_ CHAPTER XIX. THE SPIDER
Where the old Ranger Trail, crossing the Blue Mesa, leaves the high mesa and meanders off into the desert, there is a fork which leads southwest, to the Apache country--a grim and waterless land--and finally swings south toward the border. Pete dismounted at this fork, pulled up his slackened cinches, and making certain that he was leaving a plain track, rode down the main trail for half a mile. Then he reined his pony to a bare spot on the grass-dotted tufa, and again dismounted. He looped Blue Smoke's fore feet, then threw him, and pulled his shoes with a pair of wire nippers, and stowed the shoes in his saddle-pockets.
He again rode directly down the trail, surmising that the occasional track of a barefoot horse would appear natural enough should the posse, whom he knew would follow him, split up and ride both trails. Farther on he again swung from the trail to the tufa, never slackening pace, and rode across the broken ground for several miles. He had often seen the unshod and unbranded ponies of the high country run along a trail for a mile or so and then dash off across the open. Of course, if the posse took the direct trail to the border, paying no attention to tracks, they would eventually overtake him. Pete was done with the companionship of men who allowed the wanton killing of a man like Annersley to go unpunished. He knew that if he were caught, he would most probably be hanged or imprisoned for the shooting of Gary--if he were not killed in being taken. The T-Bar-T interests ruled the courts. Moreover, his reputation was against him. Ever since the raid on Annersley's place Pete had been pointed out as the "kid who stood off the raiders and got two of them." And Pete knew that the very folk who seemed proud of the fact would be the first to condemn him for the killing of Gary. He was outlawed--not for avenging the death of his foster-father, but actually because he had defended his own life, a fact difficult to establish in court and which would weigh little against the evidence of the six or eight men who had heard him challenge Gary at the round-up. Jim Bailey had been right. Men talked too much as a usual thing. Gary had talked too much.
Pete realized that his loyalty to the memory of Annersley had earned him disrepute. He resented the injustice of this, and all his old hatred of the law revived. Yet despite all logic of justice as against law--he could see Gary's hand clutching against his chest, his staring eyes, and the red ooze starting through those tense fingers--Pete reasoned that had he not been so skilled and quick with a gun, he would be in Gary's place now. As it was, he was alive and had a good horse between 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 nails in the horseshoes and tacked them on again with a piece of rock. They would hold until he reached the desert town of Showdown--a place of ill-repute and a rendezvous for outlawry and crime.
He rode on until he came within sight of the town--a dim huddle of low buildings 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 horse in this desert land. At best a posse could not reach Showdown before noon the next day, and rather than blunder into Showdown at night and take unnecessary risks, he decided to rest, and ride in at sunup, when he would be able to see what he was doing and better estimate the possibilities of getting food for himself and his horse and of finding refuge in some out-of-the-way ranch or homestead. In spite of his vivid imaginings he slept well. At dawn he caught up his pony and rode into town.
Showdown boasted some fifteen or eighteen low-roofed adobes, the most pretentious being the saloon. These all faced a straggling road which ran east and west, disappearing at either end of the town as though anxious to obliterate itself in the clean sand of the desert. The environs of Showdown were garnished with tin cans and trash, dirt and desolation. Unlike the ordinary cow-town this place was not sprightly, but morose, with an aspect of hating itself for existing. Even the railroad swung many miles to the south as though anxious to leave the town 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 owned Showdown body and--but Showdown had no soul.
Men arrived and departed along the several desert trails that led in and out of the town. These men seldom tarried long. And they usually came alone, perchance from the Blue, the Gila, the T-Bar-T, or from below the border, for their business was with the border rustlers and parasites. Sheriffs of four counties seldom disturbed the place, because a man who had got as far south as Showdown was pretty hard to apprehend. From there to the border lay a trackless desert. Showdown was a rendezvous for that inglorious legion, "The Men Who Can't Come Back," renegades who when below the line worked machine guns for whichever side of the argument promised the more loot. Horse- and cattle-thieves, killers, escaped convicts, came and went--ominous birds of passage, the scavengers of war and banditry.
The Spider was lean, with legs warped by long years in the saddle. He was called The Spider because of his physical attributes as well as because of his attitude toward life. He never went anywhere, yet he accumulated sustenance. He usually had a victim tangled in his web. It was said that The Spider never let a wounded outlaw die for lack of proper attention if he considered the outlaw worth saving--as an investment. And possibly this was the secret of his power, for he was ever ready to grub-stake or doctor any gentleman in need or wounded in a desert affair--and he had had a large experience in caring for gun-shot wounds.
Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, nodded casually to The Spider, and called for a drink. The Spider, who always officiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling of liquor, noticed that the young stranger's eyes were clear and steady--that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he had arrived in Showdown at sunup. As Pete drank, The Spider sized up his horse--which looked fresh. He had already noticed that Pete's gun hung well down and handy, and assumed correctly that it was not worn for ornament. The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality--that the stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense.
Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up and entered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riders were expected to reach Showdown that day--perhaps by noon. Then The Spider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched in a high key yet was little more than a whisper.
The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed him for a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like the rush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently left the room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glanced up, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swung around as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes shifted to Pete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would have read: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand." And Pete's eyes had 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 a word. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power. Pete turned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely. The Spider pushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again. Pete shook his head. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and moving quickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patio set with tables and chairs. Pete nodded.
They were establishing a tentative understanding without speech. The test was hard for Pete. The Spider was uncanny--though quick of movement and shifty of eye--intensely alive withal.
As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased. This was but a youth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of a rendezvous. The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wall of the patio opened on a corral. The corral bars opened to the desert--Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than the patio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking. The Spider considered this highly commendable.
Pete knew at a glance that The Spider was absolutely without honor--that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and that he 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 sufficient provocation offered. Nor did this displease the autocrat of Showdown in the least. He was accustomed to dealing with such men. Yet one thing bothered him. Had the stranger made a get-away that would bring a posse to Showdown--as the Mexican had intimated? If so the sooner the visitor left, the better. If he were merely some cowboy looking for easy money and excitement, that was a different matter. Or perhaps he had but stolen a horse, or butchered and sold beef that bore a neighbor's brand. Yet there was something about Pete that impressed The Spider more deeply than mere horse- or cattle-stealing could. The youth's eye was not the eye of a thief. He had not come to Showdown to consort 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 the huddled adobes, and slowly filtering into the room. With his back to the bar, Pete idly flicked bits of a broken match at a knot-hole in the floor. Tired of that, he rolled a cigarette with one hand, and swiftly. Pete's hands were compact, of medium size, with the finger joints lightly defined--the hands of a conjuror--or, as The Spider thought, of a born gunman. And Pete was always doing something with his hands, even when apparently oblivious to everything around him. A novice at reading men would have considered him nervous. He was far from nervous. This was proven to The Spider's satisfaction when Malvey entered--"Bull" Malvey, red-headed, bluff and huge, of a gaunt frame, with large-knuckled hands and big feet. Malvey tossed a coin on the bar noisily, and in that one act Pete read him for what he was--a man who "bullied" his way through life with much bluster and profanity, but a man who, if he boasted, would make good his boast. What appeared to be hearty good-nature in Malvey was in reality a certain blatantly boisterous vigor--a vigor utterly soulless, and masking a nature at bottom as treacherous as The Spider's--but in contrast squalid and mean. Malvey would steal five dollars. The Spider would not touch a job for less than five hundred. While cruel, treacherous, and a killer, The Spider had nothing small or mean about him. And subtle to a degree, he hated the blunt-spoken, blustering Malvey, but for reasons unadvertised, 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 to name 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 never laughed.
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 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?"
The Spider nodded.
Pete appreciated that his own absence was desired; that these men were quietly curious to find out who he was--and what he had done that brought him to Showdown. But Malvey knew nothing about Pete, nor of any recent trouble over Concho way. And Pete, unsaddling his pony, knew that he would either make good with The Spider or else he would make a mistake, and then there would be no need for further subterfuge. Pete surveyed the corral and outbuildings. The whole arrangement was cleverly planned. He calculated from the position of the sun that it lacked about three hours of noon. Well, so far he had played his hand with 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 Malvey were standing out in the road, gazing toward the north. "I see only three of them," he heard The Spider say in his peculiar, high-pitched voice. 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 was obviously acting his part, but The Spider's attitude seemed sincere. "Pete," he called, "Malvey says there are four riders drifting in from the 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 more shrewd than they had suspected. And evidently he would be followed to Showdown.
"It's a killing," whispered The Spider. "I thought that it was. How do you size him up?"
"Pretty smooth--for a kid," said Malvey.
"Worth a blanket?" queried The Spider, which meant, worth hiding from the 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 middle of his web and made plain his immediate desire. "Strangers are welcome in Showdown, riding single," he told Pete. "We aren't hooked up to entertain a crowd. If you got friends coming--friends that are suffering to see you--why, you ain't here when they come.
And you ain't been here. If nobody is following your smoke, why, take your time."
"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' a stranger 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 in which there was both a challenge and a confession. Yet there was no boastful pride in the confession. It was as though Pete had stated the simple fact that he had killed a man in self-defense--perhaps more than one man--and had earned the hatred of those who had the power to make him pay with his life, whether he were actually guilty or not.
If this young stranger had three notches in his gun, and thus far had managed to evade the law, there was a possibility of his becoming a satellite among The Spider's henchmen. Not that The Spider cared in the least what became of Pete, save that if he gave promise of becoming useful, it would be worth while helping him to evade his pursuers this once at least. He knew that if he once earned Pete's gratitude, he would have one stanch friend. Moreover, The Spider was exceedingly crafty, always avoiding trouble when possible to do so. So he set about weaving the blanket that was to hide Pete from any one who might become too solicitous about his welfare and so disturb the present peace 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 him south--to Flores's rancho. Tell Flores he is a friend of mine. When you get a chance, take his horse, and fan it over to Blake's. Leave the horse there. I want you to set him afoot at Flores's. When I'm ready, 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 am any judge of a good animal."
"He'll give me fifty, mebby. Blake ain't payin' too much for any hosses 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 in front 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 make this right with you," said Pete.
"Forget it," said The Spider.
Showdown dozed in the desert heat. The street was deserted. The Mexican who helped about the saloon was asleep in the patio. The Spider opened a new pack of cards, shuffled them, and began a game of solitaire. Occasionally he glanced out into the glare, blinking and muttering to himself. Malvey and Pete had been gone about an hour when a lean dog that had lain across from the hitching-rail, rose, shook himself, and turned to gaze up the street. The Spider called to the man in the patio. He came quickly. "I'm expecting visitors," said The Spider in Mexican. The other started toward the front doorway, but The Spider called him back with a word, and gestured to the door back of the bar--the doorway to The Spider's private room. The Mexican entered the room and closed the door softly, drew up a chair, and sat close to the door in the attitude of one who listens. Presently he heard the patter of hoofs, the grunt of horses pulled up sharply, and the tread of men entering the saloon. The Mexican drew his gun and rested his forearm across his knees, the gun hanging easily in his half-closed hand. He did not know who the men were nor how The Spider had known that they were coming. But he knew what was expected of him in case of trouble. 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 Spider glanced up from his card-game, and nodded casually.
The sound of shuffling feet, and the Mexican knew that the strangers were facing the bar. He softly holstered his gun. While he could not understand English, he knew by the tone of the conversation that these men were not the enemies of his weazened master.
"Seen anything of a kind of dark-complected young fella wearin' a black Stetson 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 raid a 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," blurted Simpson.
Houck realized that The Spider knew more than he cared to tell. Simpson had blundered in stating their future plans, Houck tried to cover the blunder. "We like to get some chuck--enough to carry us back to the ranch."
"I'm short on chuck," said The Spider. "If you men were deputies--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 searching farther, a fact obvious even to the hot-headed Simpson when at the edge of the town they tried to buy provisions from a Mexican and were met with a shrug and a reiterated "No sabe."
"And that just about settles it," said Houck as he reined his pony round and faced north. _