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They journeyed across an immense basin, sun-smitten, desolate, unpromising. "Just plain hell," said Malvey as though reading Pete's thought. "You act like you was to home all right," laughed Pete. Malvey glanced quickly at his companion, alive to an implied insult, but he saw only a young, smooth-cheeked rider in whose dark eyes shone neither animosity nor friendliness.
After all, this was none of his business. Boca's father and mother were also there . . . Boca screamed. Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete stepped up. "What's the idee, Malvey?" "You don't draw no cards in this deal," snarled Malvey. "Then we shuffle and cut for a new deal," said Pete.
"If you're intendin' to keep that horse out there, perhaps you'd like to feed him." And The Spider indicated the direction of the corral with a twist of the head. "Which is correct," said Pete. "Help yourself," said The Spider. "I get you," said Pete significantly; and he turned and strode out. "What in hell is he talkin' about?" queried Malvey. "His horse." Malvey frowned. "Some smooth kid, eh?"
"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 desert on foot yet there was no horse in sight. If Young Pete could force himself to such a pace and survive he would become a mighty useful tool. "Did Malvey play you?" queried The Spider. "You ought to know."
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.
"But what's the use of settin' out here like a couple of dam' buzzards when the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and be leered at Flores. The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly. They entered the 'dobe, Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing. "I can listen out here." Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct.
That old Flores had knocked Pete out with a bottle was the one and extravagant act that even Malvey himself could hardly have anticipated had the whole miserable affair been prearranged. In his drunken stupidity Flores blindly imagined that the young stranger was the cause of the quarrel. Pete, however, saw in it a frame-up to knock him out and make away with his horse.
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.
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."
A shadow drifted across his blurred vision. He glanced up. The Spider, naked to the waist, stood looking down at him, leanly grotesque 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 on me any time coming or going."
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