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.