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He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of a machine-gun duel between two white men, renegades and leaders in opposing factions below the border, and how one of them, shot through and through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemy sharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the other machine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turned the machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of his own company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him.
You will not forget us. You will come again, alone in the night. And it is not Malvey that will show you the way." "Not if I see him first, señora." "You jest but even now you would kill Malvey if he were here." "You sure are tellin' Malvey's fortune," laughed Pete. "Kin you tell mine?" "Again you jest but I will speak. You will not kill Malvey, yet you shall find your own horse.
Riding beside him across the southern desert, Young Pete could not help noticing Malvey's hands huge-knuckled and freckled and Pete surmised correctly that this man was not quick with a gun. Pete also noticed that Malvey "roughed" his horse unnecessarily; that he was a good rider, but a poor horseman. Pete wondered that desert life had not taught Malvey to take better care of his horse.
Malvey's loose mouth hardened as he backed toward the corner of the room, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face. Suddenly the girl sprang up and caught Malvey's arm, "No! No!" she cried. He flung her aside and reached for his gun but Pete was too quick for him. They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled free and rose.
And it's gettin' daylight fast. I reckon that's Malvey's saddle and bridle on the blue roan. We'll just cover up all evidence of who was ridin' this hoss, drift into Showdown and eat, and then ride along up north and collect that reward. We'll split her even and who's goin' to say we didn't earn it?" "Suits me," said a deputy. His companions nodded. "Then let's get busy. The sand's loose here.
Feel like my insides had been takin' 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'."
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.
As for old Flores, Pete despised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "a dirty bunch of Greasers," and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor sort of a man. Disgusted with Malvey's loud talk and his raw attitude toward Boca, Pete sat in the moon-flung shadows of the portal and smoked and gazed at the stars.
It was a chance shot intended to open the way to a parley and identify the strange horseman by his voice, if possible. It also was a challenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such. Malvey's slow mind awakened to the situation. A streak of red flashed from his hand as he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle and began firing over it, shielded by his pony.
In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey's brute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey but he did not intend that Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. He saw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun when something crashed down from behind.