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Updated: May 31, 2025
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.
The Spider's preparations for leaving Showdown were simple enough. He had his Mexican bale and cord the choicest of the rugs and blankets, the silver-studded saddle and bridle, the Bayeta cloth rare and priceless and the finest of his Indian beadwork. Each bale was tagged, and on each tag was written the name of Boca's mother. All these things were left in his private room, which he locked.
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.
Flores mumbled a protest. Malvey asked him if he let the women run the place. Boca's mother turned to Malvey. "You will go," she said quietly. Malvey cursed as he stepped from the room. He could face Boca's fury, or face any man in a quarrel, but there was something in the deathlike quietness of the sad-eyed Mexican woman that chilled his blood.
An odor of stale grease pervaded the place. In the narrow bedroom Boca's room -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 the stream-bed.
Boca's pony reared as Pete jerked the reins loose, swept into the saddle, and down the moonlit street. He heard a shot and turned his head. In the patch of moonlight round The Spider's place he saw the dim, hurrying forms of men and horses. He leaned forward and quirted the pony with the rein-ends. Back in The Spider's place men grouped round a huddled something on the floor.
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