inconspicuously dressed save for his black Stetson andthe riding-boots which showed below the bottom of his trousers. TheSpider's black beady eyes burned in his weather-beaten and scarredface--"the eyes of a hunted man"--thought the surgeon. In a peculiar, high-pitched voice, he asked Andover if he were the doctor in charge. 

"I'm Andover, head-surgeon, " said the other. "Won't you sit down?"

The other glanced round. Andover got up and closed the door. "Youwish to see young Annersley, I understand. "

"You looking after him?"

Andover nodded. 

"Is he hurt pretty bad?"

"Yes. I doubt if he will recover. "

"Can I see him?"

"Well, "--and the surgeon hesitated, --"it's after hours. But I don'tsuppose it will do any harm. You are a friend of his?"

"About the only one, I reckon. "

"Well--I'll step in with you. He may be asleep. If he is--"

"I won't bother him. "

The nurse met them, and put her finger to her lips. Andover nodded andstepped aside as The Spider hobbled to the cot and gazed silently atPete's white face. Then The Spider turned abruptly and hobbled downthe aisle, followed by Andover. "Come in here, " said the surgeon asThe Spider hesitated. 

Andover told him briefly that there was one chance in a thousand ofPete's recovery; that the shock had been terrific, describing justwhere the bullet was lodged and its effect upon the sensory nerves. Andover was somewhat surprised to find that this queer person knewconsiderable about gun-shot wounds and was even more surprised when TheSpider drew a flat sheaf of bills from his pocket and asked what anoperation would cost. Andover told him. 

The Spider immediately counted out the money and handed it to Andover. "And get him in a room where he can be by himself. I'll pay for it. "

"That's all right, but if he should not recover from the operation--"

"I'm gambling that he'll pull through, " said The Spider. "And there'smy ante. It's up to you. "

"I'll have a receipt made out--"

The Spider shook his bead. "His life'll be my receipt. And you'rewriting it--don't make no mistake. "

Andover's pale face flushed. "I'm not accustomed to having myreputation as a surgeon questioned. "

"See here, " said The Spider, laying another packet of bills on thesurgeon's desk. "Where I come from money talks. And I reckon it ain'tgot tongue-tied since I was in El Paso last. Here's a thousand. Pullthat boy through and forget where you got the money. "

"I couldn't do more if you said ten thousand, " asserted Andover. 

"Gambling is my business, " said The Spider. "I raise the ante. Do youcome in?"

"This is not a sporting proposition, "--Andover hesitated, --"but I'llcome in, " he added slowly. 

"You're wrong, " said The Spider; "everything is a sporting propositionfrom the day a man is born till he cashes in, and mebby after. I don'tknow about that, and I didn't come here to talk. My money 'll talk forme. "

Andover, quite humanly, was thinking that a thousand dollars would helpconsiderably toward paying for the new car that he had had in mind forsome time. He used a car in his work and he worked for the GeneralHospital. His desire to possess a new car was not altogetherprofessional, and he knew it. But he also knew that he was overworkedand underpaid. 

"Who shall I say called?" asked Andover, picking up the packet of bills. 

"Just tell him it was a friend. "

Andover was quite as shrewd in his way as was this strange visitor, whoevidently did not wish to be known. "This entire matter is ratherirregular, " he said, --"and the--er--bonus--is necessarily aconfidential matter!"

"Which suits me, "--and The Spider blinked queerly. 

Dr. Andover stepped to the main doorway. As he bade The Spidergood-night, he told him to call up on the telephone about ten-thirtythe next morning, or to call personally if he preferred. 

The Spider hesitated directly beneath the arc-light at the entrance. "If I don't call up or show up--you needn't say anything about thisdeal to him--but you can tell him he's got a friend on the job. "

The doctor nodded and walked briskly back to the superintendent'soffice, where he waited until the secretary appeared, when he turnedover the money that had been paid to him for the operation and aprivate room, which The Spider had engaged for two weeks. He told thesecretary to make out a receipt in Peter Annersley's name. "A friendis handling this for him, " he explained. 

Then he sent for the head-nurse. "I would like to have Miss Gray andMiss Barlow help me, " he told her, in speaking of the proposedoperation. 

"Miss Gray is on duty to-night, " said the head-nurse. 

"Then if you will arrange to have her get a rest, please. And--oh, yes, we'll probably need the oxygen. And you might tell Dr. Gleasonthat this is a special case and I'd like to have him administer theanaesthetic. "

Andover strode briskly to the surgical ward and stopped at Pete'scouch. As he stooped and listened to Pete's breathing, the packet ofcrisp bills slipped from his inside pocket, and dropped to the floor. 

He was in the lobby, on his way to his car, when Doris came runningafter him. "Dr. Andover, " she called. "I think you droppedthis, "--and she gave him the packet of bills. 

"Mighty careless of me, " he said, feeling in his inside pocket. "Handkerchief--slipped them in on top of it. Thank you. "

Doris gazed at him curiously. His eyes wavered. "We're going to doour best to pull him through, " he said with forced sprightliness. 

Doris smiled and nodded. But her expression changed as she againentered the long, dim aisle between the double row of cots. Only thatevening, just before she had talked with Andover about Pete, she hadheard the surgeon tell the house-physician jokingly that all that stoodbetween him and absolute destitution was a very thin and exceedinglypopular check-book--and Andover had written his personal check for tendollars which he had cashed at the office. Doris wondered who thestrange man was that had come in with Andover, an hour ago, and how Dr. Andover had so suddenly become possessed of a thousand dollars. 

CHAPTER XXXV

"CAUGHT IT JUST IN TIME"

At exactly ten-thirty the next morning The Spider was at theinformation desk of the General Hospital, inquiring for Andover. 

"He's in the operating-room, " said the clerk. 

"Then I'll wait. " The Spider sidled across to the reception-room andsat nervously fingering the arm of his chair. Nurses passed andrepassed the doorway, going quietly through the hall. From somewherecame the faint animal-like wail of a newly born babe. The Spider hadgripped the arm of his chair. A well-gowned woman stopped at theinformation desk and left a great armful of gorgeous roses wrapped inwhite tissue paper. Presently a man--evidently a laborer--hobbled paston crutches, his foot bandaged; a huge, grotesque white foot that heheld stiffly in front of him and which he seemed to be following, rather than guiding. A nurse walked slowly beside him. The Spiderdrummed the chair-arm with nervous fingers. His little beady eyes wereconstantly in motion, glancing here and there, --at the empty chairs inthe room, at the table with its neatly piled magazines, at a largepicture of the hospital, and a great group of nurses standing on thestone steps, and then toward the doorway. Presently a nurse came inand told him that Dr. Andover would be unable to see him for some time:that the patient just operated on was doing as well as could beexpected. 

"He--he's come through all right?"

"Yes. You might call up in an hour or so. "

The Spider rose stiffly and put on his hat. 

"Thanks, " he said and hobbled out and across the lobby. A cab waswaiting for him, and the driver seemed to know his destination, for hewhipped up his horse and drove south toward the Mexican quarter, finally stopping at an inconspicuous house on a dingy side street thatled toward the river. The Spider glanced up and down the street beforehe alighted. Then he gave the driver a bill quite out of proportion tohis recent service. "You can come about the same time to-morrow, " saidThe Spider, and he turned and hobbled to the house. 

About noon he came out, and after walking several blocks stopped at acorner grocery and telephoned to the hospital, asking for Andover, whoinformed him that the operation had been successful, as an operation, but that the patient was in a critical condition--that it would beseveral hours before they would dare risk a definite statement as tohis chances of recovery. The surgeon told The Spider that they wereusing oxygen, which fact in itself was significant. 

The Spider crossed the street to a restaurant, drank several cups ofcoffee, and on his way out bought a supply of cigars. He playedsolitaire in his room all that afternoon, smoking and muttering tohimself until the fading light caused him to glance at his watch. Heslipped into his coat and made his way uptown. 

Shortly after seven he entered the hospital. Andover had left wordthat he be allowed to see Pete. And again The Spider stood besidePete's cot, gazing down upon a face startlingly white in contrast tohis dark hair and black eyebrows--a face drawn, the cheeks pinched, andthe lips bloodless. "You taking care of him?"--and The Spider turnedto Doris. She nodded, wondering if this queer, almost deformedcreature were "The Spider" that Pete had so often talked to whenhalf-conscious. Whoever he was, her quick, feminine intuition told herthat this man's stiff and awkward silence signified more than anyspoken solicitude; that behind those beady black eyes was a soul thatwas tormented with doubt and hope, a soul that had battled through darkways to this one great unselfish moment . . . How could one know thatthis man risked his life in coming there? Yet she did know it. Thevery fact that he was Pete's friend would almost substantiate that. Had not the papers said that Peter Annersley was a hired gunman of TheSpider's? And although this man had not given his name, she knew thathe was The Spider of Pete's incoherent mutterings. And The Spider, glancing about the room, gazed curiously at the metal oxygen tank andthen at the other cot. 

"You staying here right along?" he queried. 

"For a while until he is out of danger. "

"When will that be?"

"I don't know. But I do know that he is going to live. "

"Did the doc say so?"

Doris shook her head. "No, Dr. Andover thinks he has a chance, but I_know_ that he will get well. "

"Does Pete know that I been here?"

"No. The doctor thought it best not to say anything about that yet. "

"I reckon that's right. "

"Is he your son?" asked Doris. 

"No. Just a kid that used to--work for me. "

And without further word, The Spider hobbled to the doorway and wasgone. 

Hour after hour Doris sat by the cot watching the faintly flickeringlife that, bereft of conscious will, fought for existence with eachdeep-drawn breath. About two in the morning Pete's breathing seemed tostop. Doris felt the hesitant throb of the pulse and, rising, steppedto the hall and telephoned for the house-surgeon. 

"Caught it just in time, " he said to the nurse as he stepped back andwatched the patient react to the powerful heart-stimulant. Pete'sbreathing became more regular. 

The surgeon had been gone for a few minutes when Pete's heavy lidsopened. 

"It--was gittin'--mighty dark--down there, " he whispered. And Petestared up at her, his great dark eyes slowly brightening under theartificial stimulant. Doris bent over him and smoothed his hair backfrom his forehead. "I'm the--the Ridin' Kid--from--Powder River, " hewhispered hoarsely. "I kin ride 'em comin' or goin'--but I don't wearno coat next journey. My hand caught in the pocket. " He glancedtoward the doorway. "But we fooled 'em. Ed got away, so I reckon I'llthrow in with you, Spider. " Pete tried to lift himself up, but thenurse pressed him gently back. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on hisforehead. Doris put her hand on the back of his. At the touch hislips moved. "Boca was down there--in the dark--smilin' and tellin' meit was all right and to come ahead, " he whispered. "I was tryin' toclimb out--of that there--caņon . . . Andy throwed his rope . . . Caught it just in time . . . And Andy he laughs. Reckon he didn'tknow--I was--all in . . . " Pete breathed deeply, muttered, and driftedinto an easy sleep. Doris watched him for a while, fighting her owndesire to sleep. She knew that the crisis was past, and with thatknowledge came a physical let-down that left her worn and desperatelyweary: not because she had been on duty almost twenty-four hourswithout rest--she was young and could stand that--but because she hadgiven so much of herself to this case from the day Pete had beenbrought in--through the operation which was necessarily savage, and upto the moment when he had fallen asleep, after having passed so closeto the border of the dark Unknown. And now that she knew he wouldrecover, she felt strangely disinterested in her work at the hospital. But being a rather practical young person, never in the least morbid, she attributed this unusual indifference to her own condition. Shewould not allow herself to believe that the life she had seen slippingaway, and which she had drawn back from the shadows, could ever meananything to her, aside from her profession. And why should it? Thisdark-eyed boy was a stranger, an outcast, even worse, if she were tobelieve what the papers said of him. Yet he had been so patient anduncomplaining that first night when she knew that he must have beensuffering terribly. Time and again she had wiped the red spume fromhis lips, until at last he ceased to gasp and cough and lay backexhausted. And Doris could never forget how he had tried to smile ashe told her, whispering hoarsely, "that he was plumb ashamed of makin'such a doggone fuss. " Then day after day his suffering had grown lessas his vitality ebbed. Following, came the operation, an almosthopeless experiment . . . And that strange creature, The Spider . . . Who had paid for the operation and for this private room . . . Doristhought of the thousand dollars in bills that she had found andreturned to Andover; and while admiring his skill as a surgeon, sheexperienced a sudden dislike for him as a man. It seemed to her thathe had been actually bribed to save Pete's life, and had pocketed thebribe . . . Again it was The Spider . . . What a name for a humanbeing--yet how well it fitted! The thin bow-legs, the quick, sidlingwalk, the furtive manner, the black, blinking eyes . . . Doris yawnedand shivered. Dawn was battling its slow way into the room. A nursestepped in softly. Doris rose and made a notation on the chart, toldthe nurse that her patient had been sleeping since two o'clock, andnodding pleasantly left the room. 

The new nurse sniffed audibly. Miss Gray was one of Dr. Andover'spets! She knew! She had seen them talking together, often enough. And Andover knew better than to try to flirt with her. What a fussthey were making about "Miss Gray's cowboy, " as Pete had come to beknown among some of the nurses who were not "pets. " Her pleasantsoliloquy was interrupted by a movement of Pete's hand. "Kin I have adrink?" he asked faintly. 

"Yes, dearie, " said the nurse, and smiled a large, and toothful smileas she turned and stepped out into the hall. Pete's listless, darkeyes followed her. "Fer Gawd's sake!" he muttered. His eyes closed. He wondered what had become of his honest-to-Gosh nurse, Miss Gray. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

WHITE-EYE

The third time that The Spider called at the hospital, and, as usual, in the evening, he was told by the young house-doctor, temporarily incharge, that he could not see the patient in room 218 withoutpermission from the physician in charge of the case, as it was aftervisiting hours, and, moreover, there had been altogether too muchfreedom allowed visitors as it was. This young doctor knew nothing ofThe Spider's connection with the Annersley case, and was altogetherunimpressed by The Spider's appearance, save that he mentally labeledhim a "rough-neck" who was evidently pretty badly crippled byrheumatism. 

The Spider felt tempted to resort to bribery, but there was somethingso officious and aggressively professional in the manner of this"straw-boss"--as The Spider mentally labeled him--that The Spiderhesitated to flatter his egotism by admitting that he held thewhip-hand. 

"Then mebby you can find out how he's getting along?" queried TheSpider, in his high-pitched voice. 

"No objection to that, " said the young doctor, reaching for the desk'phone. "Two-eighteen, please. Two-eighteen? How is your patientto-night? That so? H-m-m! Oh, this is Miss Gray talking? H-m-m!Thanks. " And he hung up the receiver. 

"The patient is doing very well--exceptionally well. Would you care toleave any message?"

"You might tell Doc Andover to leave word that when I call, I get tosee the folks I come to see--and I reckon he'll set you straight. "

"Oh, I didn't--er--know you were a friend of Dr. Andover's. What isthe name, please?"

"'T wouldn't interest you none, little man. Thanks for theinformation. " And The Spider hobbled out and clumped stiffly down thewide stone stairway. 

The young doctor adjusted his glasses and stared into vacancy. "H-m-m!And he had the nerve to call _me_ 'little man. ' Now I should call hima decidedly suspicious character. Looks something like an overgrownspider. Birds of a feather, " he added sententiously, with an air ofconscious rectitude, and a disregard for the propriety of the impliedmetaphor. It is not quite certain whether he had Andover or Pete inmind. But it is most probable that had he allowed The Spider to seePete that evening and talk with him, The Spider would have left El Pasothe next day, as he had planned, instead of waiting until the followingevening, against his own judgment and in direct opposition to thatpeculiar mental reaction called "a hunch" by those not familiar withthe niceties of the English language, and called nothing really moreexpressive by those who are. 

So far as The Spider knew, he had not been recognized by any one. Yetwith that peculiar intuition of the gunman and killer he knew that hewas marked. He wondered which of his old enemies had found himout--and when and how that enemy would strike. 

That night he wrote a short letter to Pete, stating that he was in townand would call to see him the following evening, adding that if hefailed to call Pete was to go to the Stockmen's Security and ask forthe president when he was able to be about. He mailed the letterhimself, walking several blocks to find a box. On his way back a manpassed him who peered at him curiously. The Spider's hand had crepttoward his upper vest-pocket as the other approached. After he passed, The Spider drew out a fresh cigar and lighted it from the one he wassmoking. And he tossed the butt away and turned and glanced back. "Iwonder what White-Eye is doing in El Paso?" he asked himself. "He knewme all right. " The Spider shrugged his shoulders. His hunch hadproved itself. There was still time to leave town, but the fact thatWhite-Eye had recognized him and had not spoken was an insidiouschallenge, the kind of a challenge which a killer never lets pass. Forthe killer, strangely enough, is drawn to his kind through the instinctof self-preservation, a psychological paradox to the layman, who doesnot understand that peculiar pride of the gunman which leads him toremove a menace rather than to avoid it. Curiosity as to a rival'sability, his personal appearance, his quality of nerve, the sound ofhis voice, has drawn many noted killers together--each anxious to proveconclusively that he was the better man. And this curiosity, driven bythe high nervous tension of the man who must ever be on the alert, isinsatiable, and is assuaged only by insanity or his own death. Theremoval of a rival does not satisfy this hunger to kill, but rathercreates a greater hunger, until, without the least provocation, thekiller will shoot down a man merely to satisfy temporarily this inhumanand terrible craving. The killer veritably feeds upon death, untilthat universal abhorrence of the abnormal, triumphant in the end, adjusts the quivering balance--and Boot Hill boasts one more woodencross. 

The Spider, limping up the stairway to his room, knew that he would notleave El Paso, knew that he could not leave the town until satisfied asto what White-Eye's silence meant. And not only that, but he wouldfind out. He lighted the oil-lamp on the dresser and gazed at himselfin the glass. Then he took off his coat, shaved, washed, and put on aclean shirt and collar. He took some gold and loose silver from hismoney-belt, put on his hat and coat, and hobbled downstairs. Hethought he knew where he could get word of White-Eye's whereabouts, stopped at a cigar-stand and telephoned for his cab--and his regulardriver. In a few minutes the cab was at the corner. He mentioned astreet number to the driver, who nodded knowingly. Pony Baxter'splace--where the game ran big. No place for a tin-horn. Only the realones played at Pony's. So this old-timer who paid so well was going totake a whirl at the game? The cabby thought he saw a big tip coming. Being somewhat of a sportsman in his way, and grateful for what TheSpider had already done for him, he drew up within a block of hisdestination and, stepping down, told The Spider that Pony's place wasbeing watched--and had been for more than a week: that the bulls wereout for some strangers who were wanted bad. 

The Spider showed no sign of surprise. "Suppose I was one of 'em, eh?"he queried. 

"That's none of my business, Captain. I ain't workin' for the force;I'm workin' for myself. "

"All right. I'll walk down to Pony's place. After I go up, you candrive down there and wait. I may be five minutes--or a couple ofhours. Here's something to make you forget who you're waiting for ifanybody should ask you. "

The cabby tucked the money in his pocket and climbed back to his seat. "Don't know if somebody was to ask me, " he said to himself, as hewatched The Spider hobble down the next block. "Lemme see, " hecontinued as he drove slowly along. "Some guy comes up and asks me fora match and starts talkin' friendly, and mebby asks me to have a drink, and I get friendly and tell him about that young sport from the Eastthat's been seein' the town and how somebody over to his hotel must 'a'told him about the game at Pony's--and how he's upstairs, gettin' hishair cut--short. Oh, I guess I ain't been in this business eight yearsfor nothin'. "

But the inquisitive stranger did not appear and the cabby's inventionwas wasted. 

The Spider entered the first door to the left of the long hallway. Theroom was fitted up as an office, with huge leather-upholstered chairs, a mahogany center table, and a mahogany desk. In one corner stood alarge safe. On the safe-door was lettered "A. L. Baxter & Co. "

A man with a young, smooth face and silver-white hair was sitting atthe desk. He turned and nodded pleasantly. 

"I want to see Pony, " said The Spider. 

"You're talking to him, " said the other. "What can I do for you?"

"You can tell Pony that I want to see him, here, " said The Spider. "And don't worry, he knows me. "

"The name, please. "

"Never mind that. Just take a good look at me--and tell him. He'llcome. "

The other rose and, stepping to the inner door, beckoned to some one inthe room beyond. The Spider seated himself, lighted a cigar, andleaned back as though thoroughly at home. Presently a big man came inbriskly: a full-bodied, smooth-cheeked man who looked like theprosperous manager of some legitimate business enterprise, save for thelarge diamond horseshoe scintillating in his gray silk tie. 

"Why, hello, Jim!" he cried, evidently surprised. He told his partnercasually that he could go on inside and look after things for a fewminutes. When the other had gone he turned to The Spider. "What can Ido for you, Jim?"

"Tell me where I can find White-Eye. "

"White-Eye? He hasn't been in here for three or four years. I didn'tknow he was in town. "

"That might go with the bulls, Pony. I know White-Eye doesn't hang outreg'lar here--ain't his kind of a joint. But you can tell me where hedoes hang out. And I want to know. "

"You looking for him, Jim?"

"No. But I've got a hunch he's looking for me. "

"Just how bad do you think he wants to see you?" queried Baxter, tilting back his swing-chair and glancing sideways at The Spider. 

"About as bad as I want to see him, " said The Spider. 

"You haven't been in town for quite a while, Jim. "

"No. Fifteen years, I reckon. "

"You don't change much. "

"I was thinking the same of you; always playing safe. You ought toknow better than to pull a bluff like that on me. But if that is yourgame, I call. I want White-Eye. "

Pony Baxter had plenty of nerve. But he knew The Spider. "I haven'tseen White-eye for over three years, " he said, turning to his desk. Hetore a memorandum slip from a pad and wrote something on it and handedit to The Spider. It was simply a number on Aliso Street. The Spiderglanced at it and tore the slip in two. 

"He's stayin' with friends?" queried The Spider. 

"Yes. And I think you know most of them. "

"Thanks for the tip, Pony. "

"You going down there alone, Jim?"

"I might. "

"I wouldn't, " said Baxter. 

"I know dam' well _you_ wouldn't, " laughed The Spider. 

Scarcely had The Spider stepped into the cab when four men slouchedfrom a dark stairway entrance a few doors down the street and watchedthe cab turn a distant corner. 

"Well, you missed a good chance, " said one of the men, as they movedslowly toward the entrance to Pony Baxter's. 

"How about you? If you ain't forgetting it was the first one of usthat seen him was to get him. "

"And White-Eye, here, seen him first, when he crawled out of that rig. If we'd 'a' gone up, instead of standin' here lettin' our feet gitcold--"

"He must 'a' had his roll with him, " said Pino, one of White-Eye'scompanions and incidentally a member of that inglorious legion, "TheMen Who Can't Come Back. "

"'T ain't his roll I want, " said White-Eye. 

"Too dam' bad about you not wantin' his roll. Any time--"

"Any time you git The Spider's roll, you got to git him, " assertedanother member of this nocturnal quartette, a man whose right arm andshoulder sagged queerly. 

"The Spider ain't no _kid_, neither, "--and White-Eye paused at thedimly lighted stairway entrance. 

The man with the deformed shoulder cursed White-Eye. The otherslaughed. 

"Let's go git a drink--and then we'll have a talk with Pony. Come on, Steve. "

They turned and drifted on up the street. Presently they were back atthe stairway entrance. "Pony won't stand for no rough stuff, " advisedWhite-Eye as they turned and climbed the stair. "I'll do the talkin'. "

"I reckon he'll stand for anything we hand him, " said Pino. "Fancyclothes don't cut any figure with me. "

"Nobody that ever got a good look at you would say so, " assertedWhite-Eye. He paused at the head of the stairs. "I aim to find outwhat The Spider wanted up here. "

"Go to it!"--and Pino grinned. 

As they entered the "office, " Baxter was talking with his partner, withwhom he exchanged a significant glance as he realized who his visitorswere. The partner excused himself and stepped into the room beyond. 

"Well, boys, what can I do for you?" Baxter's manner was suavelyaffable. 

"We're lookin' for a friend, " declared White-Eye. 

"I don't think he's here. " And Baxter smiled his professional smile. 

"But he's been here, " asserted White-Eye. "We ain't here to make anoise. We jest want to know what The Spider was doin' up here a spellago. "

"Oh, Jim? Why, he dropped in to shake hands. I hadn't seen him forseveral years. Didn't know he was in town. "

"Feed that soft stuff to the yearlins', " snarled White-Eye. "TheSpider ain't chousin' around El Paso for his health, or yours. "

Baxter was about to say something when Pino stooped and picked up thepieces of paper which The Spider had torn in two just before he left. Pino had no special motive in picking up those torn bits of paper. Hesimply saw them, picked them up, and rolled them nervously in hisfingers. White-Eye, watching Baxter, saw him blink and in turn watchPino's fingers as he twisted and untwisted the bits of paper. 

"He can't keep his hands still, " said White-Eye, shrugging his shouldertoward Pino. "Ever meet Pino. No? Well, he's a artist--when it comesto drawin'--"

Pino dropped the bits of paper, rose, and shook hands indifferentlywith Baxter. As Pino sat down again, Baxter stooped and casuallypicked up the torn pad-leaf on which he had written White-Eye'saddress. He turned to his desk and taking a box of cigars from adrawer passed it around. White-Eye's pin-point pupils glittered. PonyBaxter seemed mighty anxious to get those two bits of paper out ofsight. White-Eye had seen him drop them in the drawer as he opened it. 

"Where did you send The Spider?" asked White-Eye quickly. 

"Send him! Didn't send him anywhere. He said he was going back to hishotel. "

White-Eye blinked. He knew that The Spider was not stopping at ahotel. For some reason Baxter had lied. 

"How's the game to-night?" queried White-Eye. 

"Quiet, " replied Baxter. 

"Any strangers inside?"

"No--not the kind of strangers you mean. "

"Then I reckon we'll take a look in. Don't mind takin' a whirl at thewheel myself. "

"Come right in, " said Baxter, as though relieved, and he opened thedoor and stood aside to let them pass. 

A quiet game of poker was running at a table near the door. Fartherdown the room, which was spacious and brilliantly lighted, a group wereplaying the wheel. At the table beyond the usual faro game was inprogress. All told there were some fifteen men in the room, notcounting the dealers and lookout. One or two men glanced up asWhite-Eye and his companions entered and sauntered from table to table. To the regular habitues of the place, White-Eye and his companions weresimply "rough-necks" to whom Baxter was showing "the joint. "

Presently Baxter excused himself and, telling his visitors to makethemselves at home, strode back to his office. White-Eye and Pinowatched the wheel, while the man with the deformed shoulder and hiscompanion stood watching the faro game. The room was quiet save forthe soft click of the chips, the whirring of the ball, an occasionaloath, and the monotonous voice of the faro-dealer. 

Pino nudged White-Eye and indicated the little pile of gold that wasstacked before a player at the faro table. White-Eye shook his headand stepped casually back. Pino sauntered over to him. 

"Chanct for a clean-up?" whispered Pino. 

"No show. The lookout's a gun. I know him. So is that guy at thewheel. Pony's pardner packs a gat; and that guy standin' over by thewall, smoking is drawin' down reg'lar pay for jest standin' there, every night. 'Sides, they ain't enough stuff in sight to take a chanctfor. We ain't organized for this kind of a deal. "

"Then what's the use of hangin' around?"

"'Cause they was somethin' on that piece of paper you picked up outthere that Pony didn't want us to see--and I aim to find out what itwas. "

"The number of some dame, most like, " said Pino, grinning. 

"Did you hear him say The Spider went back to his _hotel_? Well, Ponyis double-crossin' somebody. Jest stick around and keep your eye onthe door. "

Meanwhile The Spider had arrived at the address given him--an emptybasement store in the south end of town. The place was dark andevidently abandoned. Back of the store was a room in which were twocheap iron beds, a washstand, and two chairs. The rear door of thisroom opened on an alley, and it was through this door that White-Eyeand his companions entered and left the premises, which they had rentedat a low rate from the lessee of the place who now ran a grocery on thestreet level, near the corner. 

The Spider had no means of knowing of the back room and thought thatBaxter had sent him to a chance number to get rid of him; or that thelatter would possibly suggest that White-Eye must have left theneighborhood. 

"Is there a back stairs to Pony's place?" queried The Spider as hestood by the cab. 

"No. But there's a fire-escape in the alley back of the block. Thelast time they raided Pony the bulls got six gents comin' down the ironladder. "

"Just drive round that way. " The Spider stepped into the cab. 

"You ain't a Government man, are you?" queried cabby. 

"No. I play a lone hand, " said The Spider. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

"CLOSE THE CASES"

Pony Baxter's place, located near the middle of what is commonly termeda "business block, " embraced the space once occupied by a number ofsmall offices, one of which he had retained as a sort ofreception-room, near the head of the stairway. That he might have aspacious room for his business, the partitions of the former officeshad been removed, with the exception of those enclosing his office, anda room at the extreme end of the building which opened on the hall, near the end window, just over the fire-escape. This room wasexpensively fitted up as a lavatory, with marble panels, basins, andtiling. A uniformed negro with the inevitable whisk-broom was alwaysin attendance, quite as keen at "getting the dust" as was his employer. The door to this room was fitted with a spring lock which allowed it tobe opened only from the inside, except with a pass-key. 

The Spider's cab, swinging into the alley, stopped directly beneath thelower extension of the fire-escape. "Pull over closer to the wall, " hetold the driver. Then he climbed to the driver's seat and stepped ontothe iron ladder. "You can drive round to the front and wait, " he toldthe cabby, who lost no time in getting out of the alley. Like mostnocturnal cabmen, he was quite willing to drive anywhere; but hesincerely preferred to do his waiting for his fare in a more openstreet. 

The window at the rear end of the hall was fastened. The Spider brokethe glass just below the catch with the butt of his gun. He raised thewindow and slid into the hallway. 

"Who dat?" came from the lavatory. 

"It's me, Sam, " said The Spider thickly, imitating the voice of a manovercome by drink. "I cut my hand on the window. Want to get in--washup--blood--"

"I ask Misto Baxtuh, suh. "

"Lemme in--quick--or you lose a five-spot. Bleeding bad--want to washup--"

The spring lock clicked softly. Before Sam knew what had happened, TheSpider was in the lavatory and between him and the door to the mainroom. "Get going, " said The Spider. The amazed negro backed away fromthat eloquent menace in The Spider's right hand. "M-m-m-misto--misto--Captain-- Ah ain't done nuffin!"

"Git!"--and The Spider indicated the rear window. 

The negro backed into the hall, saw the open window, and vanishedthrough it without parley. He dropped from the last step of thefire-escape and picking himself up started to run, with no definitedestination in mind save space. 

As Baxter had said, things were quiet that night. The poker table hadbeen deserted and the players had left. A few "regulars" still hungabout the faro layout and the wheel. The hired "bouncer" had steppedinto the office to speak to Baxter. It was past twelve. There were nostrangers present save the four roughly dressed men. Baxter was justtelling the bouncer that he knew them, and that he surmised they wereafter a certain party, but that that party would not be back there. Ashe talked Baxter stepped to the outer door and locked it. It was toolate to expect any worth-while business. 

The Spider, who was in reality looking for Baxter, whom he suspected oftrickery, opened the lavatory door far enough to see into the mainroom. In a flash he had placed three of the four men who "wanted" him. 

White-Eye and Longtree were standing near a player at the faro table, evidently interested for the moment in the play. Near White-Eye, Pinowas rolling a cigarette. Beyond them, at the next table, stood a manwith a deformed shoulder--and The Spider recognized Gary of theT-Bar-T, watching the few players at the wheel. . . . A film of cigarsmoke eddied round the lamps above the tables. Presently the playersat the faro table rose and left. The dealer put away his cases. Thelookout yawned and took off his green eye-shade. The man with thedeformed shoulder and his companion were moving toward White-Eye whenThe Spider slipped through the doorway and sidled toward the middle ofthe room. His hat was pushed back. He fumbled at his tie with hisright hand. "White-Eye!" he called. 

The faro-dealer and the lookout jerked round--then slowly backed towardthe side of the room. The man at the wheel paused with his hand in theair. The players, intent upon the game, glanced up curiously. Pino, who stood near White-Eye and almost in front of him, dropped hiscigarette. The room became as still as the noon desert. Three of thefour men who bore ancient grudge against The Spider, knew that therewould be no parley--that talk would be useless. The fourth, the manwhom they had addressed as Steve, had but recently associated himselfwith them, and had no quarrel with The Spider. In that tense moment, Gary wished himself well out of it. 

"Lost your nerve, Pino?" laughed The Spider, in his queer, high voice. "You dropped your cigarette. "

One of the roulette players giggled hysterically. At the sound of thatlaugh, White-Eye jerked Pino in front of him. The Spider's gunappeared as though he had caught it from the air. As it roared, Pinostaggered sideways and fell. White-Eye fired as The Spider, throwingshot after shot, walked slowly toward him. Suddenly White-Eye coughedand staggered against the table. With his last shot The Spider droppedWhite-Eye, then jerked a second gun from his waistband. Gary, kneelingbehind the faro table, fired over its top. The Spider whirledhalf-round, recovered himself, and, sidling toward the table, threwdown on the kneeling man, who sank forward coughing horribly. Withineight feet of him The Spider's gun roared again. Gary's body jerkedstiff at the shock and then slowly collapsed. The fourth man, Longtree, with his hands above his head, begged The Spider not to killhis old pal! The Spider's face, horribly distorted, venomous as asnake's, colorless and glistening with sweat, twisted queerly as hespoke: "Kill you, you damned coyote?" And he shot Longtree down as aman would shoot a trapped wolf. 

Framed in the office doorway stood Pony Baxter, a blue automatic in hishand. The Spider, leaning against the roulette table, laughed. "Gaveme the double-cross, eh, Pony? How do you like the layout?" He swayedand clutched at the table. "Don't kill me, Pony!" he cried, in ghastlymimickry of Longtree's voice. "Don't kill an old pal, Pony!" And thesound of his voice was lost in the blunt roar of a shot that loosenedBaxter's fingers from the automatic. It clattered to the floor. Baxter braced himself against the door-frame and, turning, staggered tothe desk 'phone. 

The Spider nodded to the faro-dealer. "Close your cases, " he said, andhe hiccoughed and spat viciously. "Get me downstairs--I'm done. "

The dealer, who possessed plenty of nerve himself, was dumb with wonderthat this man, who had deliberately walked into a fight against threefast guns, was still on his feet. Yet he realized that The Spider hadmade his last fight. He was hard hit. "God, what a mess!" said thedealer as he took The Spider's arm and steadied him to the office. "You better lay down, " he suggested. 

"Got a cab downstairs. General Hospital. "

The driver, who had been taking a nap inside the cab, heard the soundof shooting, started up, threw back the lap-robe, and stepped to thesidewalk. He listened, trying to count the shots. Then came silence. Then another shot. He was aware that his best policy was to leave thatneighborhood quickly. Yet curiosity held him, and finally drew himtoward the dimly lighted stairway. He wondered what had happened. 

"Cab?" somebody called from above. The cabby answered. 

"Give us a hand here, " cried a voice from the top of the stairs. "Aman's been shot--bad. "

The cabby clumped up and helped get The Spider to the street. "Where'll I take him?" he stammered nervously, as he recognized theshrunken figure. 

"He said something about the General Hospital. He's going--fast. "

"He used to call there, regular, " asserted the cabby. "Anybody elsegit hurt?"

"Christ, yes! It's a slaughter-pen up there. Beat it, or he'll cashin before you can get him to the hospital. "

The cabby pulled up at the General Hospital, leapt down, and hastenedround to the garage. He wakened the night ambulance-driver, stayeduntil the driver and an interne had carried The Spider into thehospital, and then drove away before he could be questioned. 

The house-doctor saw at once that The Spider could not live, administered a stimulant, and telephoned to the police station, laterasking the ambulance-driver for the cabman's number, which the otherhad failed to notice in the excitement. As he hung up the receiver anurse told him that the patient was conscious and wanted to speak toDr. Andover. The house-doctor asked The Spider if he wished to make astatement. 

The Spider moved his head in the negative. "I'm done, " he whispered, "but I'd like to see Pete a minute. "

"Pete?"

"Room 218, " said the nurse. 

"Oh, you mean young Annersley. Well, I don't know. "

"He's my boy, " said The Spider, using the last desperate argument--anappeal difficult to ignore. 

"Take him to 218, " said the doctor, gesturing toward the stretcher. 

The nurse, who went with them, roused Pete out of a quiet sleep andtold him that they were bringing some one to see him. "Your father, "she said, "who has been seriously injured. He asked to see you. "

Pete could not at first understand what she meant. "All right, " hesaid, turning his head and gazing toward the doorway. The nursestepped into the hall and nodded to the attendants and the doctor. 

They were about to move forward when The Spider gestured feebly to thedoctor. "Get me to my feet. " "I won't bother you much after that. "And The Spider, who felt that his strength was going fast, tried toraise himself on the stretcher. This effort brought the internes tohis side. They lifted him to his feet and shuffled awkwardly throughthe doorway. 

Swaying between the internes, his shriveled body held upright by adesperate effort of will, he fought for breath. 

Pete raised on his elbow, his dark eyes wide. "Spider!" he exclaimed. 

The internes felt The Spider's slackened muscles grow tense as heendeavored to get closer to the cot. They helped him a step forward. He pulled his arm free and thrust out his hand. Pete's hand closed onthose limp, clammy fingers. 

"I come ahead of time, pardner. Come to see how--you was--gettin'along. " The Spider's arm dropped to his side. 

"Take him to the other bed there, " said the doctor. 

The Spider shook his head. "Just a minute. " He nodded toward Pete. "I want you to do something for me. Go see that party--in letter--fixyou up--he's played square with me--same as you done. "

"But who was it--" began Pete. 

"Old bunch. Trailed me--too close. Got 'em--every dam' one. A másver. Tengo que marcharme, compadre. " And then, "Close the cases, "said The Spider. 

The internes helped him to the cot on which Doris had rested as shewatched Pete through those dark hours, refusing to leave him till sheknew the great danger had passed. 

Pete lay back staring at the ceiling. He was, stunned by this suddencalamity. And all at once he realized that it must have been TheSpider who had called to see him several times. Doris had hinted toPete that some friend asked after him daily. So The Spider had come toEl Paso to find out if the money had been delivered--risking his lifefor the sake of a few thousand dollars! Pete turned and glanced at theother cot. The doctor was bending over The Spider, who mumbledincoherently. Presently brisk footsteps sounded in the hallway, andtwo men entered the room and stepped to where The Spider lay. Theyspoke in low tones to the doctor, who moved back. One of the men--aheavy-shouldered, red-faced man, whom Pete recognized--asked The Spiderwho had shot him, and if he had been in Pony Baxter's place that night. The Spider's lips moved. The other leaned closer. Dimly The Spiderrealized that this was the Law that questioned him. Even at the lastmoment his old enemy had come to hunt him out. The Spider's beadyblack eyes suddenly brightened. With a last vicious effort he raisedhis head and spat in the officer's face. 

The doctor stepped quickly forward. The Spider lay staring at theceiling, his sightless eyes dulled by the black shadow of eternal night. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

GETTING ACQUAINTED

It was Pony Baxter who gave the names of the dead gunmen to the police, confirming the records of White-Eye, Pino, Longtree, and JimEwell--known as The Spider. The identity of the fourth man, he of thedeformed shoulder and shriveled arm, was unknown to Baxter. The policehad no record of him under any alias, and he would have been entered ontheir report of findings as "unknown, " had not the faro-dealer and thelookout both asserted that The Spider had called him Gary--in fact hadsingled him out unmistakenly, asking him what be had to do with thequarrel, which evidently concerned but three of the four men whom TheSpider had killed. Pony Baxter, slowly recovering from an all butfatal gun-shot wound, disclaimed any knowledge of a "frame-up" to getThe Spider, stating that, while aware that the gunmen and The Spiderwere enemies, The Spider's sudden appearance was as much of a surpriseto him as it evidently was to the gunmen--and Baxter's seriouscondition pretty well substantiated this statement. Baxter's negro wasalso questioned--concerning Baxter's story and explaining thecircumstances under which he had admitted The Spider to the back room. 

When confronted with the torn slip of paper on which was written theaddress of White-Eye, Baxter admitted that he knew of the rendezvous ofthe gunmen, but refused to explain why he had their address in hispossession, and he put a quietus on that phase of the situation byasking the police why they had not raided the place themselves beforethe shooting occurred, as they seemed to have known of it for severalmonths. Eventually Baxter and the police "fixed it up. " The gamblerdid a thriving business through the notoriety the affair had given him. Many came to see the rooms where The Spider had made his last venomousfight, men who had never turned a card in their lives, and who doubtedthe rumors current in the sporting world until actually in the room andlistening to the faro-dealer's cold and impassive account of the menand the battle. And more often than not these curious souls, who cameto scoff, remained to play. 

Pete, convalescing rapidly, had asked day after day if he might not beallowed to sit with the other patients who, warmly blanketed, enjoyedthe sunshine on the wide veranda overlooking the city. One morningAndover gave his consent, restricting Pete's first visit to thirtyminutes. Pete was only too glad of a respite from the monotony ofback-rest and pillow, bare walls, and the essential but soul-wearyingregularity of professional attention. 

Not until Doris had helped him into the wheel-chair did he realize howweak he was. 

Out on the veranda, his weakness, the pallid faces of the otherconvalescents, and even Doris herself, were forgotten as he gazedacross the city and beyond to the sunlit spaces softly glowing beneatha cloudless sky. Sunlight! He had never known how much it meant, until then. He breathed deep. His dark eyes closed. Life, which hehad hitherto valued only through sheer animal instinct, seemed to meanso much more than he had ever imagined it could. Yet not in anydefinite way, nor through contemplating any definite attainment. Itwas simply good to be alive--to feel the pleasant, natural warmth ofthe sun--to breathe the clear, keen air. And all his curiosity as towhat the world might look like--for to one who has come out of theeternal shadows the world is ever strange--was drowned in the supremeindifference of absolute ease and rest. It seemed to him as though hewere floating midway between the earth and the sun, not in a weirddream wherein the subconscious mind says, "This is not real; I knowthat I dream"; but actual, in that Pete could feel nothing above norbeneath him. Being of a very practical turn of mind he straightwayopened his eyes and was at once conscious of the arm of the wheel-chairbeneath his hand and the blanket across his knees. 

He was not aware that some of the patients were gazing at himcuriously--that gossip had passed his name from room to room and thatthe papers had that morning printed a sort of revised sequel to theoriginal story of "The Spider Mystery"--as they chose to call it. 

Doris glanced at her watch. "We'll have to go in, " she said, risingand adjusting Pete's pillow. 

"Oh, shucks! We jest come out!"

"You've been asleep, " said Doris. 

Pete shook his head. "Nope. But I sure did git one good rest. DocAndover calls this a vacation, eh? Well, then I guess I got to go backto work--and it sure is work, holdin' down that bed in there--andnothin' to do but sleep and eat and--but it ain't so bad when you'rethere. Now that there cow-bunny with the front teeth--"

"S-sh!" Doris flushed, and Pete glanced around, realizing that theywere not alone. 

"Well, I reckon we got to go back to the corral!" Pete sighed heavily. 

Back in bed he watched Doris as she made a notation on the chart of his"case. " He frowned irritably when she took his temperature. 

"The doctor will want to know how you stood your first outing, " shesaid, smiling. 

Pete wriggled the little glass thermometer round in his mouth until itstuck up at an assertive angle, as some men hold a cigar, and glancedmischievously at his nurse. "Why don't you light it?" he mumbled. 

Doris tried not to laugh as she took the thermometer, glanced at it, and charted a slight rise in the patient's temperature. 

"Puttin' it in that glass of water to cool it off?" queried Pete. 

She smiled as she carefully charted the temperature line. 

"Kin I look at it?" queried Pete. 

She gave the chart to him and he studied it frowningly. "What's thishere that looks like a range of mountains ?" he asked. 

"Your temperature. " And she explained the meaning of the wavering line. 

"Gee! Back here I sure was climbin' the high hills! That's ainterestin' tally-sheet. "

Pete saw a peculiar expression in her gray eyes. It was as though shewere searching for something beneath the surface of his superficialhumor; for she knew that there was something that he wanted tosay--something entirely alien to these chance pleasantries. She allbut anticipated his question. 

"Would you mind tellin' me somethin'?" he queried abruptly. 

"No. If there is anything that I can tell you. "

"I was wonderin' who was payin' for this here private room--and reg'larnurse. I been sizin' up things--and folks like me don't get such fancytrimmin's without payin'. "

"Why--it was your--your father. "

Pete sat up quickly. "My father! I ain't got no father. I--I reckonsomebody got things twisted. "

"Why, the papers"--and Doris bit her lip--"I mean Miss Howard, thenurse who was here that night . . . "

"When The Spider cashed in?"

Doris nodded. 

"The Spider wasn't my father. But I guess mebby that nurse thought hewas, and got things mixed. "

"The house-doctor would not have had him brought up here if he hadthought he was any one else. "

"So The Spider said he was my father--so he could git to see me!" Peteseemed to be talking to himself. "Was he the friend you was tellin' mecalled regular?"

"Yes. I don't know, but I think he paid for your room and theoperation. "

"Don't they make those operations on folks, anyhow, if they ain't gotmoney?"

"Yes, but in your case it was a very difficult and dangerous operation. I saw that Dr. Andover hardly wanted to take the risk. "

"So The Spider pays for everything!" Pete shook his head. "I don'tjust sabe. "

"I saw him watching you once--when you were asleep, " said Doris. "Heseemed terribly anxious. I was afraid of him--and I felt sorry forhim--"

Pete lay back and stared at the opposite wall. "He sure was game!" hemurmured. "And he was my friend. "

Pete turned his head quickly as Doris stepped toward the door. "Couldyou git me some of them papers--about The Spider?"

"Yes, " she answered hesitatingly, as she left the room. 

Pete closed his eyes. He could see The Spider standing beside his bedsupported by two internes, dying on his feet, fighting for breath as hetold Pete to "see that party--in the letter"--and "that some one hadtrailed him too close. " And "close the cases, " The Spider had said. The game was ended. 

When Doris came in again Pete was asleep. She laid a folded newspaperby his pillow, gazed at him for a moment, and stepped softly from theroom. 

At noon she brought his luncheon. When she came back for the tray shenoticed that he had not eaten, nor would he talk while she was there. But that evening he seemed more like himself. After she had taken histemperature he jokingly asked her if he bit that there little glassdingus in two what would happen?"

"Why, I'd have to buy a new one, " she replied, smiling. 

Pete's face expressed surprise. "Say!" he queried, sitting up, "didThe Spider pay you for bein' my private nurse, too?"

"He must have made some arrangement with Dr. Andover. He put me incharge of your case. "

"But don't you git anything extra for--for smilin' atfolks--and--coaxin' 'em to eat--and wastin' your time botherin' around'em most all day?"

"The hospital gets the extra money. I get my usual salary. "

"You ain't mad at me, be you?"

"Why, no, why should I be?"

"I dunno. I reckon I talk kind of rough--and that mebby I saidsomethin'--but--would you mind if I was to tell you somethin'. I beenthinkin' about it ever since you brung that paper. It's somethin'mighty important--and--"

"Your dinner is getting cold, " said Doris. 

"Shucks! I jest got to tell somebody! Did you read what was in thatpaper?"

Doris nodded. 

"About that fella called Steve Gary that The Spider bumped off in thatgamblin'-joint?"

"Yes. "

"Well, if that's right--and the papers ain't got things twisted, likewhen they said The Spider was my father--why, if it _was_ Steve Gary--Ikin go back to the Concho and kind o' start over ag'in. "

"I don't understand. "

"'Course you don't! You see, me and Gary mixed onct--and--"

Doris' gray eyes grew big as Pete spoke rapidly of his early life, ofthe horse-trader, of Annersley and Bailey and Montoya, and young AndyWhite--characters who passed swiftly before her vision as she followedPete's fortunes up to the moment when he was brought into the hospital. And presently she understood that he was trying to tell her that if thenewspaper report was authentic he was a free man. His eagerness tovindicate himself was only too apparent. 

Suddenly he ceased talking. The animation died from his dark eyes. "Mebby it wa'n't the same Steve Gary, " he said. 

"If it had been, you mean that you could go back to your friends--andthere would be no trouble--?"

Pete nodded. "But I don't know. "

"Is there any way of finding out--before you leave here?" she asked. 

"I might write a letter and ask Jim Bailey, or Andy. They would know. "

"I'll get you a pen and paper. "

Pete flushed. "Would you mind writin' it for me? I ain't no reg'lar, professional writer. Pop Annersley learned me some--but I reckon Jimcould read your writin' better. "

"Of course I'll write the letter, if you want me to. If you'll justtell me what you wish to say I'll take it down on this pad and copy itin my room. "

"Can't you write it here? Mebby we might want to change somethin'. "

"Well, if you'll eat your dinner--" And Doris went for pen and paper. When she returned she found that Pete had stacked the dishes in aperilous pyramid on the floor, that the bed-tray might serve as a tableon which to write. 

He watched her curiously as she unscrewed the cap of her fountain penand dated the letter. 

"Jim Bailey, Concho--that's over in Arizona, " he said, then hehesitated. "I reckon I got to tell you the whole thing first and mebbyyou kin put it down after I git through. " Doris saw him eying the penintently. "You didn't fetch the ink, " he said suddenly. 

Doris laughed as she explained the fountain pen to him. Then shelistened while he told her what to say. 

The letter written, Doris went to her room. Pete lay thinking of herpleasant gray eyes and the way that she smiled understandingly andnodded--"When most folks, " he soliloquized, "would say something or askyou what you was drivin' at. "

To him she was an altogether wonderful person, so quietly cheerful, natural, and unobtrusively competent . . . Then, through some queertrick of memory, Boca's face was visioned to him and his thoughts wereof the desert, of men and horses and a far sky-line. "I got to get outof here, " he told himself sleepily. And he wondered if he would eversee Doris Gray again after he left the hospital. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

A PUZZLE GAME

Dr. Andover, brisk and professionally cheerful, was telling Pete thatso far as he was concerned he could not do anything more for him, except to advise him to be careful about lifting or straining--to takeit easy for at least a month--and to do no hard riding until theincision was thoroughly healed. "You'll know when you are really fit, "he said, smiling, "because your back will tell you better than I can. You're a mighty fortunate young man!"

"You sure fixed me up fine, Doc. You was sayin' I could leave herenext week?"

"Yes, if you keep on improving--and I can't see why you should not. And I don't have to tell you to thank Miss Gray for what she has donefor you. If it hadn't been for her, my boy, I doubt that you would behere!"

"She sure is one jim-dandy nurse. "

"She is more than that, young man. " Andover cleared his throat. "There's one little matter that I thought best not to mention until youwere--pretty well out of the woods. I suppose you know that theauthorities will want to--er--talk with you about that shootingscrape--that chap that was found somewhere out in the desert. Thechief of detectives asked me the other day when you would be aroundagain. "

"So, when I git out of here they're goin' to arrest me?"

"Well, frankly, you are under arrest now. I thought it best that youshould know it now. In a general way I gathered that the policesuspect you of having had a hand in the killing of that man who wasfound near Sanborn. "

"Well, they can wait till hell freezes afore I'll tell 'em, " said Pete. 

"And, meanwhile, you'll also have to--er--wait, I imagine. Have youany friends who might--er--use their influence? I think you might getout on bail. I can't say. "

"Nope. "

"Then the best thing that you can do is to tell a straight story andhope that the authorities will believe you. Well, I've got to go. Bythe way, how are you fixed financially? Just let me know if you wantanything?"

"Thanks, Doc. From what you say I reckon the county will be payin' myboard. "

"I hope not. But you'll need some clothing and underwear--the thingsyou had on are--"

Pete nodded. 

"Don't hesitate to ask me, "--and Andover rose. "Yourfriend--er--Ewell--arranged for any little contingency that mightarise. "

"Then I kin go most any time?" queried Pete. 

"We'll see how you are feeling next week. Meanwhile keep out in thesun--but wrap up well. Good-bye!"

Pete realized that to make a fresh start in life he would have to beginat the bottom. 

He had ever been inclined to look forward rather than backward--to puteach day's happenings behind him as mere incidents in his generalprogress--and he began to realize that these happenings had accumulatedto a bulk that could not be ignored, if the fresh start that hecontemplated were to be made successfully. He recalled how he had feltwhen he had squared himself with Roth for that six-gun. But thesurreptitious taking of the six-gun had been rather a mistake than adeliberate intent to steal. And Pete tried to justify himself with thethought that all his subsequent trouble had been the result of mistakesdue to conditions thrust upon him by a fate which had slowly driven himto his present untenable position--that of a fugitive from the law, without money and without friends. He came to the bitter conclusionthat his whole life had been a mistake--possibly not through his owninitiative, but a mistake nevertheless. He knew that his only coursewas to retrace and untangle the snarl of events in which his feet weresnared. Accustomed to rely upon his own efforts--he had always beenable to make his living--he suddenly realized the potency of money;that money could alleviate suffering, influence authority, commandfreedom--at least temporary freedom--and even in some instances savelife itself. 

Yet it was characteristic of Pete that he did not regret anything thathe had done, in a moral sense. He had made mistakes--and he would haveto pay for them--but only once. He would not make these mistakesagain. A man was a fool who deliberately rode his horse into the samebox caņon twice. 

Pete wondered if his letter to Jim Bailey had been received and whatBailey's answer would be. The letter must have reached Bailey by thistime. And then Pete thought of The Spider's note, advising him to callat the Stockmen's Security; and of The Spider's peculiar insistencethat he do so--that Hodges would "use him square. "

Pete wondered what it all signified. He knew that The Spider had moneydeposited with the Stockmen's Security. The request had something todo with money, without doubt. Perhaps The Spider had wished him toattend to some matter of trust--for Pete was aware that The Spider hadtrusted him, and had said so, almost with his last breath. But Petehesitated to become entangled further in The Spider's affairs. He didnot intend to make a second mistake of that kind. 

Monday of the following week Pete was out on the veranda--listening tolittle Ruth, a blue-eyed baby patient who as gravely explained themysteries of a wonderful puzzle game of pasteboard cows and horses anda farmyard "most all cut to pieces, " as Ruth said, when Doris steppedfrom the hall doorway and, glancing about, finally discovered Pete inthe far corner of the veranda--deeply absorbed in searching for thehind leg of a noble horse to which little Ruth had insisted uponattaching the sedate and ignoble hind quarters of a maternal cow. Sointent were they upon their game that neither of them saw Doris as shemoved toward them, nodding brightly to many convalescents seated aboutthe veranda. 

"Whoa!" said Pete, as Ruth disarranged the noble steed in her eagernessto fit the bit of pasteboard Pete had handed to her. "Now, I reckonhe'll stand till we find that barn-door and the water-trough. Do youreckon he wants a drink?"

"He looks very firsty, " said Ruth. 

"Mebby he's hungry, too, "--and Pete found the segment of a mechanicallycorrect haystack. 

"No!" cried Ruth positively, taking the bit of haystack from Pete;"wet's put some hay in his house. "

"Then that there cow'll git it--and she's plumb fed up already. "

"Den I give 'at 'ittle cow his breakfuss, "--and the solicitous Ruthplaced the section of haystack within easy reach of a wide-eyed andslightly disjointed calf--evidently the offspring of the well-fed cow, judging from the paint-markings of each. 

But suddenly little Ruth's face lost its sunshine. Her mouth quivered. Pete glanced up at her, his dark eyes questioning. 

"There's lots more hay, " he stammered, "for all of 'em. "

"It hurted me, " sobbed Ruth. 

"Your foot?" Pete glanced down at the child's bandaged foot, and thenlooked quickly away. 

"Ess. It hurted me--and oo didn't hit it. "

"I'll bet it was that doggone ole cow! Let's git her out of this herecorral and turn her loose!" Pete shuffled the cow into a disjointedheap. "Now she's turned loose--and she won't come back. "

Ruth ceased sobbing and turned to gaze at Doris, who patted her headand smiled. "We was--stockin' up our ranch, " Pete explained almostapologetically. "Ruth and me is pardners. "

Doris gazed at Pete, her gray eyes warm with a peculiar light. "It'sawfully nice of you to amuse Ruth. "

"Amuse her! My Gosh! Miss Gray, she's doin' the amusin'! When we'revisitin' like this, I plumb forgit--everything. "

"Here's a letter for you, " said Doris. "I thought that perhaps youmight want to have it as soon as possible. "

"Thanks, Miss Gray. I reckon it's from Jim Bailey. I--" Pete tore offthe end of the envelope with trembling fingers. Little Ruth watchedhim curiously. Doris had turned away and was looking out across thecity. A tiny hand tugged at her sleeve. "Make Pete play wif me, " saidRuth. "My cow's all broke. "

Pete glanced up, slowly slid the unread letter back into the envelopeand tucked it into his shirt. "You bet we'll find that cow if we haveto comb every draw on the ranch! Hello, pardner! Here's her ole head. She was sure enough investigatin' that there haystack. "

Doris turned away. There was a tense throbbing in her throat as shemoved back to the doorway. Despite herself she glanced back for aninstant. The dark head and the golden head were together over thewonderful puzzle picture. Just why Pete should look up then couldhardly be explained by either himself or Doris. He waved his handboyishly. Doris turned and walked rapidly down the hallway. Heremotion irritated her. Why should she feel so absolutely silly andsentimental because a patient, who really meant nothing to her asidefrom her profession, should choose to play puzzle picture with acrippled child, that he might forget for a while his very identity andthose terrible happenings? Had he not said so? And yet he had putaside the letter that might mean much to him, that he might make LittleRuth forget her pain in searching for a dismembered pasteboard cow. 

Doris glanced in as she passed Pete's room. Two men were standingthere, expressing in their impatient attitudes that they had expectedto find some one in the room. She knew who they were--men from thepolice station--for she had seen them before. 

"You were looking for Mr. Annersley?" she asked. 

"Yes, mam. We got a little business--"

"He's out on the veranda, playing puzzle picture with a little girlpatient. "

"Well, we got a puzzle picture for him--" began one of the men, butDoris, her eyes flashing, interrupted him. 

"Dr. Andover left word that he does not want Mr. Annersley to seevisitors without his permission. "

"Reckon we can see him, miss. I had a talk with Doc Andover. "

"Then let me call Mr. Annersley, please. There are so many--patientsout there. "

"All right, miss. "

Doris took Pete's place as she told him. Little Ruth entered ademurrer, although she liked Doris. "Pete knew all about forces andcows. He must come wight back . . . "

"What a beautiful bossy!" said Doris as Ruth rearranged the slightlydisjointed cow. 

"Dat a _cow_, " said Ruth positively. "Pete says dat a _cow_!"

"And what a wonderful pony!"

"Dat a _force_, Miss Dowis. Pete say dat a force. "

It was evident to Doris that Pete was an authority, not without honorin his own country, and an authority not to be questioned, for Ruthgravely informed Doris that Pete could "wide" and "wope" and kneweverything about "forces" and "cows. "

Meanwhile Pete, seated on the edge of his cot, was telling theplain-clothes men that he was willing to go with them whenever theywere ready, stipulating, however, that he wanted to visit theStockmen's Security and Savings Bank first, and as soon as possible. Incidentally he stubbornly refused to admit that he had anything to dowith the killing of Brent, whom the sheriff of Sanborn had finallyidentified as the aforetime foreman of the Olla. 

"There's nothing personal about this, young fella, " said one of the menas Pete's dark eyes blinked somberly. "It's our business, that's all. "

"And it's a dam' crawlin' business, " asserted Pete. "You couldn't evenlet The Spider cross over peaceful. "

"I reckon he earned all he got, " said one of the men. 

"Mebby. But it took three fast guns to git him--and he put _them_ outof business first. I'd 'a' liked to seen some of you rubber-heeledheifers tryin' to put the irons on him. "

"That kind of talk won't do you no good when you're on the stand, youngfella. It ain't likely that Sam Brent was your first job. Your recordreads pretty strong for a kid. "

"Meanin' Gary? Well, about Gary"--Pete fumbled in his shirt. "I got aletter here" . . . He studied the closely written sheet for a fewseconds, then his face cleared. "Jest run your eye over that. It'sfrom Jim Bailey, who used to be my fo'man on the Concho. "

The officers read the letter, one gazing over the other's shoulder, "Who's this Jim Bailey, anyhow?"

"He's a white man--fo'man of the Concho, and my boss, onct. "

"Well, you're lucky if what he says is so. But that don't square youwith the other deal. "

"There's only one man that could do that, " said Pete. "And I reckon heain't ridin' where you could git him. "

"That's all right, Annersley. But even if you didn't get Brent, youwere on that job. You were running with a tough bunch. "

"Who's got my gun?" queried Pete abruptly. 

"It's over to the station with the rest of your stuff. "

"Well, it wa'n't a forty-five that put Brent out of business. My gunis. "

"You can tell that to the sheriff of Sanborn County. And you'll have ahard time proving that you never packed any other gun. "

"You say it's the sheriff of Sanborn County that'll be wantin' to know?"

"Yes. We're holding you for him. "

"That's different. I reckon I kin talk to _him_. "

"Well, you'll get a chance. He's in town---waiting to take you over toSanborn. "

"I sure would like to have a talk with him, " said Pete. "Would youmind tellin' him that?"

"Why--no. We'll tell him. "

"'Cause I aim to take a little walk this afternoon, " asserted Pete, "and mebby he'd kind o' like to keep me comp'ny. "

"You'll have company--if you take a walk, " said one of the detectivessignificantly. 

CHAPTER XL

THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS

Pete did not return to the veranda to finish his puzzle game withlittle Ruth. He smiled rather grimly as he realized that he had apuzzle game of his own to solve. He lay on the cot and his eyes closedas he reviewed the vivid events in his life, from the beginning of thetrail, at Concho, to its end, here in El Paso. It seemed to spread outbefore him like a great map: the desert and its towns, the hills andmesas, trails and highways over which men scurried like black and redants, commingling, separating, hastening off at queer tangents, meetingin combat, disappearing in crevices, reappearing and setting off againin haste, searching for food, bearing strange burdens, scramblingblindly over obstacles--collectively without seeming purpose--yetindividually bent upon some quest, impetuous and headstrong in theirstrange activities. "And gittin' nowhere, " soliloquized Pete, "exceptin trouble. "

He thought of the letter from Bailey, and, sitting up, re-read itslowly. So Steve Gary had survived, only to meet the inevitable end ofhis kind. Well, Gary was always hunting trouble . . . Roth, thestorekeeper at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Petepacked. If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know thata man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round thecountry experimenting with different makes and calibers. Only the"showcase" boys in the towns swapped guns. Ed Brevoort had always useda Luger. Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliberof the bullet which had killed Brent. If the sheriff were an old-timersuch evidence would not be overlooked. 

Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda. The place was deserted. He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noonmeal. He had forgotten about that. He walked back to his room and saton the edge of his cot. He was lonesome and dispirited. He was nothungry, but he felt decidedly empty. This was the first time thatDoris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault! She mighthave called him. But what did she care? In raw justice to her--why_should_ she care?

Pete's brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray. She hadthought that he had rather have his dinner there. "I noticed that youdid not come down with the others, " she said. 

Pete was angry with himself. Adam-like he said he wasn't hungry anyhow. 

"Then I'll take it back, " said Doris sweetly, Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry. "Miss Gray, " he blurted, "I--I'm a doggone short-horn! I'm goin' to eat. I sure want to squaremyself. "

"For what?"

Doris was gazing at him with a serene directness that made him feelthat his clothing was several sizes too large for him. He realizedthat generalities would hardly serve his turn just then. 

"I was settin' here feelin' sore at the whole doggone outfit, " heexplained. "Sore at you--and everybody. "

"Well?" said Doris unsmilingly. 

"I'm askin' you to forgit that I was sore at you. " Pete was notordinarily of an apologetic turn, and he felt that he pretty thoroughlysquared himself. 

"It really doesn't matter, " said Doris, as she placed his tray on thetable and turned to go. 

"I reckon you're right. " And his dark eyes grew moody again. 

"There's a man in the reception-room waiting to see you, " said Doris. "I told him you were having your dinner. "

"Another one, eh? Oh, I was forgittin'. I got a letter from JimBailey"--Pete fumbled in his shirt--"and I thought mebby--"

"I hope it's good news. "

"It sure is! Would you mind readin' it--to yourself--sometime?"

"I--think I'd rather not, " said Doris hesitatingly. 

Pete's face showed so plainly that he was hurt that Doris regretted herrefusal to read the letter. To make matters worse--for himself--Peteasked that exceedingly irritating and youthful question, "Why?" whichelicits that distinctly unsatisfactory feminine answer, "Because. "That lively team "Why" and "Because" have run away with more chariotsof romance, upset more matrimonial bandwagons, and spilled more beansthan all the other questions and answers men and women have utteredsince that immemorial hour when Adam made the mistake of asking Eve whyshe insisted upon his eating an apple right after breakfast. 

Doris was not indifferent to his request that she read the letter, butshe was unwilling to let Pete know it, and a little fearful that hemight interpret her interest for just what it was--the evidence of agreater solicitude for his welfare than she cared to have him know. 

Pete, like most lusty sons of saddle-leather, shied at even the shadowof sentiment--in this instance shying at his own shadow. He rode wideof the issue, turning from the pleasant vista of who knows whatimaginings, to face the imperative challenge of immediate necessity, which was, first, to eat something, and then to meet the man who waitedfor him downstairs who, Pete surmised, was the sheriff of SanbornCounty. 

"If you don't mind tellin' him I'll come down as soon as I eat, " saidPete as he pulled up a chair. 

Doris nodded and turned to leave. Pete glanced up. She had not gone. "Your letter, "--and Doris proffered the letter which he had left on thecot. Pete was about to take it when he glanced up at her. She wassmiling at him. "You don't know how funny you look when you frown andact--like--like a spoiled child, " she laughed. "Aren't you ashamed ofyourself?"

"I--I reckon I am, " said Pete, grinning boyishly. 

"Ashamed of yourself?"

"Nope! A spoiled kid, like you said. And I ain't forgittin' whospoiled me. "

The letter, the man downstairs and all that his presence implied, pastand future possibilities, were forgotten in the brief glance that Dorisgave him as she turned in the doorway. And glory-be, she had taken theletter with her! Pete gazed about the room to make sure that he wasnot dreaming. No, the letter had disappeared--and but a moment agoDoris had had it. And she still had it. "Well, she'll know I got oneor two friends, anyhow, " reflected Pete as he ate his dinner. "Whenshe sees how Jim talks--and what he said Ma Bailey has to say tome--mebby she'll--mebby--Doggone it! Most like she'll just hand itback and smile and say she's mighty glad--and--but that ain't no signthat I'm the only guy that ever got shot up, and fixed up, and turnedloose by a sure-enough angel . . . Nope! She ain't a angel--she'sreal folks, like Ma Bailey and Andy and Jim. If I ain't darned carefulI'm like to find I done rid my hoss into a gopher-hole and got throwedbad. "

Meanwhile "the man downstairs" was doing some thinking himself. Thatmorning he had visited police headquarters and inspected Pete's gun andbelongings--noting especially the hand-carved holster and theheavy-caliber gun, the factory number of which he jotted down in hisnotebook. Incidentally he had borrowed a Luger automatic from themiscellaneous collection of weapons taken from criminals, assuredhimself that it was not loaded, and slipped it into his coat-pocket. Later he had talked with the officials, visited the Mexicanlodging-house, where he had obtained a description of the man who hadoccupied the room with Pete, and stopping at a restaurant for coffeeand doughnuts, had finally arrived at the hospital prepared to hearwhat young Annersley had to say for himself. 

Sheriff Jim Owen, unofficially designated as "Sunny Jim" because of anamiable disposition, which in no way affected his officialresponsibilities, was a dyed-in-the-wool, hair-cinched, range-branded, double-fisted official, who scorned nickel-plated firearms, hard-boiledhats, fancy drinks, and smiled his contempt for the rubber-heeledmethods of the city police. Sheriff Owen had no rubber-heeledtendencies. He was frankness itself, both in peace and in war. It wasonce said of him, by a lank humorist of Sanborn, that Jim Owen neverwasted any time palaverin' when _he_ was flirtin' with death. That hejust met you with a gun in one hand and a smile in the other, and youcould take your choice--or both, if you was wishful. 

The sheriff was thinking, his hands crossed upon his rotund stomach andhis bowed legs as near crossed as they could ever be without anoperation. He was pretty well satisfied that the man upstairs, whothat pretty little nurse had said would be down in a few minutes, hadnot killed Sam Brent. He had a few pertinent reasons for thisconclusion. First, Brent had been killed by a thirty-caliber, soft-nosed bullet, which the sheriff had in his vest-pocket. Then, from what he had been told, he judged that the man who actually killedBrent would not have remained in plain sight in the lodging-housewindow while his companion made his get-away. This act alone seemed toindicate that of the two the man who had escaped was in the greaterdanger if apprehended, and that young Annersley had generously offeredto cover his retreat so far as possible. Then, from the lodging-housekeeper's description of the other man, Jim Owen concluded that he waseither Ed Brevoort or Slim Harper, both of whom were known to have beenriding for the Olla. And the sheriff knew something of Brevoort'srecord. 

Incidentally Sheriff Owen also looked up Pete's record. He determinedto get Pete's story and compare it with what the newspapers said andsee how close this combined evidence came to his own theory of thekilling of Brent. He was mentally piecing together possibilities andprobabilities, and the exact evidence he had, when Pete walked into thereception-room. 

"Have a chair, " said Sheriff Owen. "I got one. "

"I'm Pete Annersley, " said Pete. "Did you want to see me?"

"Thought I'd call and introduce myself. I'm Jim Owen to my friends. I'm sheriff of Sanborn County to others. "

"All right, Mr. Owen, " said Pete, smiling in spite of himself. 

"That's the idea--only make it Jim. Did you ever use one of these?"And suddenly Sheriff Owen had a Luger automatic in his hand. Petewondered that a man as fat as the little sheriff could pull a gun soquickly. 

"Why--no. I ain't got no use for one of them doggone stutterin'smoke-wagons. "

"Here, too, " said Owen, slipping the Luger back into his pocket. "Never shot one of 'em in my life. Ever try one?"

"I--" Pete caught himself on the verge of saying that he had tried EdBrevoort's Luger once. He realized in a flash how close the sheriffhad come to trapping him. "I never took to them automatics, " heasserted lamely. 

Pete had dodged the question. On the face of it this looked as thoughPete might have been trying to shield himself by disclaiming anyknowledge of that kind of weapon. But Owen knew the type of man he wastalking to--knew that he would shield a companion even more quicklythan he would shield himself. 

"Sam Brent was killed by a bullet from a Luger, " stated Owen. 

Pete's face expressed just the faintest shade of relief, but he saidnothing. 

"I got the bullet here in my pocket. Want to see it?" And before Petecould reply, the sheriff fished out the flattened and twisted bulletand handed it to Pete, who turned it over and over, gazing at itcuriously. 

"Spreads out most as big as a forty-five, " said Pete, handing it back. 

"Yes--but it acts different. Travels faster--and takes more along withit. Lot of 'em used in Texas and across the line. Ever have wordswith Sam Brent?"

"No. Got along with him all right. "

"Did he pay your wages reg'lar?"

"Yes. "

"Ever have any trouble with a man named Steve Gary?"

"Yes, but he's--"

"I know. Used to know the man that got him. Wizard with a gun. Meaner than dirt--"

"Hold on!" said Pete. "He was my friend. "

"--to most folks, " continued the rotund sheriff. "But I've heard saidhe'd do anything for a man he liked. Trouble with him was he didn'tlike anybody. "

"Mebby he didn't, " said Pete indifferently. 

"Because he couldn't trust anybody. Ever eat ice-cream?"

"Who--me?"

The sheriff smiled and nodded. 

"Nope. Ma Bailey made some onct, but--"

"Let's go out and get some. It's cooling and refreshing andit's--ice-cream. Got a hat?"

"Up in my room. "

"Go get it. I'll wait. "

"You mean?"--and Pete hesitated. 

"I don't mean anything. Heard you was going for a walk this afternoon. Thought I'd come along. Want to get acquainted. Lonesome. Nobody totalk to. Get your hat. "

"Suppose I was to make a break--when we git outside?" said Pete. 

Sheriff Owen smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "That little nurse, the one with the gray eyes--that said you were having dinner--is sheyour reg'lar nurse?"

Pete nodded. 

"Well, you won't, " said the sheriff. 

"How's that?" queried Pete. 

"I talked with her. Sensible girl. Break _her_ all up if her patientwas to make a break:--because"--and the sheriff's eyes ceased totwinkle, although he still smiled--"because I'd have to break _you_ allup. Hate to do it. Hate to make her feel bad. "

"Oh, shucks, " said Pete. 

"You're right--shucks. That's what you'd look like. I pack aforty-five--same as you. We can buy a hat--"

"I'll get it. " And Pete left the room. 

He could not quite understand Sheriff Owen. In fact Pete did not comehalf so close to understanding him as the sheriff came to understandingPete. But Pete understood one thing--and that was that Jim Owen wasnot an easy proposition to fool with. 

"Now where do we head for?" said Owen as they stood at the foot of thehospital steps. 

"I was goin' to the bank--the Stockmen's Security. "

"Good bank. You couldn't do better. Know old E. H. Myself. Used toknow him better--before he got rich. No--this way. Short cut. Yougot to get acquainted with your legs again, eh? Had a close call. Alittle shaky?"

"I reckon I kin make it. "

"Call a cab if you say the word. "

"I--I figured I could walk, " said Pete, biting his lips. But a fewmore steps convinced him that the sheriff was taking no risk whateverin allowing him his liberty. 

"Like to see old E. H. Myself, " stated the sheriff. "Never rode in acab in my life. Let's try one. "

And the sprightly sheriff of Sanborn County straightway hailed alanguorous cabby who sat dozing on the "high seat" of a coupe to whichwas attached the most voluptuous-looking white horse that Pete had everseen. Evidently the "hospital stand" was a prosperous center. 

"We want to go to the Stockmen's Security Bank, " said the sheriff, asthe coupe drew up to the curb. The driver nodded. 

Pete leaned back against the cushions and closed his eyes. Owenglanced at him and shook his head. There was nothing vicious or brutalin that face. It was not the face of a killer. 

Pete sat up suddenly. "I was forgittin' I was broke, " and he turned toOwen. 

"No. There's sixty-seven dollars and two-bits of yours over at thestation, along with your gun and a bundle of range clothes. "

"I forgot that. "

"Feel better?"

"Fine--when I'm settin' still. "

"Well, we're here. Go right in. I'll wait. "

Pete entered the bank and inquired for the president, giving theattendant his name in lieu of the card for which he was asked. He wasshown in almost immediately, and a man somewhat of The Spider's typeassured him that he was the president and, as he spoke, handed Pete aslip of paper such as Pete had never before seen. 

"You're Peter Annersley?" queried Hodges. 

"Yes. What's this here?"

"It's more money than I'd want to carry with me on the street, " saidHodges. "Have you anything that might identify you?"

"What's the idee?"

"Mr. Ewell had some money with us that he wished transferred to you, incase anything happened to him. I guess you know what happened. " Thenreflectively, "Jim was a queer one. "

"You mean The Spider wanted me to have this?"

"Yes. That slip of paper represents just twenty-four thousand dollarsin currency. If you'll just endorse it--"

"But it ain't my money!" said Pete. 

"You're a fool if you don't take it, young man. From what I have heardyou'll need it. It seems that Jim took a fancy to you. Said you hadplayed square with him--about that last deposit, I suppose. You don'thappen to have a letter with you, from him, I suppose, do you?"

"I got this, "--and Pete showed President Hodges The Spider's note, which Hodges read and returned. "That was like Jim. He wouldn'tlisten to me. "

"And this was his money?" Pete was unable to realize the significanceof it all. 

"Yes. Now it's yours. You're lucky! Mighty lucky! Just endorse thedraft--right here. I'll have it cashed for you. "

"Write my name?"

"Yes, your full name, here. "

"And I git twenty-four thousand dollars for this?"

"If you want to carry that much around with you. I'd advise you todeposit the draft and draw against it. "

"If it's mine, I reckon I'd like to jest git it in my hands onct, anyhow. I'd like to see what that much money feels like. "

Pete slowly wrote his name, thinking of The Spider and Pop Annersley ashe did so. Hodges took the draft, pressed a button, and a clerkappeared, took the draft, and presently returned with the money in goldand bank-notes of large denomination. 

When he had gone out, Hodges turned to Pete. "What are you going to dowith it? It's none of my business--now. But Jim and I werefriends--and if I can do anything--"

"I reckon I'll put it back in--to my name, " said Pete. "I sure ain'tscared to leave it with you--for The Spider he weren't. "

Hodges smiled grimly, and pressed a button on his desk. "New account, "he told the clerk. 

Pete sighed heavily when the matter had been adjusted, theidentification signature slips signed, and the bank-book made out inhis name. 

Hodges himself introduced Pete at the teller's window, thanked Peteofficially for patronizing the bank, and shook hands with him. "Anytime you need funds, just come in--or write to me, " said Hodges. "Good-bye, and good luck. "

Pete stumbled out of the bank and down the steps to the sidewalk. Hewas rich--worth twenty-four thousand dollars! But why had The Spiderleft this money to him? Surely The Spider had had some otherfriend--or some relative . . . ?

"Step right in, " said Sheriff Owen. "You look kind of white. Feelingshaky?"

"Some. "

"We want to go to the General Hospital, " said the sheriff. 

Pete listened to the deliberate plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk of the whitemare's large and capable feet as the cab whirred softly along thepavement. "I suppose you'll be takin' me over to Sanborn right soon, "he said finally. 

"Well, I expect I ought to get back to my family, " said the sheriff. 

"I didn't kill Sam Brent, " asserted Pete. 

"I never thought you did, " said the sheriff, much to Pete's surprise. 

"Then what's the idee of doggin' me around like I was a blame coyote?"

"Because you have been traveling in bad company, son. And some one inthat said company killed Sam Brent. "

"And I got to stand for it?"

"Looks that way. I been all kinds of a fool at different times, butI'm not fool enough to ask you who killed Sam Brent. But I advise youto tell the judge and jury when the time comes. "

"That the only way I kin square myself?"

"I don't say that. But it will help. "

"Then I don't say. "

"Thought you wouldn't. It's a case of circumstantial evidence. Brentwas found in that cactus forest near the station. The same night twomen rode into Sanborn and left their horses at the livery-stable. These men took the train for El Paso, but jumped it at the crossing. Later they were trailed to a rooming-house on Aliso Street. One ofthem--and this is the queer part of it--got away after shooting hispardner. The rubber heels in this town say these two men quarreledabout money--"

"That's about all they know. Ed and me never--"

"You don't mean Ed Brevoort, do you?"

"There's more 'n one Ed in this country. "

"There sure is. Old E. H. Hodges--he's Ed; and there's Ed Smally on theforce here, and Ed Cummings, the preacher over to Sanborn. Lots ofEds. See here, son. If you want to get out of a bad hole, thequickest way is for you to tell a straight story. Save us both time. Been visiting with you quite a spell. "

"Reckon we're here, " said Pete as the cab stopped. 

"And I reckon you're glad of it. As I was saying, we been having quitea visit--getting acquainted. Now if you haven't done anything the lawcan hold you for, the more I know about what you have done the betterit will be for you. Think that over. If you can prove you didn't killBrent, then it's up to me to find out who did. Get a good sleep. I'lldrift round sometime to-morrow. "

Back in his room Pete lay trying to grasp the full significance of thelittle bank-book in his pocket. He wondered who would stop him if hewere to walk out of the hospital that evening or the next morning, andleave town. He got up and strode nervously back and forth, fighting arecurrent temptation to make his escape. 

He happened to glance in the mirror above the washstand. "That's theonly fella that kin stop me, " he told himself. And he thought of EdBrevoort and wondered where Brevoort was, and if he were in need ofmoney. 

Dr. Andover, making his afternoon rounds, stepped in briskly, glancedat Pete's flushed face, and sitting beside him on the cot, took hispulse and temperature with that professional celerity that makes thebusy physician. "A little temperature. Been out today?"

"For a couple of hours. "

Andover nodded. "Well, young man, you get right into bed. "

The surgeon closed the door. Pete undressed grumblingly. 

"Now turn over. I want to look at your back. M-mm! Thought so. Alittle feverish. Did you walk much?"

"Nope! We took a rig. I was with the sheriff. "

"I see! Excitement was a little too much for you. You'll have to goslow for a few days. "

"I'm feelin' all right, " asserted Pete. 

"You think you are. How's your appetite?"

"I ain't hungry. "

Andover nodded. "You'd better keep off your feet to-morrow. "

"Shucks, Doc! I'm sick of this here place!"

Andover smiled. "Well, just between ourselves, so am I. I've beenhere eight years. By the way, how would you like to take a ride withme, next Thursday? I expect to motor out to Sanborn. "

"In that machine I seen you in the other day?"

"Yes. New car. I'd like to try her out on a good straightaway--andthere's a pretty fair road up on this end of the mesa. "

"I'd sure like to go! Say, Doc, how much does one of them automobilescost?"

"Oh, about three thousand, without extras. "

"How fast kin you go?"

"Depends on the road. My car is guaranteed to do seventy-five on thelevel. "

"Some stepper! You could git to Sanborn and back in a couple of hours. "

"Not quite. I figure it about a four-hour trip. I'd be glad to haveyou along. Friend of mine tells me there's a thoroughbred saddle-horsethere that is going to be sold at auction. I've been advertising for ahorse for my daughter. You might look him over and tell me what youthink of him. "

"I reckon I know him already, " said Pete. 

"How's that?"

"'Cause they's no thoroughbred stock around Sanborn. If it's the oneI'm thinkin' about, it was left there by a friend of mine. "

"Oh--I see! I remember, now. Sanborn is where you--er--took the trainfor El Paso?"

"We left our hosses there--same as the paper said. "

"H-mm! Well, I suppose the horse is to be sold for charges. Sheriff'ssale, I understand. "

"Oh, you're safe in buyin' _him_ all right. And he sure is a good one. "

"Well, I'll speak to the chief. I imagine he'll let you go with me. "

Pete shook his head. "Nope. He wouldn't even if he had the say. Butthe sheriff of Sanborn County has kind of invited me to go over therefor a spell. I guess he figured on leavin' here in a couple of days. "

"He can't take you till I certify that you're able to stand thejourney, " said Andover brusquely. 

"Well, he's comin' to-morrow. I'm dead sick of stayin' here. Can'tyou tell him I kin travel?"

"We'll see how you feel to-morrow. Hello! Here's Miss Gray. What, six o'clock! I had no idea . . . Yes, a little temperature, MissGray. Too much excitement. A little surface inflammation--nothingserious. A good night's rest and he'll be a new man. Good-night. "

Pete was glad to see Doris. Her mere presence was restful. He sighedheavily, glanced up at her and smiled. "A little soup, Miss Gray. It's awful excitin'. Slight surface inflammation on them boiled beets. Nothin' serious--they ain't scorched. A good night's rest and thecook'll be a new man tomorrow. Doc Andover is sure all right--but Ialways feel like he was wearin' kid gloves and was afraid of gittin''em dirty, every time he comes in. "

Doris was not altogether pleased by Pete's levity and her face showedit. She did not smile, but rearranged the things on the tray in apreoccupied manner, and asked him if there was anything else he wanted. 

"Lemme see?" Pete frowned prodigiously. "Got salt and pepper andbutter and sugar; but I reckon you forgot somethin' that I'm wantin' awhole lot. "

"What is it?"

"You're forgittin' to smile. "

"I read that letter from Mr. Bailey. "

"I'm mighty glad you did, Miss Gray. I wanted you to know what was inthat letter. You'd sure like Ma Bailey, and Jim and Andy. Andy was mypardner--when--afore I had that trouble with Steve Gary. No use tryin'to step round it now. I reckon you know all about it. "

"And you will be going back to them--to your friends on the ranch?"

"Well--I aim to. I got to go over to Sanborn first. "

"Sanborn? Do you mean--?"

"Jest what you're thinkin', Miss Gray. I seen a spell back how you waswonderin' that I could josh about my grub, and Doc Andover. Well, Igot in bad, and I ain't blamin' nobody--and I ain't blamin' myself--andthat's why I ain't hangin' my head about anything I done. And I ain'tkickin' because I got started on the wrong foot. _I'm_ figurin' how Ikin git started on the other foot--and keep a-goin'. "

"But why should you tell me about these things? I can't help you. Andit seems terrible to think about them. If I were a man--like Dr. Andover--"

"I reckon you're right, " said Pete. "I got no business loadin' you upwith all my troubles. I'm goin' to quit it. Only you been kind o'like a pardner--and it sure was lonesome, layin' here and thinkin'about everything, and not sayin' a word to nobody. But I jest want youto know that I didn't kill Sam Brent--but I sure would 'a' got him--ifsomebody hadn't been a flash quicker than me, that night. Brent wasafter the money we was packin', and he meant business. "

"You mean that--some one killed him in self-defense?"

"That's the idee. It was him or us. "

"Then why don't you tell the police that?"

"I sure aim to. But what they want to know is who the fella was thatgot Brent. "

"But the papers say that the other man escaped. "

"Which is right. "

"And you won't tell who he is?"

"Nope. "

"But why not--if it means your own freedom?"

"Mebby because they wouldn't believe me anyhow. "

"I don't think that is your real reason. Oh, I forgot to return yourletter. I'll bring it next time. "

"I'll be goin' Thursday. Doc Andover he's goin' over to Sanborn and heast me to go along with him. "

"You mean--to stay?"

"For a spell, anyhow. But I'm comin' back. "

Doris glanced at her wrist watch and realized that it was long past thehour for the evening meal. "I'm going out to my sister's to-morrow, for the day. I may not see you before you leave, "

Pete sat up. "Shucks! Well, I ain't sayin' thanks for what you donefor me, Miss Gray. 'Thanks' sounds plumb starvin' poor and rattlin', side of what I want to tell you. I'd be a'most willin' to git shotag'in--"

"Don't say that!" exclaimed Doris. 

"I would be shakin' hands with you, " said Pete. "But this here is just'Adios, ' for I'm sure comin' back. "

CHAPTER XLI

"A LAND FAMILIAR"

The following day Pete had a long talk with Sheriff Owen, a talk whichresulted in the sheriff's accompanying Andover and Pete on their desertjourney to Sanborn. 

Incidentally Pete gave his word that he would not try to escape. Itwas significant, however, that the little sheriff expressed apreference for the back seat, even before Andover, who had invited himto make the journey, asked him if he cared to ride in front. Thesheriff's choice was more a matter of habit than preference, for, aloneupon the ample seat of the touring-car, he was shuttled ignominiouslyfrom side to side and bounced and jolted until, during a stop forwater, he informed Andover that "he sure would have to pull leather tostay with the car. "

The surgeon, a bit inclined to show off, did not hesitate to "step onher, " when the going was at all good. And any one familiar with theroad from El Paso to Sanborn is aware of just how good even the bestgoing is. Any one unfamiliar with that road is to be congratulated. 

Pete enjoyed the ride, as it brought him once more into the opencountry. The car whirred on and on. It seemed to him as though hewere speeding from a nightmare of brick and stone and clamor into thewide and sun-swept spaces of a land familiar and yet strange. 

They reached Sanborn about noon, having made about one hundred andfifty miles in something like four hours. 

After a wash and a meal at the hotel, they strolled over to thelivery-stable to inspect the horse that Andover thought of buying. Asmall crowd had collected at the stables, as the auction was advertisedto take place that afternoon. The sheriff himself started the biddingon the thoroughbred, followed by the liveryman, who knew about what hecould get for the horse in El Paso. Andover raised his bid, which wasquickly raised in turn by the sheriff. Pete realized that Andoverreally wanted the horse and told him quietly to drop out when thebidding reached two hundred, shrewdly estimating that neither theliveryman nor the sheriff would go beyond that figure, as neither ofthem really wanted the horse save as a speculation. "Then, if you wanthim, raise twenty-five, and you get a mighty good horse for a hundredless than he's worth. I know him. He's no good workin' cattle--buthe's one fine trail horse for straight goin'. And he's as gentle asyour gran'-mother. "

The bidding ran to one hundred and seventy-five, when there was apause. The sheriff had dropped out. The liveryman, conferring withhis partner, was about to bid when Andover jumped the price to twohundred and fifty. 

"I'm through, " said the liveryman. 

"Sold to--name, please--sold to Doctor John Andover for two hundred andfifty dollars, " said the auctioneer. Then, after a facetiousdissertation on thoroughbreds as against cow-ponies, Blue Smoke was ledout. Pete's face went red. Then he paled. He had not forgotten thatBlue Smoke was to be sold, but he had taken it for granted that hewould be allowed to reclaim him. Pete stepped over to the sheriff andwas about to enter a protest--offer to pay the board-bill against BlueSmoke, when the bidding began with an offer of twenty-five dollars. This was quickly run up to seventy-five when Pete promptly bid onehundred, which was a fair auction price, although every man there knewthat Blue Smoke was worth more. 

"I'm bid one hundred twenty-five, " cried the auctioneer, as a young, bow-legged cowboy raised Pete's bid. 

"One-fifty, " said Pete without hesitation. 

The sheriff glanced at Pete, wondering if he would borrow the moneyfrom Andover to make good his bid. But Pete was watching theauctioneer's gavel--which happened to be a short piece of rubbergarden-hose. "Third and last chance!" said the auctioneer. "Nobodywant that pony as a present? All right--goin', I say! Goin', I say_ag'in_! Gone! B' Gosh! at one hundred an' fifty dollars, to thatyoung gent over there that looks like he could ride him. What's thename?"

"Pete Annersley. "

Several in the crowd turned and gazed curiously at Pete. But Pete'seyes were upon Blue Smoke--his horse--the horse that had carried himfaithfully so many desert miles--a cow-pony that could "follow amountain trail all day and finish, a-steppin' high. "

"Much obliged for your advice about the thoroughbred, " said Andover ashe stepped close to Pete. "Is that the pony you used to ride?"

"He sure is. Say, Doc, I got the money to pay for him, but would youmind writin' out a check. I ain't wise to this bankin' business yet. "

"Why--no. I'll do that. I--er--of course--I'm a little short myself. New car--and this horse for my daughter. But I think I can manage. You want to borrow a hundred and fifty?"

"Say, Doc, you got me wrong! I got the makin's all right, but I don'tjest sabe rollin' 'em. " Pete dug into his coat-pocket and fetched up acheck-book. "Same as you paid for your hoss with. "

"This is Stockmen's Security. You have an account there?"

"That's what the president was callin' it. I call it dough. I got thebook. " And Pete dug into his pocket again, watching Andover's face asthat astonished individual glanced at the deposit to Pete's credit. 

"Well, you're the limit!"--and the doctor whistled. "What will youspring next?"

"Oh, it's _mine_, all right. A friend was leavin' it to me. He'scrossed over. "

"I s-e-e. Twenty-four thousand dollars! Young man, that's more moneythan I ever had at one time in my life. "

"Same here, "--and Pete grinned. "But it don't worry me none. "

"I'll make out the check for you. " And Andover pulled out his fountainpen and stepped over to the auctioneer's stand. Pete signed the checkand handed it to the auctioneer. 

"Don't know this man, " said the auctioneer, as he glanced at thesignature. 

"I'll endorse it, " volunteered Andover quickly. 

"All right, Doc. "

And Andover, whose account was as close to being overdrawn as it couldbe and still remain an account, endorsed the check of a man worthtwenty-four thousand-odd dollars, and his endorsement was satisfactoryto the auctioneer. So much for professional egoism and six-cylinderprestige. 

Sheriff Owen, who had kept a mild eye on Pete, had noted thistransaction. After Blue Smoke had been returned to the stables, hetook occasion to ask Pete if he were still a partner to theunderstanding that he was on his honor not to attempt to escape. 

"I figured that deal was good till I got here, " said Pete bluntly. 

"Just so, son. That's where my figuring stopped, likewise. Too muchopen country. If you once threw a leg over that blue roan, I can seewhere some of us would do some riding. "

"If I'd been thinkin' of leavin' you, it would 'a' been afore we gothere, sheriff. "

"So it's 'sheriff' now, and not Jim, eh?"

"It sure is--if you're thinkin' o' lockin' me up. You treated me whiteback there in El Paso--so I'm tellin' you that if you lock me up--and Igit a chanct, I'll sure vamose. "

Pete's assertion did not seem to displease the sheriff in the least. To the contrary, he smiled affably. 

"That's fair enough. And if I _don't_ lock you up, but let you stayover to the hotel, you'll hang around town till this thing is settled, eh?"

"I sure will. "

"Will you shake on that?"

Pete thrust out his hand. "That goes, Jim. "

"Now you're talking sense, Pete. Reckon you better run along and seewhat the Doc wants. He's waving to you. "

Andover sat in his car, drawing on his gloves. "I've arranged to havethe horse shipped to me by express. If you don't mind, I wish youwould see that he is loaded properly and that he has food and waterbefore the car leaves--that is"--and Andover cleared his throat--"ifyou're around town tomorrow. The sheriff seems to allow you a prettyfree hand--possibly because I assured him that you were not physicallyfit to--er--ride a horse. Since I saw that bank-book of yours, I'vebeen thinking more about your case. If I were you I would hire thebest legal talent in El Paso, and fight that case to a finish. You canpay for it. "

"You mean for me to hire a lawyer to tell 'em I didn't kill Sam Brent?"

"Not exactly that--but hire a lawyer to _prove_ to the judge and jurythat you didn't kill him. "

"Then a fella's got to pay to prove he didn't do somethin' that he'sarrested for, and never done?"

"Often enough. And he's lucky if he has the money to do it. Think itover--and let me know how you are getting along. Miss Gray will beinterested also. "

"All right. Thanks, Doc. I ain't forgittin' you folks. "

Andover waved his hand as he swung the car round and swept out of town. Pete watched him as he sped out across the mesa. 

Sheriff Owen was standing in the livery-stable door across the streetas Pete turned and started toward him. Midway across the street Petefelt a sharp pain shoot through his chest. It seemed as though the airhad been suddenly shut from his lungs and that he could neither speaknor breathe. He heard an exclamation and saw Owen coming toward him. Owen, who had seen him stop and sway, was asking a question. A dimblur of faces--an endless journey along a street and up a narrowstairway--and Pete lay staring at yellow wall-paper heavily sprinkledwith impossible blue roses. Owen was giving him whiskey--a sip at atime. 

"How do you feel now?" queried the sheriff. 

"I'm all right. Somethin' caught me quick--out there. "

"Your lungs have been working overtime. Too much fresh air all atonce. You'll feel better tomorrow. "

"I reckon you won't have to set up and watch the front door, " saidPete, smiling faintly. 

"Or the back door. You're in the Sanborn House--room 11, second floor, and there's only one other floor and that's downstairs. If you wantany thing--just pound on the floor. They'll understand. "

"About payin' for my board--"

"That's all right. I got your money--and your other stuff that I mightneed for evidence. Take it easy. "

"Reckon I'll git up, " said Pete. "I'm all right now. "

"Better wait till I come back from the office. Be back about six. Gotto write some letters. Your case--called next Thursday. " And SheriffOwen departed, leaving Pete staring at yellow wallpaper sprinkled withblue roses. 

CHAPTER XLII

"OH, SAY TWO THOUSAND"

Just one week from the day on which Pete arrived in Sanborn he wassitting in the witness chair, telling an interested judge and jury, anda more than interested attorney for the defense, the story of hislife--"every hour of which, " the attorney for the defense shrewdlyobserved in addressing the court, "has had a bearing upon the case. "

Pete spoke quietly and at times with considerable unconscious humor. He held back nothing save the name of the man who had killed Brent, positively refusing to divulge Brevoort's name. His attitude wasconvincing--and his story straightforward and apparently without aflaw, despite a spirited cross-examination by the State. The trial wasbrief, brisk, and marked by no wrangling. Sheriff Owen's testimony, while impartial, rather favored the prisoner than otherwise. 

In his address to the jury, Pete's attorney made no appeal in respectto the defendant's youth, his struggle for existence, or thedefendant's willingness to stand trial, for Pete had unwittingly madethat appeal himself in telling his story. The attorney for the defensesummed up briefly, thanking the jury for listening to him--and thensuddenly whirled and pointed his finger at the sheriff. 

"I ask you as sheriff of Sanborn County why you allowed the defendanthis personal liberty, unguarded and unattended, pending this trial. "

"Because he gave his word that he would not attempt to escape, " saidSheriff Owen. 

"That's it!" cried the attorney. "The defendant _gave his word_. Andif Sheriff Owen, accustomed as he is to reading character in a man, waswilling to take this boy's word as a guarantee of his presence here, ontrial for his life, is there a man among us who (having heard thedefendant testify) is willing to stand up and say that he doubts thedefendant's word? If there is I should like to look at that man! No!

"Gentlemen, I would ask you to recall the evidence contained in theletter written by former employers of the defendant, substantiating myassertion that this boy has been the victim of circumstances, and notthe victim of perverse or vicious tendencies. Does he look like acriminal? Does he act like a criminal? I ask you to decide. "

The jury was out but a few minutes, when they filed into court andreturned a verdict of "Not guilty. "

The attorney for the defense shook hands with Pete, and gathered up hispapers. 

Outside the courtroom several of the jury expressed a desire to makePete's acquaintance, curiously anxious to meet the man who had knownthe notorious Spider personally. Pete was asked many questions. Onejuror, a big, bluff cattleman, even offered Pete a job--"in case hethought of punchin' cattle again, instead of studyin' law"--averringthat Pete "was already a better lawyer than that shark from El Paso, atany turn of the trial. "

Finally the crowd dwindled to Owen, the El Paso lawyer, two of Owen'sdeputies, and Pete, who suggested that they go over to the hotel untiltrain-time. 

When Pete came to pay the attorney, whom Andover had secured followinga letter from Pete, the attorney asked Pete how much he could afford. Pete, too proud to express ignorance, and feeling mightily impressed bythe other's ability, said he would leave that to him. 

"Well, including expenses, say two thousand dollars, " said the attorney. 

Pete wrote the check and managed to conceal his surprise at the amount, which the attorney had mentioned in such an offhand way. "I'm thankin'you for what you done, " said Pete. 

"Don't mention it. Now, I'm no longer your legal adviser, Annersley, and I guess you're glad of it. But if I were I'd suggest that you goto some school and get an education. No matter what you intend to dolater, you will find that an education will be extremely useful, to saythe least. I worked my way through college--tended furnaces in winterand cut lawns in summer. And from what Andover tells me, you won'thave to do that. Well, I think I'll step over to the station; train'sdue about now. "

"You'll tell Doc Andover how it come out?"

"Of course. He'll want to know. Take care of yourself. Good-bye!"

Owen and his deputies strolled over to the station with the El Pasoattorney. Pete, standing out in front of the hotel, saw the train pullin and watched the attorney step aboard. 

"First, Doc Andover says to hire a good lawyer, which I done, and goodones sure come high. " Pete sighed heavily--then grinned. "Well, saytwo thousand--jest like that! Then the lawyer says to git a education. Wonder if I was to git a education what the professor would be tellin'me to do next. Most like he'd be tellin' me to learn preachin' orsomethin'. Then if I was to git to be a preacher, I reckon all I coulddo next would be to go to heaven. Shucks! Arizona's good enough forme. "

But Pete was not thinking of Arizona alone--of the desert, the hillsand the mesas, the caņons and arroyos, the illimitable vistas and thecolor and vigor of that land. Persistently there rose before hisvision the trim, young figure of a nurse who had wonderful grayeyes . . . "I'm sure goin' loco, " he told himself. "But I ain't soloco that she's goin' to know it. "

"I suppose you'll be hitting the trail over the hill right soon, " saidOwen as he returned from the station and seated himself in one of theample chairs on the hotel veranda. "Have a cigar. "

Pete shook his head. 

"They're all right. That El Paso lawyer smokes 'em. "

"They ought to be all right, " asserted Pete. 

"Did he touch you pretty hard?"

"Oh, say two thousand, jest like that!"

The sheriff whistled. "Shooting-scrapes come high. "

"Oh, I ain't sore at him. What makes me sore is this here law thatsticks a fella up and takes his money--makin' him pay for somethin' henever done. A poor man would have a fine chance, fightin' a rich manin court, now, wouldn't he?"

"There's something in that. The _Law_, as it stands, is all right. "

"Mebby. But she don't stand any too steady when a poor man wants tofork her and ride out of trouble. He's got to have a morral full ofgrain to git her to stand--and even then she's like to pitch him if shegits a chanct. I figure she's a bronco that never was broke right. "

"Well, "--and Owen smiled, --"we got pitched this time. We lost ourcase. "

"You kind o' stepped up on the wrong side, " laughed Pete. 

"I don't know about that. _Somebody_ killed Sam Brent. "

"I reckon they did. But supposin'--'speakin' kind o' offhand'--thatyou had the fella--and say I was witness, and swore the fella killedBrent in self-defense--where would he git off?"

"That would depend entirely on his reputation--and yours. "

"How about the reputation of the fella that was killed?"

"Well, it was Brent's reputation that got you off to-day, as much asyour own. Brent was foreman for The Spider, which put him in bad fromthe start, and he was a much older man than you. He was the kind to dojust what you said he did--try to hold you up and get The Spider'smoney. It was a mighty lucky thing for you that you managed to getthat money to the bank before they got you. You were riding straightall right, only you were on the wrong side of the fence, and I guessyou knew it. "

"I sure did. "

"Well, it ain't for me to tell you which way to head in. You know whatyou're doing. You've got what some folks call Character, and plenty ofit. But you're wearin' a reputation that don't fit. "

"Same as clothes, eh?"--and Pete grinned. 

"Yes. And you can change _them_--if you want to change 'em. "

"But that there character part stays jest the same, eh?"

"Yes. You can't change that. "

"Don't know as I want to. But I'm sure goin' to git into my otherclothes, and take the trail over the hill that you was talkin' about. "

"There are six ways to travel from here, "--and the sheriff's eyestwinkled. 

"Six? Now I figured about four. "

"Six. When it comes to direction, the old Hopis had us beat by acouple of trails. They figured east, west, north, and south, straightdown and straight up. "

"I git you, Jim. Well, minin' never did interest me none--and as forflyin', I sure been popped as high as I want to go. I reckon I'll jestlet my hoss have his head. I reckon him and me has got about the sameidee of what looks good. "

"That pony of yours has never been in El Paso, has he?" queried thesheriff. 

"Nope. Reckon it would be mighty interestin' for him--and the folksthat always figured a sidewalk was jest for folks and not forhosses--but I ain't lookin' for excitement, nohow. "

"Reckon that blue roan will give you all you want, any way you ride. He hasn't been ridden since you left him here. "

"Yes--and it sure makes me sore. Doc Andover said I was to keep off ahoss for a week yet. Sanborn is all right--but settin' on that hotelporch lookin' at it ain't. "

"Well, I'd do what the Doc says, just the same. He ought to know. "

"I see--he ought to. He sure prospected round inside me enough to knowhow things are. "

"You might come over to my office when you get tired of sitting aroundhere. There ain't anything much to do--but I've got a couple of oldlaw books that might interest you--and a few novels--and if you wantsome real excitement I got an old dictionary--"

"That El Paso lawyer was tellin' me I ought to git a education. Don'tknow but what this is a good chanct. But I reckon I'll try one of themnovels first. Mebby when I git that broke to gentle I can kind o' rideover and fork one of them law books without gittin' throwed afore I gitmy spurs hooked in good. But I sure don't aim to take no quickchances, even if you are ridin' herd for me. "

"That lawyer was right, Pete. And if I had had your chance, money, andno responsibilities--at your age, I wouldn't have waited to pack mywar-bag to go to college. "

"Well, I figured _you_ was educated, all right. Why, that there lawyerwas sayin' right out in court about you bein' intelligent andwell-informed, and readin' character. "

"He was spreading it on thick, Pete. Regular stuff. What little Iknow I got from observation--and a little reading. "

"Well, I aim to do some lookin' around myself. But when it comes toreadin' books--"

"Reckon I'll let you take 'Robinson Crusoe'--it's a bed-rock story. And if you finish that before you leave, I'll bet you a new Stetsonthat you'll ask for another. "

"I could easy win that hat, "--and Pete grinned. 

"Not half as easy as you could afford to lose it. "

"Meanin' I could buy one 'most any time?"

"No. I'll let you figure out what I meant. " And the sturdy littlesheriff heaved himself out of a most comfortable chair and waddled upthe street, while Pete stared after him trying to reconcile bow-legsand reading books, finally arriving at the conclusion that education, which he had hitherto associated with high collars and helplessness, might perhaps be acquired without loss of self-respect. "It surehadn't spoiled Jim Owen, " who was "as much of a real man as any of'em"--and could handle talk a whole lot better than most men whoboasted legs like his. Why, even that El Paso lawyer had complimentedOwen on his "concise and eloquent summary of his findings against thedefendant. " And Pete reflected that his lawyer had not thrown anybouquets at any one else in that courtroom. 

Just how much a little gray-eyed nurse in El Paso had to do with Pete'sdetermination to browse in those alien pastures is a matter forspeculation--but a matter which did not trouble Pete in the least, because it never occurred to him; evident in his confession to AndyWhite, months later: "I sure went to it with my head down and my earslaid back, takin' the fences jest as they come, without stoppin' tolook for no gate. I sure jagged myself on the top-wire, frequent, butI never let that there Robinson Crusoe cuss git out of sight till I runhim into his a home-corral along with that there man-eatin' nigger ofhis'n. "

So it would seem that not even the rustle of skirts was heard in theland as Pete made his first wild ride across the pleasant pastures ofRomance--for Doris had no share in this adventure, and, we are told, the dusky ladies of that carnivorous isle did not wear them. 

CHAPTER XLIII

A NEW HAT--A NEW TRAIL

The day before Pete left Sanborn he strolled over to the sheriff'soffice and returned the old and battered copy of "Robinson Crusoe, "which he had finished reading the night previous. "I read her, cleanthrough, " asserted Pete, "but I'd never made the grade if you hadn'tput me wise to that there dictionary. Gosh! I never knowed there wasso many ornery words bedded down in that there book. "

"What do you think of the story?" queried the sheriff. 

"If that Robinson Crusoe guy had only had a hoss instead of a bunch ofgoats, he sure could have made them natives ramble. And he sure took awhole lot of time blamin' himself for his hard luck--always a-settin'back, kind o' waitin' for somethin'--instead of layin' out in the brushand poppin' at them niggers. He wa'n't any too handy at readin' atrail, neither. But he made the grade--and that there Friday was sureone white nigger. "

"Want to tackle another story?" queried Owen, as he put the book backon the shelf. 

"If it's all the same to you, I'd jest as soon read this one overag'in. I was trailin' that old Crusoe hombre so clost I didn't gittime to set up and take in the scenery. "

In his eagerness to re-read the story Pete had forgotten about thewager. Owen's eyes twinkled as he studied Pete's face. "We had abet--" said Owen. 

"That's right! I plumb forgot about that. You said you bet me a newhat that I'd ask you for another book. Well--what you grinnin' at, anyhow? 'Cause you done stuck me for a new lid? Oh, I git you! Yousaid _another_ book, and I'm wantin' to read the same one over again. Shucks! I ain't goin' to fore-foot you jest because you rid into aloop layin' in the tall grass where neither of us seen it. "

"I lose on a technicality. I ought to lose. Now if I had bet you anew hat that you would want to keep on reading instead of that you'dask for _another_ book--"

"But this ain't no law court, Jim. It was what you was meanin' thatcounts. "

"Serves me right. I was preaching to you about education--and I'm gameto back up the idea--even if I did let my foot slip. Come on over toJennings's with me and I'll get that hat. "

"All right!" And Pete rolled a smoke as the sheriff picked up severaladdressed letters and tucked them in his pocket. "I was goin' over tothe post-office, anyway. "

They crossed to the shady side of the street, the short, ruddy littlesheriff and the tall, dark cowboy, each more noticeable by contrast, yet neither consciously aware of the curious glances cast at them byoccasional townsfolk, some of whom were small enough to suspect thatPete and the sheriff had collaborated in presenting the evidence whichhad made Pete a free man; and that they were still collaborating, asthey seemed very friendly toward each other. 

Pete tried on several hats and finally selected one. "Let's see how itlooks on you, " he said, handing it to the sheriff. "I don't know howshe looks. "

Owen tried the hat on, turning to look into the mirror at the end ofthe counter. Pete casually picked up the sheriff's old hat and glancedat the size. 

"Reckon I'll take it, " said Pete, as Owen returned it. "This here oneof mine never did fit too good. It was Andy's hat. "

Certain male gossips who infested the groceries, pool-halls, andpost-office of Sanborn, shook their heads and talked gravely aboutbribery and corruption and politics and what not, when they learnedthat the sheriff had actually bought a hat for that young outlaw thathe was so mighty thick with. "And it weren't no fairy-story neither. Bill Jennings sold the hat hisself, and the sheriff paid for it, andthat young Annersley walked out of the store with said hat on his_head_. Yes, sir! Things looked mighty queer. "

"Things would 'a' looked a mighty sight queerer if he'd 'a' walked outwith it on his foot, " suggested a friend of Owen's who had beenbuttonholed and told the alarming news. 

Meanwhile Pete attended to his own business, which was to get his fewthings together, pay his hotel-bill, settle his account with thesheriff--which included cab-hire in El Paso--and write a letter toDoris Gray--the latter about the most difficult task he had ever faced. He thought of making her some kind of present--but his innate goodsense cautioned him to forego that pleasure for a while, for in makingher a present he might also make a mistake--and Pete was becoming a bitcautious about making mistakes, even though he did think that thatgreen velvet hat with a yellow feather, in the millinery store inSanborn, was about the most high-toned ladies' sky-piece that he hadever beheld. Pete contented himself with buying a new Stetson forSheriff Owen--to be delivered after Pete had left town. 

Next morning, long before the inhabitants of Sanborn had thrown backtheir blankets, Pete was saddling Blue Smoke, frankly amazed that thepony had shown no evidence of his erstwhile early-morning activities. He wondered if the horse were sick. Blue Smoke looked a bit fat, andhis eye was dull--but it was the dullness of resentment rather than ofpoor physical condition. Well fed, and without exercise, Blue Smokehad become more or less logy, and he looked decidedly disinterested inlife as Pete cautiously pulled up the front cinch. 

"He's too doggone quiet to suit me, " Pete told the stable-man. 

"He's thinkin', " suggested that worthy facetiously. 

"So am I, " asserted Pete, not at all facetiously. 

Out in the street Pete "cheeked" Blue Smoke, and swung up quickly, expecting the pony to go to it, but Smoke merely turned his head andgazed at the livery with a sullen eye. 

"He's sad to leave his boardin'-house, "--and Pete touched Smoke withthe spur. Smoke further surprised Pete by striking into a mildcow-trot, as they turned the corner and headed down the long road atthe end of which glimmered the far brown spaces, slowly changing incolor as the morning light ran slanting toward the west. 

"Nothin' to do but go, " reflected Pete, still a trifle suspicious ofBlue Smoke's gentlemanly behavior. The sun felt warm to Pete's back. The rein-chains jingled softly. The saddle creaked a rhythmiccomplaint of recent disuse. 

Pete, who had said good-bye to the sheriff the night before, turned hisface toward the open with a good, an almost too good, horse between hisknees and a new outlook upon the old familiar ranges and their devioustrails. 

Past a somber forest of cacti, shot with myriad angling shadows, desolate and forbidding, despite the open sky and the morning sun, Peterode slowly, peering with eyes aslant at the dense growth close to theroad, struggling to ignore the spot. Despite his determination, hecould not pass without glancing fearsomely as though he half-expectedto see something there--something to identify the spot as that shadowyplace where Brent had stood that night . . . 

Blue Smoke, hitherto as amiably disposed to take his time as was Petehimself, shied suddenly. Through habit, Pete jabbed him with the spur, to straighten him back in the road again. Pete had barely time tomutter an audible "I thought so!" when Blue Smoke humped himself. Peteslackened to the first wild lunge, grabbed off his hat and swung it asBlue Smoke struck at the air with his fore feet, as though trying toclimb an invisible ladder. Pete swayed back as the horse came down ina mighty leap forward, and hooking his spurs in the cinch, rocked toeach leap and lunge like a leaf caught up in a desert whirlwind. WhenPete saw that Smoke's first fine frenzy had about evaporated, he urgedhim to further endeavors with the spurs, but Blue Smoke only gruntedand dropped off into a most becoming and gentlemanly lope. And Petewas not altogether displeased. His back felt as though it had beenseared with a branding-iron, and the range to the west was heaving mostindecorously, cavorting around the horizon as though strangely excitedby Blue Smoke's sudden and seemingly unaccountable behavior. 

"I reckon we're both feelin' better!" Pete told the pony. "I neededjest that kind of a jolt to feel like I was livin' ag'in. But youneedn't be in such a doggone hurry to go and tell your friends how goodyou're feelin'. Jest come down off that lope. We got all day to gitthere. "

Blue Smoke shook his head as Pete pulled him to a trot. The cactusforest was behind them. Ahead lay the open, warm brown in the sun, andacross it ran a dwindling grayish line, the road that ran east and westacross the desert, --a good enough road as desert roads go, but Pete, despite his satisfaction in being out in the open again, grew somewhattired of its monotonously even wagon-rutted width, and longed for atrail--a faint, meandering trail that would swing from the road, dipinto a sand arroyo, edge slanting up the farther bank, wriggle round acluster of small hills, shoot out across a mesa, and climb slowlytoward those hills to the west, finally to contort itself intoserpentine switchbacks as it sought the crest--and once on the crest(which was in reality but the visible edge of another great mesa), there would be grass for a horse and cedar-wood for a fire, and waterwith which to make coffee. 

Pete had planned that his first night should be spent in the open, withno other companions than the friendly stars. As for Blue Smoke, well, a horse is the best kind of a pal for a man who wishes to be alone, apal who takes care of himself, never complains of weariness, and eatswhat he finds to eat with soulful satisfaction. 

Pete made his first night's camp as he had planned, hobbled Blue Smoke, and, having eaten, he lay resting, his head on his saddle and his gazefixed upon the far glory of the descending sun. The sweet, acridfragrance of cedar smoke, the feel of the wind upon his face, thecontented munching of his pony, the white radiance of the stars thatcame quickly, and that indescribable sense of being at one with thesilences, awakened memories of many an outland camp-fire, when as a boyhe had journeyed with the horse-trader, or when Pop Annersley and hehad hunted deer in the Blue Range. And it seemed to Pete that that hadbeen but yesterday--"with a pretty onnery kind of a dream in between, "he told himself. 

As the last faint light faded from the west and the stars grew big, Pete thanked those same friendly stars that there would be aTo-morrow--with sunlight, silence, and a lone trail to ride. Anotherday and he would reach old Flores's place in the caņon--but Boca wouldnot be there. Then he would ride to Showdown. --Some one would be atThe Spider's place . . . He could get feed for his horse . . . Andthe next day he would ride to the Blue and camp at the old cabin. Another day and he would be at the Concho . . . Andy, and Jim, and MaBailey would be surprised . . . No, he hadn't come back to stay . . . Just dropped in to say "Hello!" . . . 

Pete smiled faintly as a coyote shrilled his eternal plaint. This wassomething like it. The trembling Pleiades grew blurred. 

CHAPTER XLIV

THE OLD TRAIL

The following afternoon Pete, stiff and weary from his two days' ride, entered the southern end of Flores's caņon and followed the trail alongthe stream-bed--now dry and edged with crusted alkali--until he camewithin sight of the adobe. In the half-light of the late afternoon hecould not distinguish objects clearly, but he thought he could discernthe posts of the pole corral and the roof of the meager stable. Nearerhe saw that there was no smoke coming from the mud chimney of theadobe, and that the garden-patch was overgrown with weeds. 

No one answered his call as he rode up and dismounted. He found theplace deserted and he recalled the Mexican woman's prophecy. 

He pushed open the sagging door and entered. There was theoilcloth-covered table and the chairs--a broken box in the middle ofthe room, an old installment-house catalogue, from which the coloredprints had been torn, an empty bottle--and in the kitchen were therusted stove and a few battered and useless cooking-utensils. An odorof stale grease pervaded the place. In the narrow bedroom--Boca'sroom---was a colored fashion-plate pinned on the wall. 

Pete shrugged his shoulders and stepped out. Night was coming swiftly. He unsaddled Blue Smoke and hobbled him. The pony strayed off up thestream-bed. Pete made a fire by the corral, ate some beans which hewarmed in the can, drank a cup of coffee, and, raking together somecoarse dried grass, turned in and slept until the sound of his pony'sfeet on the rocks of the stream-bed awakened him. He smelt dawn in theair, although it was still dark in the caņon, and having in mind thearid stretch between the caņon and Showdown, he made breakfast. Hecaught up his horse and rode up the trail toward the desert. On themesa-edge he re-cinched his saddle and turned toward the north. 

Flores, who with his wife was living at The Spider's place, recognizedhim at once and invited him in. 

"What hit this here town, anyhow?" queried Pete. "I didn't see a soulas I come through. "

Flores shrugged his shoulders. "The vaqueros from over there"--and hepointed toward the north--"they came--and now there is but thisleft"--and he indicated the saloon. "The others they have gone. "

"Cleaned out the town, eh? Reckon that was the T-Bar-T and the boysfrom the Blue and the Concho. How'd they come to miss you?"

"I am old--and my wife is old--and after they had drank thewine--leaving but little for us--they laughed and said that we mightstay and be dam': that we were too old to steal cattle. "

"Uh-huh. Cleaned her out reg'lar! How's the seņora?"

Flores touched his forehead. "She is thinking of Boca--and no one elsedoes she know. "

"Gone loco, eh? Well, she ain't so bad off at that--seein' as _you're_livin' yet. No, I ain't comin' in. But you can sell me sometortillas, if you got any. "

"It will be night soon. If the seņor--"

"Go ask the Seņora if she has got any tortillas to sell. I wouldn'tbush in there on a bet. Don't you worry about my health. "

"We are poor, seņor! We have this place, and the things--but of themoney I know nothing. My wife she has hidden it. "

"She ain't so crazy as you think, if that's so. Do you run thisplace--or are you jest starvin' to death here?"

"There is still a little wine--and we buy what we may need ofMescalero. If you will come in--"

"So they missed old Mescalero! Well, he's lucky. No, I don't come in. I tried boardin' at your house onct. "

"Then I will get the tortillas. " And Flores shuffled into the saloon. Presently he returned with a half-dozen tortillas wrapped up in an oldnewspaper. Pete tossed him a dollar, and packing the tortillas in hissaddle-pockets, gazed round at the town, the silent and desertedhouses, the empty street, and finally at The Spider's place. 

Old Flores stood in the doorway staring at Pete with drink-blurredeyes. Pete hesitated. He thought of dismounting and going in andspeaking to Flores's wife. But no! It would do neither of them anygood. Flores had intimated that she had gone crazy. And Pete did notwant to talk of Boca--nor hear her name mentioned. "Boca's where sheain't worryin' about anybody, " he reflected as he swung round and rodeout of town. 

Once before he had camped in the same draw, a few miles west ofShowdown, and Blue Smoke seemed to know the place, for he had swungfrom the trail of his own accord, striding straight to the water-hole. 

"And if you keep on actin' polite, " Pete told the pony as he hobbledhim that evening, "you'll get a good reputation, like Jim Owen said;which is plumb necessary, if you an' me's goin' to be pals. But ifgettin' a good reputation is goin' to spoil your wind or legs any--why, jest keep on bein' onnery--which Jim was tellin' me is called'Character. '"

As Pete hardened to the saddle and Blue Smoke hardened to the trail, they traveled faster and farther each day, until, on the Blue Mesa, where the pony grazed and Pete squatted beside his night-fire in theopen, they were but a half-day's journey from the Concho. Pete almostregretted that their journey must come to an end. But he could not goon meandering about the country without a home and without an object inlife: _that_ was pure loafing. 

Pete might have excused himself on the ground that he needed just thissort of thing after his serious operation; but he was honest withhimself, admitting that he felt fit to tackle almost any kind of hardwork, except perhaps writing letters--for he now thought well enough ofhimself to believe that Doris Gray would answer his letter to her fromSanborn. And of course he would answer her letter--and if he answeredthat, she would naturally answer . . . Shucks! Why should she writeto him? All he had ever done for her was to make her a lot of botherand hard work. And what good was his money to him? He couldn't justwalk into a store and buy an education and have it wrapped up in paperand take it to her and say, "Here, Miss Gray. I got a education--thebest they had in the outfit. Now if you'll take it as a kind ofpresent--and me along with it . . . "

Pete was camping within fifty yards of the spot where old Pop Annersleyhad tried to teach him to read and write--it seemed a long time ago, and Annersley himself seemed more vague in Pete's memory, as he triedto recall the kindly features and the slow, deliberate movements of theold man. It irritated Pete that he could not recall old manAnnersley's face distinctly. He could remember his voice, and one ortwo characteristic gestures--but his face--

Pete stared into the camp-fire, dreaming back along that trail overwhich he had struggled and fought and blundered; back to the time whenhe was a waif in Enright, his only companion a lean yellow dog . . . Pete nodded and his eyes closed. He turned lazily and leaned backagainst his saddle. 

The mesa, carpeted with sod-grass, gave no warning of the approachinghorseman, who had seen the tiny fire and had ridden toward it. Justwithin the circle of firelight he reined in and was about to call outwhen that inexplicable sense inherent in animals, the Indian, and insome cases the white man, brought Pete to his feet. In that samelightning-swift, lithe movement he struck his gun from the holster andstood tense as a buck that scents danger on the wind. 

Pete blinked the sleep from his eyes. "Keep your hands right wherethey be and step down off that hoss--"

The rider obeyed. Pete moved from the fire that his own shadow mightnot fall upon the other. "Pete!" exclaimed the horseman in a sort ofchoking whisper. 

The gun sagged in Peter's hand. "Andy! For God's sake!--I come clostto killin' you!" And he leaped and caught Andy White's hand, shook it, flung his arm about his shoulders, stepped back and struck himplayfully on the chest, grabbed him and shook him--and then suddenly heturned and walked back to the fire and sat down, blinking into theflames, and trying to swallow nothing, harder than he had ever tried toswallow anything in his life. 

He heard Andy's step behind him, and heard his own name spoken again. "It was my fault, Pete. I ought to 'a' hollered. I saw your fire androde over--" Andy's hand was on Pete's shoulder, and that shoulder wasshaking queerly. Andy drew back. "There goes that dam' cayuse, " criedAndy. "I'll go catch him up, and let him drag a rope. "

When Andy returned from putting an unnecessary rope on a decidedlytired horse that was quite willing to stand right where he was, Petehad pulled himself together and was rolling a cigarette. 

"Well, you ole sun-of-a-gun!" said Pete; "want to swap hats? Say, how'll you swap?"

Andy grinned, but his grin faded to a boyish seriousness as he took offhis own Stetson and handed it to Pete, who turned it round andtentatively poked his fingers through the two holes in the crown. "Yougot my ole hat yet, eh? Doggone if it ain't my ole hat. And she'sventilated some, too. Well, I'm listenin'. "

"And you sure are lookin' fine, Pete. Say, is it you? Or did my hosspitch me--and I'm dreamin'--back there on the flat? No. I reckon it'syou all right. I ain't done shakin' yet from the way you come at mewhen I rode in. Say, did you git Jim's letter? Why didn't you writeto a guy, and say you was comin'? Reg'lar ole Injun, same as ever. Quicker 'n a singed bob-cat gittin' off a stove-lid. That Blue Smoke'way over there? Thought I knowed him. When did they turn you loosedown to El Paso? Ma Bailey was worryin' that they wasn't feedin' yougood. When did you get here? Was you in the gun-fight when The Spidergot bumped off?"

Pete was still gazing at the little round holes in Andy's hat. "Andy, did you ever try to ride a hoss down the ole mesa trail backwards?"

"Why, no, you sufferin' coyote! What you drivin' at?"

"Here's your hat. Now if you got anything under it, go ahead and talkup. Which way did you ride when we split, over by the timber there?"

Andy reached over and put a stick of wood on the fire. "Well, seein'it's your hat, I reckon you got a right to know how them holes come init. " And he told Pete of his ride, and how he had misled the posse, and he spoke jestingly, as though it had been a little thing to do;hardly worth repeating. Then he told of a ride he had made to Showdownto let Pete know that Gary would live, and how The Spider had said thathe knew nothing of Pete--had never seen him. And of how Ma Baileyupheld Pete, despite all local gossip and the lurid newspaper screeds. And that the boys would be mighty glad to see him again; concludingwith an explanation of his own presence there--that he had been over tothe T-Bar-T to see Houck about some of his stock that had strayedthrough some "down-fence"--"She's all fenced now, " he explained--andhad run into a bunch of wild turkeys, chased them to a rim-rock and hadmanaged to shoot one, but had had to climb down a caņon to recover thebird, which had set him back considerably on his home journey. "Andthat there bird is hangin' right on my saddle now!" he concluded. "AndI ain't et since mornin'. "

"Then we eat, " asserted Pete. "You go git that turkey, and I'll do therest. "

Wild turkey, spitted on a cedar limb and broiled over a wood fire, abannock or two with hot coffee in an empty bean-can (Pete insisted onAndy using the one cup), tastes just a little better than anything elsein the world, especially if one has ridden far in the high country--andmost folk do, before they get the wild turkey. 

It was three o'clock when they turned in, to share Pete's one blanket, and then Andy was too full of Pete's adventures to sleep, asking anoccasional question which Pete answered, until Andy, suddenly recallingthat Pete had told him The Spider had left him his money, asked Pete ifhe had packed all that dough with him, or banked it in El Paso. Towhich Pete had replied drowsily, "Sure thing, Miss Gray. " WhereuponAndy straightway decided that he would wait till morning before askingany further questions of an intimate nature. 

Pete was strangely quiet the next morning, in fact almost taciturn, andAndy noticed that he went into the saddle a bit stiffly. "That--whereyou got hurt botherin' you, Pete?" he asked with real solicitude. 

"Some. " And realizing that he had scarcely spoken to his old chumsince they awakened, he asked him many questions about the ranch, andthe boys, as they drifted across the mesa and down the trail that ledto the Concho. 

But it was not the twinge of his old wound that made Pete so silent. He was suffering a disappointment. He had believed sincerely that whathe had been through, in the past six months especially, had changedhim--that he would have to have a mighty stern cause to pull a gun on aman again; and at the first hint of danger he had been ready to kill. He wondered if he would ever lose that hunted feeling that had broughthim to his feet and all but crooked his trigger-finger before he hadactually realized what had startled him. But one thing wascertain--Andy would never know just _how_ close he had come to beingkilled; Andy, who had joked lightly about his own ride into the desertwith an angry posse trailing him, as he wore Pete's black Stetson, "that he might give them a good run for their money, " he had laughinglysaid. 

"You're jest the same ornery, yella-headed, blue-eyed singin'-bird youalways was, " declared Pete as they slithered along down the trail. 

Andy turned in the saddle and grinned at Pete. "Now that you've givethe blessing parson, will you please and go plumb to hell?"

Pete felt a lot better. 

A loose rock slipped from the edge of the trail, and went bounding downthe steep hillside, crashing through a thicket of aspens and landingwith a dull clunk amid a pile of rock that slid a little, and grumbledsullenly. Blue Smoke had also slipped as his footing gave wayunexpectedly. Pete felt still better. This was something like it!

CHAPTER XLV

HOME FOLKS

Noon found them within sight of the ranch-house. In an hour they wereunsaddling at the corral, having ridden in the back way, at Andy'ssuggestion, that they might surprise the folks. But it did not take themlong to discover that there were no folks to surprise. The bunk-housewas open, but the house across from it was locked, and Andy knewimmediately that the Baileys had driven to town, because the pup wasgone, and he always followed the buckboard. 

Pete was not displeased, for he wanted to shave and "slick up a bit"after his long journey. "They'll see my hoss and know that I'm back, "said Andy, as he filled the kettle on the box-stove in the bunk-house. "But we can put Blue Smoke in a stall and keep him out of sight till youwalk in right from nowhere. I can see Ma Bailey and Jim and the boys!'Course Ma's like to be back in time to get supper, so mebby you'll haveto hide out in the barn till you hear the bell. "

"I ain't awful strong on that conquerin' hero stuff, Andy. I jest assoon set right here--"

"And spoil the whole darn show! Look here, Pete, --you leave it to me andif we don't surprise Ma Bailey clean out of her--specs, why, I'll quitand go to herdin' sheep. "

"A11 right. I'm willin'. Only you might see if you kin git in the backway and lift a piece of pie, or somethin'. " Which Andy managed to dowhile Pete shaved himself and put on a clean shirt. 

They sat in the bunk-house doorway chatting about the various happeningsduring Pete's absence until they saw the buckboard top the distant edgeof the mesa. Pete immediately secluded himself in the barn, while Andyhazed Blue Smoke into a box stall and hid Pete's saddle. 

Ma Bailey, alighting from the buckboard, heard Andy's brief explanationof his absence with indifference most unusual in her, and glanced sharplyat him when he mentioned having shot a wild turkey. 

"I suppose you picked it and cleaned it and got it all ready to roast, "she inquired. "Or have you just been loafing around waiting for me to doit?"

"I et it, " asserted Andy. 

Ma Bailey glared at him, shook her head, and marched into the house whileAndy helped Bailey put up the horses. 

"Ma's upset about somethin', " explained Bailey. "Seems a letter came forPete--"

"Letter from Pete! Why, he ain't comin' back, is he?"

"A letter for Pete. Ma says it looks like a lady's writin' on theenvelope. She says she'd like to know what female is writin' to Pete, and him goodness knows where, and not a word to say whether he's sick orbroke, or anything. "

"I sure would like to see him, " said Andy fervently. 

"Well, if somebody's writin' to him here at the Concho, looks like hemight drift in one of these days. I'd sure like to know how the kid'smakin' it. "

And Bailey strode to the house, while Andy led the team to the corral. 

Later Andy appeared in the kitchen and asked Mrs. Bailey if he couldn'thelp her set the table, or peel potatoes, or something. Ma Bailey gazedat him suspiciously over her glasses. "I don't know what's ailin' you, Andy, but you ain't actin' right. First you tell me that you had to campat the Blue last night account o' killin' a turkey. Then you tell methat you et the whole of it. Was you scared you wouldn't get your shareif you fetched it home? Then you want to help me get supper. You beenup to something! You just keep me plumb wore out worrying about you. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. "

"For why, Ma? What have I done?"

"I don't know, but it'll come to the top. There's the boys now--and mea-standing here-- Run along and set the table if you ain't so full ofwhatever is got into you that you can't count straight. Bill won't be into-night. Leastwise, Jim don't expect him. " And Ma Bailey flapped herapron at him and shooed him out as though he were a chicken that haddared to poke its inquisitive neck into the kitchen. 

"Count straight!" chuckled Andy. "Mebby I know more about how many'shere than Ma does. "

Meanwhile Ma Bailey busied herself preparing supper, and it was evidentto the boys in the bunkhouse that Ma had something on her mind from thesounds which came from the kitchen. Ma scolded the potatoes as she friedthem, rebuked the biscuits because they had browned a little too soon, censured the stove for its misbehavior in having scorched the biscuits, accused the wood of being a factor in the conspiracy, reprimanded themammoth coffee-pot that threatened to deluge the steak, and finallychased Andy from the premises when she discovered that he had laid thetable with her best set of dishes. 

"Ma's steamin' about somethin', " remarked Andy as he entered thebunk-house. 

This information was received with characteristic silence as each andevery cowboy mentally straightened up, vowing silently that he wasn'tgoin' to take any chances of Ma b'ilin' over on him. 

The clatter of the pack-horse bell brought the men to their feet and theyfiled across to the house, a preternaturally silent aggregation thatconfirmed Ma Bailey's suspicion that there was something afoot. 

Andy, loitering behind them, saw Pete coming from the stables, tried tocompose himself, but could not get rid of the boyish grin, which provokedMa Bailey to mutter something which sounded like "idiot, " to which thecowboys nodded in cheerful concurrence, without other comment. 

Hank Barley, the silent, was gazing surreptitiously at Ma's face when hesaw her eyes widen, saw her rise, and stand staring at the doorway asAndy clumped in, followed by Pete. 

Ma Bailey sat down suddenly. 

"It's all right, Ma, " laughed Andy, alarmed at the expression on herface. "It's just Pete. "

"Just Pete!" echoed Ma Bailey faintly. And then, "Goodness alive, child, where you been?"

Pete's reply was lost in the shuffle of feet as the men rose and shookhands with him, asking him a dozen questions in as many seconds, asserting that he was looking fine, and generally behaving like a crowdof schoolboys, as they welcomed him to their midst again. 

Pete sat in the absent Bill Haskins's place. And "You must 'a' knowed hewas coming" asserted Avery. "Bill is over to the line shack. "

"I got a _letter_, " asserted Ma Bailey mysteriously. 

"And you jest said nothin' and sprung him on us! Well, Ma, you surefooled me, " said Andy, grinning. 

"You go 'long. " Mrs. Bailey smiled at Andy, who had earned herforgiveness by crediting her--rather wisely--with having originated thesurprise. 

They were chatting and joking when Bill Haskins appeared in the door-way, his hand wrapped in a handkerchief. 

Ma Bailey glared at him over her spectacles. "Got any stickin'-plaster?"he asked plaintively, as though he had committed some misdemeanor. Sherose and placed a plate and chair for him as he shook hands with Pete, led him to the kitchen and inspected and bandaged his hand, which he hadjagged on a wire gate, and finally reinstated him at the table, where heproved himself quite as efficient as most men are with two hands. "GiveBill all the coffee he wants and plenty stickin'-plaster, and I reckon henever would do no work, " suggested Hank Barley. 

Bill Haskins grinned good-naturedly. "I see Pete's got back, " heventured, as a sort of mild intimation that there were other subjectsworth discussing. He accompanied this brilliant observation by a modestrequest for another cup of coffee, his fourth. The men rose, leavingBill engaged in his favorite indoor pastime, and intimated that Peteshould go with them. But Ma Bailey would not bear of it. Pete was goingto help her with the dishes. Andy could go, however, and Bill Haskins, as soon as he was convinced that the coffee-pot was empty. Ma Bailey'schief interest in life at the moment was to get the dishes put away, themen out of the way, and Pete in the most comfortable rocking-chair in theroom, that she might hear his account of how it all happened. 

And Pete told her--omitting no circumstance, albeit he did not accentuatethat part of his recital having to do with Doris Gray, merely mentioningher as "that little gray-eyed nurse in El Paso"--and in such an offhandmanner that Ma Bailey began to suspect that Pete was keeping something tohimself. Finally, by a series of cross-questioning, comment, andsympathetic concurrence, she arrived at the feminine conclusion that thegray-eyed nurse in El Paso had set her cap for Pete--of course Pete wasinnocent of any such adjustment of headgear--to substantiate which sherose, and, stepping to the bedroom, returned with the letter which hadcaused her so much speculation as to who was writing to Pete, and why theletter had been directed to the Concho. 

Pete glanced at the letter, and thanked Ma Bailey as he tucked it in hispocket. 

"I don't mind if you open it, Pete, " she told him. "Goodness knows howlong it's been laying in the post-office! And it, mebby, isimportant--from that doctor, or that lawyer, mebby. Oh, mebby it's fromthe bank. Sakes alive! To think of that man leaving you all that money!Mebby that bank has failed!"

"Well, I'd be right where I started when I first comehere--broke--lookin' for a job. "

"And the boys'll worry you most to death if you try to read any lettersin the bunk-house to-night. They're waitin' to hear you talk. "

"Guess the letter can wait. I ain't such a fast reader, anyhow. "

"And you're like to lose it, carryin' it round. "

"I--I--reckon I better read it, " stammered Pete helplessly. 

He felt somehow that Ma would feel slighted if he didn't. Ma Baileywatched his face as he read the rather brief note from Doris, thankinghim for his letter to her and congratulating him on the outcome of histrial, and assuring him of her confidence in his ultimate success inlife. "Little Ruth, " wrote Doris, "cried bitterly when I told her thatyou had gone and would not come back. She said that when you said'good-bye' to her you promised to come back--and of course I had to tellher that you would, just to make her happy. She has lost all interest inthe puzzle game since you left, but that queer watch that you gave her, that has to be shaken before taken--and then not taken seriously--amusesher quite a bit. She gets me to wind it up--her fingers are not strongenough--and then she laughs as the hands race around. When they stop sheputs her finger on the hour and says, 'Pitty soon Pete come back. 'Little Ruth misses you very much. "

Pete folded the letter and put it in his pocket. "From a friend ofmine, " he said, flushing slightly. 

Ma Bailey sighed, smiled, and sighed again. "You're just itching to gosee the boys. Well, run along, and tell Jim not to set up all night. " MaBailey rose, and stepping to the bedroom returned with some blankets. "You'll have your old bunk. It's yours just as long as you want to stay, Pete. And--and I hope that girl in El Paso--is a--a nice--sensible--"

"Why, Ma! What's the matter?--" as Mrs. Bailey blinked and showedunmistakable signs of emotion. 

"Nothing, Pete. I reckon your coming back so sudden and all you beenthrough, and that letter, kind of upset me. D-does she powder her face, Pete?"

"Who? You mean Miss Gray? Why, what would she do that for?"

"Does she wear clothes that--that cost lots of money?"

"Great snakes, Ma! I dunno. I never seen her except in the hospital, dressed jest like all the nurses. "

"Is--is she handsome?"

"Say, Ma, you let me hold them blankets. They're gittin' you all saggeddown. Why, she ain't what I'd say was _handsome_, but she sure gotpretty eyes and hair--and complexion--and the smoothest little hands--andshe's built right neat. She steps easy--like a thoroughbred filly--andshe's plumb sensible, jest like you folks. "

This latter assurance did not seem to comfort Ma Bailey as much as theimplied compliment might intimate. 

"And there's only one other woman I ever saw that made me feel right tohome and kind o' glad to have her round, like her. And she's got grayeyes and the same kind of hair, and--"

"Sakes alive, Pete Annersley! Another?"

"Uh-huh. And I'm kissin' her good-night--right now. " And Pete grabbedthe blankets and as much of Ma Bailey as could be included in that largearmful, and kissed her heartily. 

"He's changed, " Ma Bailey confided to herself, after Pete haddisappeared. "Actin' like a boy--to cheer me up. But it weren't no boythat set there readin' that letter. It was a growed man, and no wonder. Yes, Pete's changed, bless his heart!"

Ma Bailey did not bless Pete's heart because he had changed, however, norbecause he had suffered, nor yet because he was unconsciously in lovewith a little nurse in El Paso, nor yet because he kissed her, butbecause she liked him: and because no amount of money or misfortune, blame or praise, could really change him toward his friends. What MaBailey meant was that he had grown a little more serious, a little moregentle in his manner of addressing her--aside from saying good-night--anda little more intense in a quiet way. To sum it all up, Pete had justbegun to think--something that few people do on the verdant side offorty, and rather dread having to do on the other side of that mile-post. 

A week later, as they sat at table asking one another whether Ma Baileyhad took to makin' pies ag'in jest for practice or for Pete, and plaguingthat good woman considerably with their good-natured banter, it occurredto Bill Haskins to ask Pete if he were going to become a permanent memberof the family or if he were simply visiting; only Bill said, "Are youaimin' to throw in with us--or are you goin' to curl your tail and drift, when the snow flies?"

"I reckon I'll drift, " said Pete. 

This was news. Andy White demurred forcibly. Bailey himself seemedsurprised, and even old Hank Barley, the silent, expressed himself asmildly astonished. 

"We figured you'd stay till after the round-up, anyhow, " said Bailey. 

"Reckon it's too tame for Pete here, " growled Andy. 

"That's no fault of yours, Andrew, " observed Ma Bailey. 

"You're always peckin' at me, " grumbled Andy, who detested being called"Andrew" quite as much as that robust individual known to his friends asBill detests being called "Willie"--and Ma Bailey knew it. 

"So you aim to leave us, " said Haskins, quite unaware of Ma Bailey's eyewhich glared disapproval of the subject. 

"Pete's going--next Tuesday--and just to set your mind at rest and giveyou a chance to eat your supper"--Bill had been doing scarcely anythingelse since he sat down--"Pete has a right good reason to go. "

"Kin I have another cup of coffee?" queried Bill. 

"Sakes alive, yes! I reckon that's what's ailing you. "

"I only had three, Ma. "

"Pete is going away _on business_, " asserted Ma Bailey. 

"Huh, " snorted Andy. 

Bailey glanced at his wife, who telegraphed to him to change the subject. And that good man, who had been married twenty-five years, changed thesubject immediately. 

But Andy did not let it drop. After supper he cornered Pete in thebunk-house, and following some wordy fencing, ascertained that Pete wasgoing to Tucson for the winter to get an education. Pete blushinglyadmitted that that was his sole intent, swore Andy to secrecy, and toldhim that he had discussed the subject with Ma Bailey, who had advised himto go. 

"So you're quittin' the game, " mourned Andy. 

"Nope, jest beginnin'. "

"Well, you might 'a' said somethin', anyhow. "

Pete put his hand on Andy's shoulder. "I wa'n't sure--till yesterday. I_was_ goin' to tell _you_, Andy. Shucks! Didn't I tell you about themoney and everything--and you didn't say a word to the boys. I ain'tforgittin'. "

"Oh, I knowed havin' money wouldn't swell you up. It ain't that. Only, I was wonderin'--"

"So was I, Andy. And I been wonderin' for quite a spell. Come on outand let's go set on the corral bars and smoke and--jest smoke. "

But they did more than just smoke. The Arizona stars shot wondrousshafts of white fire through the nipping air as the chums sensed thecomfortable companionship of horses moving slowly about the corral; andthey heard the far, faint call of the coyote as a drift of wind broughtthe keen tang of the distant timberlands. They talked together as onlyyouth may talk with youth, when Romance lights the trail, when the heartspeaks from itself to heart in sympathy. Yet their chat was not withouthumor or they would not have been Pete and Andy. 

"You always was a wise one, " asserted Andy; "pickin' out a professionalnurse for _your_ girl ain't a bad idee. "

"I had a whole lot to do with pickin' her out, didn't I?"

"Well, you can't make me believe that she did the pickin', for you wastellin' me she had good eyes. "

"I reckon it was the Doc that did the pickin', "' suggested Pete. 

"Well, I suppose the next thing you'll be givin' the preacher a chanct. "

"Nope. Next thing I'll be givin' Miss Gray a chanct to tell me I'm adoggone idiot--only she don't talk like that. "

"Then it'll be because she don't know you like I do. But you're lucky--No tellin'--" Andy climbed down from the bars. 

"No tellin' what?" queried Pete. 

"No tellin' you how much I sure want you to win, pardner--because youknow it. "

Pete leapt from the top rail square on to Andy, who, taken off his guard, toppled and fell. They rolled over and over, not even trying to miss thepuddle of water beside the drinking-trough. Andy managed to get his freehand in the mud and thought of feeding some of it to Pete, but Pete wastoo quick for him, squirming loose and making for the bunkhouse at topspeed. 

Pete entrenched himself in the far corner of the room where Bill Haskinswas reading a novel, --exceedingly popular, if the debilitated conditionof the pages and covers were any criterion, --when Andy entered, holdingone hand behind him in a suspicious manner. Pete wondered what wascoming when it came. Andy swung his arm and plugged a fair-sizedmud-ball at Pete, which missed him and hit the innocent and unsuspectingBill on the ear, and stayed there. Bill Haskins, who was at the momenthelping the hero hold a spirited pair of horses while the heroine climbedto a seat in the romantic buckboard, promptly pulled on the reins andshouted "Whoa!" and the debilitated novel came apart in his hands with asoft, ripping sound. It took Bill several seconds to think of somethingto say, and several more to realize just what had happened. He openedhis mouth--but Andy interrupted with "Honest, Bill, I wasn't meanin' tohit you. I was pluggin' at Pete, there. It was his fault; he went andhid out behind you. Honest, Bill--wait and I'll help you dig that theremud out of your ear. "

Bill shook his head and growled as he scraped the mud from his face andneck. Andy, gravely solicitous, helped to remove the mud andaffectionately wiped his fingers in Bill's hair. 

"Here--what in hell you doin'!" snorted Bill. 

"That's right! I was forgittin'! Honest, Bill!"

"I'll honest you! I'll give you somethin' to forgit. " But Andy did notwait. 

A little later Bill appeared at the kitchen door and plaintively asked MaBailey if she had any sticking-plaster. 

"Sakes alive! Now what you done to yourself, William?"

"Nothin' this time, Miss Bailey. I--I done tore a book--and jest want tofix it. "

When Bill returned to the bunk-house with the "sticking-plaster, " Peteand Andy both said they were sorry for the occurrence, but Bill wasmighty suspicious of their sincerity. They were silent while Billlaboriously patched up the book and settled himself to take up the reinswhere he had dropped them. The heroine had just taken her seat besidethe driver--when-- "It's a darned shame!" said a voice, Pete's voice. 

"It sure is--and Bill jest learnin' to read. He might 'a' spelled out awhole page afore mornin'. "

"I wa'n't meanin' Bill, " asserted Pete. 

"Oh, you won't bother Bill none. He can't hear you. His off ear is fullof mud. Go on and say anything you like about him. "

Bill slowly laid down his book, stepped to his bunk, and drew hissix-shooter from its holster. He marched back to the table and laid thegun quite handy to him, and resumed his chair. 

Bill Haskins was long-suffering--but both Andy and Pete realized that itwas high time to turn their bright particular talents in some otherdirection. So they undressed and turned in. They had been asleep anhour or two before Bill closed his book regretfully, picked up his gun, and walked to his bunk. He stood for a moment gazing at Andy, and thenturned to gaze at Pete. Then he shook his head--and a slow smile lightedhis weathered face. For despite defunct mountain lions, bent nails, andother sundries, Bill Haskins liked Andy and Pete--and he knew if it cameto a test of friendship that either of them would stand by him to thelast dollar, or the last shot even, as he would have gladly done to helpthem. 

CHAPTER XLVI

THE RIDIN' KID FROM POWDER RIVER

The first thing Pete did when he arrived in Tucson was to purchase asuit as near like that which he had seen Andover wear as possible. Pete's Stetson was discarded for a soft felt of ordinary dimensions. He bought shoes, socks, and some underwear, which the storekeeperassured him was the latest thing, but which Pete said "looked more likechicken-wire than honest-to-Gosh cloth, " and fortified by his new andinconspicuous apparel, he called on the principal of the high schooland told him just why he had come to Tucson. "And I'd sure look queersettin' in with all the kids, " Pete concluded. "If there's any way ofmy ketchin' up to my size, why, I reckon I kin pay. "

The principal thought it might be arranged. For instance, he would beglad to give Pete--he said Mr. Annersley--an introduction to aninstructor, a young Eastern scholar, who could possibly spare three orfour evenings a week for private lessons. Progress would dependentirely upon Pete's efforts. Many young men had studied thatway--some of them even without instruction. Henry Clay, for instance, and Lincoln. And was Mr. Annersley thinking of continuing with hisstudies and entering college, or did he merely wish to becomeconversant with the fundamentals?

"If I kin git so I can throw and hog-tie some of them fundamentalswithout losin' my rope, I reckon I'll be doin' all I set out to do. No--I guess I'd never make a top-hand, ridin' for you. But my rope istied to the horn--and I sure aim to stay with whatever I git my loopon. "

"I get your drift--and I admire your purpose. Incidentally andspeaking from a distinctly impersonal--er--viewpoint" (no doubt ahigh-school principal may speak from a viewpoint, or even sit on one ifhe cares to), "your colloquialisms are delightful--and sufficientlyforceful to leave no doubt as to your sincerity of purpose. "

"Meanin' you sabe what I'm gittin' at, eh?"

The principal nodded and smiled. 

"I thought that was what you was tryin' to say. Well, professor--"

"Dr. Wheeler, if you please. "

"All right, Doc. But I didn't know you was a doc too. "

"Doctor of letters, merely. "

Pete suspected that he was being joked with, but the principal's mannerwas quite serious. "If you will give me your address, I will drop aline to Mr. Forbes, " said the principal. 

Pete gave his name and address. As Principal Wheeler wrote them downin his notebook he glanced up at Pete curiously. "You don't happen tobe the young man--er--similarity of names--who was mixed up in thatshooting affair in El Paso? Name seemed familiar. No doubt acoincidence. "

"It wa'n't no coincidence--it was a forty-five, " stated Pete. 

The principal stared at Pete as though he half-expected to see him pulla gun and demand an education instanter. But Pete's smile helped theprincipal to pull himself together. "Most extraordinary!" heexclaimed. "I believe the courts exonerated you?"

"That ain't all they did to me, " Pete assured him. "Nope. You gotthat wrong. But I reckon they would 'a' done it--if I hadn't 'a' hiredthat there lawyer from El Paso. He sure exonerated a couple o'thousand out o' me. And the judge turned me loose. "

"Most extraordinary!"

"It was that lawyer that told me I ought to git a education, " exclaimedPete. 

"Of course! Of course! I had forgotten it for the moment. Well, hereis Mr. Forbes's address. I think you will find him at his room almostany evening. "

"I'll be there!"

"Very good! I suppose you are aware that it is illegal to carryconcealed weapons inside the city limits?"

"I get you, Doc, but I ain't packin' a gun, nohow. "

As the weeks went by and the winter sun swung farther south, Mr. Forbes, the young Eastern scholar, and Pete began to understand eachother. Pete, who had at first considered the young Easterner affected, and rather effeminate, slowly realized that he was mistaken. Forbeswas a sincere and manly fellow, who had taken his share of hard knocksand who suffered ill health uncomplainingly--an exile of his chosenenvironment, with little money and scarce a companion to share hisloneliness. 

As for Forbes, he envied Pete his abundant health and vigor and admiredhis unspoiled enthusiasm. Pete's humor, which somehow suggested toForbes the startling and inexplicable antics of a healthy colt, meltedForbes's diffidence, and they became friends and finally chums. Petereally learned as much through this intimacy as he did from his books:perhaps more. It was at Pete's suggestion that Forbes took to riding ahorse, and they spent many afternoons on the desert, drifting slowlyalong while they discussed different phases of life. 

These discussions frequently led to argument, sincere on Pete's part, who never realized that Forbes's chief delight in life was to get Petestarted, that he might enjoy Pete's picturesque illustration of thepoint, which, more often than not, was shrewdly sharp and convincing. No amount of argument, no matter how fortified by theory and example, could make Pete change his attitude toward life; but he eventually cameto see life from a different angle, his vision broadening to a widerperspective as they climbed together, Forbes loitering on familiarground that Pete might not lose the trail and find himself entangled insome unessential thicket by the way. 

Forbes was not looking well. His thin face was pinched; his eyes werelistless. Pete thought that Forbes stayed indoors too much. "Whydon't you go get a cayuse and ride?" he suggested. 

"Never was on a horse in my life. "

"Uh-huh. Well, you been off one too long. "

"I'd like to. But I can't afford it. "

"I don't mean to buy a horse--jest hire one, from the livery. I wasthinkin' of gettin' out on the dry-spot myself. I'm plumb sick oftown. "

"You would have to teach me. "

"Shucks! There's nothin' to learn. All you got to do is to fork yourcayuse and ride. I'd sure be glad to go with you. "

"That's nice of you. Well, say to-morrow afternoon, then. But whatabout horses?"

"We got a session to-morrow. What's the matter with this afternoon?The sun's shinin', and there ain't much wind, and I can smell the oledesert, a-sizzlin'. Come on!"

They were in Forbes's room. The Easterner laid his book aside andglanced down at his shoes. "I haven't a riding-costume. "

"Well, you can get one for a dollar and four-bits--copper-riveted, andsure easy and comfortable. I'll lend you a pair of boots. "

"All right. I'll try it once, at least. "

Forbes felt rather conspicuous in the stiff new overalls, rolled up atthe bottom, over Pete's tight high-heeled boots, but nobody paid anyattention to him as he stumped along beside Pete, on the way to thelivery. 

Pete chose the horses, and a saddle for Forbes, to whom he gave a fewbrief pointers anent the art of swinging up and dismounting. They setout and headed for the open. Forbes was at first nervous; but asnothing happened, he forgot his nervousness and gave himself to gazingat the great sun-swept spaces until the horses broke into a trot, whenhe turned his entire attention to the saddle-horn, clinging to itaffectionately with his free hand. 

Pete pulled up. "Say, amigo, it's ag'inst the rules to choke thatthere horn to death. Jest let go and clamp your knees. We'll lope 'ema spell. "

Forbes was about to protest when Pete's horse, to which he hadapparently done nothing, broke into a lope. Forbes's horse followed. It was a rough experience for the Easterner, but he enjoyed it untilPete pulled up suddenly. Forbes's own animal stopped abruptly, butForbes, grabbing wildly at the horn, continued, and descended in agraceful curve which left him sitting on the sand and blinking up atthe astonished animal. 

"Hurt you?" queried Pete. 

"I think not-- But it was rather sudden. Now what do I do?"

"Well, when you git rested up, I'd say to fork him ag'in. He's suretame. "

"I--I thought he was rather wild, " stammered Forbes, getting to hisfeet. 

"Nope. It was you was wild. I reckon you like to scared him to death. Nope! Git on him from this side. "

"He seems a rather intelligent animal, " commented Forbes as he preparedfor the worst. 

"Well, we kin call him that, seein' there's nobody round to hear us. We'll walk 'em a spell. "

Forbes felt relieved. And realizing that he was still alive anduninjured, he relaxed a bit. After they had turned and headed fortown, he actually enjoyed himself. 

Next day he was so stiff and sore that he could scarcely walk, but hiseye was brighter. However, he begged off from their proposed ride thefollowing afternoon. Pete said nothing; but when the next ridingafternoon arrived, a week later, Forbes was surprised to see Pete, dressed in his range clothes. Standing near the curb were two horses, saddled and bridled. "Git on your jeans and those ole boots of mine. I fetched along a extra pair of spurs. "

"But, Annersley--"

"I can't ride 'em both. "

"It's nice of you--but really, I can't afford it. "

"Look here, Doc, what you can't afford is to set in that room a-readin'all day. And the horse don't cost you a cent. I had a talk with theold-timer that runs the livery, and when he seen I was onto my job, hewas plumb tickled to death for me to exercise the horses. One of 'emneeds a little educatin'. "

"That's all right. But how about my horse?"

"Why, I brought him along to keep the other horse company. I can'thandle 'em both. Ain't you goin' to help me out?"

"Well, if you put it that way, I will this time. "

"Now you're talkin' sense. "

Several weeks later they were again riding out on the desert andenjoying that refreshing and restful companionship which is bestexpressed in silence, when Pete, who had been gazing into the distance, pulled up his restive horse and sat watching a moving something thatsuddenly disappeared. Forbes glanced at Pete, who turned and nodded asif acknowledging the other's unspoken question. They rode on. 

A half-hour later, as they pulled up at the edge of the arroyo, Forbeswas startled by Pete's "Hello, neighbor!" to an apparently empty world. 

"What's the joke?" queried Forbes. 

The joke appeared suddenly around the bend in the arroyo--a big, weather-bitten joke astride of a powerful horse. Forbes uttered anexclamation as the joke whipped out a gun and told them to "Put 'emup!" in a tone which caused Forbes's hands to let go the reins and risehead-high without his having realized that he had made a movement. Pete was also picking invisible peaches from the air, which furtherconfirmed Forbes's hasty conclusion that they were both doing the rightthing. 

"_I ain't got a gun on me, Ed. _" Pete had spoken slowly anddistinctly, and apparently without the least shadow of trepidation. Forbes, gazing at the grim, bronzed face of the strange horseman, nervously echoed Pete's statement. Before the Easterner could realizewhat had actually happened, Pete and the strange rider had dismountedand were shaking hands: a transition so astonishing that Forbes forgotto lower his hands and sat with them nervously aloft as thoughimploring the Rain-God not to forget his duty to mankind. 

Pete and the stranger were talking. Forbes could catch an occasionalword, such as "The Spider--ElPaso--White-Eye--Hospital--Sonora--Sanborn--Sam Brent--"

Pete turned and grinned. "I reckon you can let go the--your holt, Doc. This here is a friend of mine. "

Forbes sighed thankfully. He was introduced to the friend, whom Petecalled Ed, but whose name had been suddenly changed to Bill. "We usedto ride together, " explained Pete. 

Forbes tactfully withdrew, realizing that whatever they had to talkabout was more or less confidential. 

Presently Pete approached Forbes and asked him if he had any money withhim. Forbes had five dollars and some small change. "I'm borrowin'this till to-morrow, " said Pete, as he dug into his own pocket, andwithout counting the sum total, gave it to the stranger. 

Brevoort stuffed the money in his pocket and swung to his horse. "Youbetter ride in with us a ways, " suggested Pete. "The young fella don'tknow anything about you--and he won't talk if I pass the word to him. Then I kin go on ahead and fetch back some grub and some more dineros. "

Forbes found the stranger rather interesting as they rode back towardTucson; for he spoke of Mexico and affairs below the line--amazingthings to speak of in such an offhand manner--in an impersonal andinteresting way. 

Within two miles of the town they drew up. "Bill, here, " explainedPete, "is short of grub. Now, if you don't mind keepin' him company, why, I'll fan it in and git some. I'll be back right soon. "

"Not at all! Go ahead!" Forbes wanted to hear more of first-handexperiences south of the line. Forbes, who knew something of Pete'shistory, shrewdly suspected that the stranger called "Bill" had a goodreason to ride wide of Tucson--although the Easterner did not quiteunderstand why Pete should ride into town alone. But that was merelyincidental. 

It was not until Pete had returned and the stranger had departed, taking his way east across the desert, that Pete offered anexplanation--a rather guarded explanation, Forbes realized--of therecent happenings. "Bill's keepin' out on the desert for his health, "said Pete. "And, if anybody should ask us, I reckon we ain't seen him. "

"I think I understand, " said Forbes. 

And Forbes, recalling the event many months later, after Pete had leftTucson, thought none the less of Pete for having helped an old friendout of difficulties. Forbes was himself more than grateful toPete--for with the riding three times a week and Pete's robustcompanionship, he had regained his health to an extent far beyond hishopes. 

Pete rejected sixteen of the seventeen plans he had made that winterfor his future, often guided by what he read in the occasional lettersfrom Doris, wherein he found some rather practical suggestions--for hewrote frankly of his intent to better himself, but wisely refrainedfrom saying anything that might be interpreted as more than friendship. 

Pete had not planned to go to El Paso quite as soon as he did; and itwas because of an unanswered letter that he went. He had written earlyin March and it was now May--and no reply. 

If he had waited a few days longer, it is possible that he would nothave gone at all, for passing him as he journeyed toward Texas was aletter from Doris Gray in which she intimated that she thought theircorrespondence had better cease, and for the reason--which she did notintimate--that she was a bit afraid that Pete would come to El Paso, and stay in El Paso until she had either refused to see him--it wassignificant that she thought of refusing to see him, for he wasactually worth looking at--or until he had asked her a question towhich there was but one answer, and that was "no. " Just why Dorisshould have taken it for granted that he would ask her that question isa matter which she never explained, even to herself. Pete had nevermade love to her in the accepted sense of the term. He had done muchbetter than that, although he was entirely unconscious of it. But thatpsychological moment--whatever that may mean--in the affairs of Dorisand Pete was rapidly approaching, --a moment more often anticipated bythe female of the species than by the male. 

Just what kept Pete from immediately rushing to the hospital andproclaiming his presence is another question that never can beanswered. Pete wanted to do just that thing--but he did not. Instead, he took a modest room at a modest hotel, bought himself somepresentable clothing, dropped in to see Hodges of the Stockmen'sSecurity, and spent several days walking about the streets mentallypreparing himself to explain just why he _had_ come to El Paso, finallyarriving at the conclusion that he had come to see little Ruth. Dorishad said that Ruth had missed him. Well, he had a right to drop in andsee the kid. And he reckoned it was nobody's business if he did. 

He had avoided going near the General Hospital in his strolls abouttown, viewing that building from a safe distance and imagining allsorts of things. Perhaps Miss Gray had left. Perhaps she was ill. Orshe might have married! Still, she would have told him, he thought. 

Doris never knew what a struggle it cost Pete--to say nothing of hardcash--to purchase that bottle of perfume. But he did it, marching intoa drug-store and asking for a bottle of "the best they had, " and payingfor it without a quiver. Back in his room he emptied about half of thebottle on his handkerchief, wedged the handkerchief into his pocket, and marched to the street, determination in his eye, and the fumes ofhalf a vial of Frangipanni floating in his wake. 

Perhaps the Frangipanni stimulated him. Perhaps the overdose deadenedhis decision to stay away from the hospital. In any event, thatafternoon he betook himself to the hospital, and was fortunate infinding Andover there, to whom he confided the obvious news that he wasin town--and that he would like to see little Ruth for a minute, if itwas all right. 

Andover told him that little Ruth had been taken to her home a monthago--and Pete wondered how she could still miss him, as Miss Gray hadintimated in her last letter. And as he wondered he saw light--not agreat light, but a faint ray which was reflected in his face as heasked Andover when Miss Gray would be relieved from duty, and if itwould be possible to see her then. 

Andover thought it might be possible, and suggested that he let MissGray know of Pete's presence; but some happy instinct caused Pete toveto that suggestion. 

"It ain't important, " he told Andover. "I'll jest mosey around aboutsix, and step in for a minute. Don't you say I'm in town!"

Andover gazed curiously after Pete as the latter marched out. Thesurgeon shook his head. Mixed drinks were not new to Andover, but hecould not for the life of him recognize what Pete had been drinking. 

Doris, who had not been thinking of Pete at all, --as she was not aspiritualist, and had always doubted that affinities were other thaneasy excuses for uneasy morals, --came briskly down the hospital steps, gowned in a trim gray skirt and a jacket, and a jaunty turban that hidjust enough of her brown hair to make that which was visible the morealluring. She almost walked into Pete--for, as it has been stated, shewas not thinking of him at all, but of the cozy evening she would spendwith her sister at the latter's apartments on High Street. Incidentally Doris was thinking, just a little, of how well her gownand turban became her, for she had determined never to let herselfbecome frowsy and slipshod--Well--she had not to look far for herantithesis. 

"Why, Mr. Annersley!"

Pete flushed, the victim of several emotions. "Good-evenin', MissGray. I--I thought I'd jest step in and say 'Hello' to that littlekid. "

"Oh! Ruth?" And Doris flushed just the least bit herself. "Why, little Ruth is not here now. "

"Shucks! Well, I'm right glad you are! Was you goin' somewhere?"

"Yes. Out to my sister's on High Street. "

"I only been in town two or three days, so I don't know jest where HighStreet is, but I reckon I could find my way back all right. " And Peteso far forgot the perfume as to smile in his old, boyish way. 

Doris did some rapid mental calculation and concluded that herlatest--or rather her last--letter had just about arrived in Tucson, and of course Pete had not read it. That made matters a littledifficult. But there was no reason in the world why he should not walkwith her to her sister's. 

Pete saw no reason why he should not, either, but rather a veryattractive reason why he should. 

Without further word they turned and walked down the street, Doriswondering what in the world had induced Pete to immerse himself inFrangipanni, and Pete wondering if there was ever a prettier girl inthe world than Doris Gray. 

And because Pete wanted to talk about something entirely impersonal, heat once began to ask her what she thought of his latest plan, which wasto purchase an interest in the Concho, spend his summers working withthe men and his winters in Tucson, studying with Forbes about whom hehad written to her. 

Doris thought it was a splendid plan. She was sure--quiteimpersonally--that he would make a success of anything he attempted. 

Pete was not so sure, and he told her so. She joked him for doubtinghimself. He promptly told her that he didn't doubt himself for aminute, but that he did doubt the willingness of the person whom hehoped to make a partner in the venture. 

"Not Mr. Forbes?" she queried, glancing quickly at Pete's serious face. 

"Nope. It's you. "

They walked another block without speaking; then they walked stillanother. And they had begun to walk still another when Pete suddenlypulled his handkerchief from his pocket and threw it in the gutter. "That doggone perfume is chokin' me to death!" he blurted. And Doris, despite herself, smiled. 

They were out where the streets were more open and quiet now. The sunwas close to the edge of the desert, far in the west. Doris's handtrembled just the least bit as she turned to say "good-night. " Theyhad stopped in front of a house, near the edge of town. Pete's facewas a bit pale; his dark eyes were intense and gloomy. 

Quite unconscious of what he was doing, he pulled out his watch--a newwatch that possessed no erratic tendencies. Suddenly Doris thought ofPete's old watch, and of little Ruth's extreme delight in itsirresponsible hands whirling madly around, and of that night when Petehad been brought to the hospital. Suddenly there were two tearstrembling on her lashes, and her hand faltered. Then, being a sensibleperson, she laughed away her emotion, for the time being, and invitedPete in to supper. 

Pete thought Doris's sister a mighty nice girl, plumb sensible and nota bit stuck up. And later, when this "plumb sensible" person declaredthat she was rather tired and excused herself and disappeared, afterbidding Pete good-night, he knew that she was a sensible person. Hecouldn't see how she could help it, being the sister of Doris. 

"So I'll be sayin' good-night, " stated Pete a few minutes later, as hestood by the door, proud and straight and as vital as a flame. 

But he didn't say it, at least coherently. Doris's hand was on hissleeve. Pete thought she had a mighty pretty hand. And as for hereyes--they were gray and misty and warm . . . And not at all like hehad ever seen them before. He laughed happily, "You look plumblonesome!" he said. 

"I--I was. "

Pete dropped his hat, but he did not know it until, well--severalminutes later, when Doris gave it to him. 

It was close to midnight when a solitary policeman, passing down a sidestreet, heard a nocturnal singer inform dark and empty High Street thathe was

 "The Ridin' Kid from Powder River, "--

with other more or less interesting details. 

Pete felt a hand on his shoulder. "You better cut that out!" said theofficer. 

Pete whirled and his hand flickered toward his hip. "You go plumbto--" Pete hesitated. The officer sniffed suspiciously. Petegrinned--then proffered his hand with irresistible enthusiasm. 

"Sure I'll cut it out. "

THE END

The Riverside Press

Cambridge, Massachusetts

U. S. A.