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But he was hungry, and Flores's wife was preparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes, which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone very much of a stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chum Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. He wondered what they were doing if they were talking about him and Gary.
After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal Malvey and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them and Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the cañon at the faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores's manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness which in no way deceived Pete.
No posse would ride farther south than Showdown, and with Pete afoot at Flores's rancho, Malvey would be free to follow his own will, either to Blake's ranch or farther south and across the border. Whether Pete returned to Showdown or not was none of Malvey's affair. To get away with the horse might require some scheming. Malvey made no further attempt to draw Pete out but rode on in silence.
He thought of dismounting and going in and speaking to Flores's wife. But no! It would do neither of them any good. Flores had intimated that she had gone crazy. And Pete did not want to talk of Boca nor hear her name mentioned. "Boca's where she ain't worryin' about anybody," he reflected as he swung round and rode out of town.
Presently Flores's talk grew disconnected; his eye became dull and his swarthy face was mottled with yellow. The sweat, which had rolled down his 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.
The horses were corralled and fed. As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman Flores's wife called to some one in an inner room. Presently Flores's daughter appeared, supple of movement and smiling. She greeted Malvey as though he were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete's direct gaze, and straightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of a song.
Another day and he would reach old Flores's place in the cañon but Boca would not be there. Then he would ride to Showdown. Some one would be at The Spider's place . . . He could get feed for his horse . . . And the next day he would ride to the Blue and camp at the old cabin.
"And he sure made a good job of it, didn't he? But I don't sabe your game 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 the desert itself. "Mebby you figured to hold me there till you was good and ready to use me," said Pete. The Spider nodded.
He did not know what would happen if he refused to go yet he knew that something would happen. It was not the first time that Flores's wife had interfered in quarrels of the border outlaws sojourning at the ranch. In Showdown men said that she would as soon knife a man as not. Malvey, who had lived much in Old Mexico, had seen women use the knife. He went without a word.
The following afternoon Pete, stiff and weary from his two days' ride, entered the southern end of Flores's cañon and followed the trail along the stream-bed now dry and edged with crusted alkali until he came within sight of the adobe.
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