"A RIDER STOOD AT THE LAMPLIT BAR"
Pete was surprised to find the darkened saloon cooler than the open
desert, even at dawn; and he realized, after glancing about, that The
Spider had closed the doors and windows during the night to shut out
the heat.
"In here," said The Spider, opening the door back of the bar.
Pete followed, groping his way into The Spider's room. He started back
as a match flared. The Spider lighted a lamp. In the sudden soft glow
Pete beheld a veritable storehouse of plunder: gorgeous serapes from
Old Mexico--blankets from Tehuantepec and Oaxaca, rebosas of woven silk
and linen and wool, the cruder colorings of the Navajo and Hopi
saddle-blankets, war-bags and buckskin garments heavy with the beadwork
of the Utes and Blackfeet, a buffalo-hide shield, an Apache bow and
quiver of arrows, skins of the mountain lion and lynx, and hanging from
the beam-end a silver-mounted saddle and bridle and above it a Mexican
sombrero heavy with golden filigree.
"You've rambled some," commented Pete.
"Some. What's the matter with your head?"
"Your friend Flores handed me one--from behind," said Pete.
The Spider gestured toward a blanket-covered couch against the wall.
"Lay down there. No, on your face. Huh! Wait till I get some water."
Pete closed his eyes. Presently he felt the light touch of fingers and
then a soothing coolness. He heard The Spider moving about the room.
The door closed softly. Pete raised his head. The room was dark. He
thought of Malvey and he wondered at The Spider's apparent solicitude.
He was in The Spider's hands--for good or ill . . . Sleep blotted out
all sense of being.
Late that afternoon he awoke to realize that there was some one in the
room. He raised on his elbow and turned to see The Spider gazing down
at him with a peculiar expression--as though he were questioning
himself and awaiting an answer from some outside source.
Pete stretched and yawned and grinned lazily. "Hello, pardner! I was
dreamin' of a friend of mine when I come to and saw"--Pete hesitated,
sat up and yawned again--"another friend that I wa'n't dreamin' about,"
he concluded.
"What makes you think I'm your friend?" queried The Spider.
"Oh, hell, I dunno," said Pete, rubbing the back of his head and
grinning boyishly. "But there's no law ag'in' my feelin' that way, is
there? Doggone it, I'm plumb empty! 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'."
"And he sure made a good job of it, didn't he? But I don't sabe your
game in hog-tyin' me down to Flores's place."
"I figured you'd be safer afoot till you kind of cooled down."
Pete tried to read The Spider's face, but it was as impersonal as the
desert itself. "Mebby you figured to hold me there till you was good
and ready to use me," said Pete.
The Spider nodded.
"Well, there's nothin' doin'. I ain't no killer or no hoss-thief
lookin' for a job. I got in bad up north--but I ain't lookin' for no
more trouble. If Malvey and me lock horns--that's my business. But
you got me wrong if you reckon I'm goin' to throw in with your outfit.
I kin pay for what I eat a couple of times, anyhow. But I ain't hirin'
out to no man."
"Go back in the patio and Juan will get you some chuck," said The
Spider abruptly.
"Which I'm payin' for," said Pete.
"Which you're paying for," said The Spider.
Following its usual course, the devil-wind died down suddenly at dusk
of the third day. A few Mexicans drifted into the saloon that evening
and following them several white men up from the border. Pete, who sat
in the patio where he could watch the outer doorway of the saloon,
smoked and endeavored to shape a plan for his future. He was vaguely
surprised that a posse had not yet ridden into Showdown; for The Spider
had said nothing of Houck and his men, and Pete was alert to that
contingency, in that he had planned to slip quietly from the patio to
the corral at the back, in case they did ride in, estimating that he
would have time to saddle a horse and get away before they could search
the premises, even if they went that far; and he doubted that they
would risk that much without The Spider's consent. Would The Spider
give such consent? Pete doubted it, not because he trusted The Spider
so much, but rather because the deliberate searching of premises by a
posse would break an established precedent, observed in more than one
desert rendezvous. That simple and eloquent statement, "Go right ahead
and search--but you'll search her in smoke," had backed down more than
one posse, as Pete knew.
Already the monotony of loafing at The Spider's place had begun to wear
on Pete, who had slept much for two days and nights, and he was itching
to do something. He had thought of riding down and across the border
and had said so to The Spider, who had advised him against it. During
their talk Malvey's name was mentioned. Pete wondered why that
individual had chosen to keep from sight so long, not aware that The
Spider had sent word to Malvey, who was at Mescalero's ranch, a few
miles east of Showdown, that a posse from the Blue had ridden in and
might be somewhere in the vicinity.
Little by little Pete began to realize that his present as well as his
future welfare depended on caution quite as much as upon sheer courage.
Insidiously The Spider's influence was working upon Pete, who saw in
him a gambler who played for big stakes with a coldness and
soullessness that was amazing--and yet Pete realized that there was
something hidden deep in The Spider's cosmos that was intensely human.
For instance, when Pete had given up the idea of crossing the border
and had expressed, as much by his countenance as his speech, his
imperative need to be out and earning a living, The Spider had offered
to put him to work on his ranch, which he told Pete was of considerable
extent, and lay just north of the national boundary and well out of the
way of chance visitors. "Cattle"--The Spider had said--"and some
horses."
Pete thought he knew about how that ranch had been stocked, and why it
was located where it was. But then, cattle-stealing was not confined
to any one locality. Any of the boys riding for the Blue or the Concho
or the T-Bar-T were only too eager to brand a stray calf and consider
that they were but serving their employer's interests, knowing that
their strays were quite as apt to be branded by a rival outfit. So it
went among men supposed to be living under the law.
The Spider's proffer of work was accepted, but Pete asserted that he
would not leave Showdown until he had got his horse.
"I'll see that you get him," said The Spider.
"Thanks. But I aim to git him myself."
And it was shortly after this understanding that Pete sat in the patio
back of the saloon--waiting impatiently for Malvey to show up, and
half-inclined to go out and look for him. But experience had taught
Pete the folly of hot-headed haste, so, like The Spider, he withdrew
into himself, apparently indifferent to the loud talk of the men in the
saloon, the raw jokes and the truculent swaggering, with the
implication, voiced loudly by one half-drunken renegade, that the
stranger was a short-horn and naturally afraid to herd in with "the
bunch."
"He's got business of his own," said The Spider.
"That's different. I 'poligish."
The men laughed, and the bibulous outlaw straightway considered himself
a wit. But those who carried their liquor better knew that The
Spider's interruption was significant. The young stranger was playing
a lone hand, and the rules of the game called for strict attention to
their own business.
Presently a Mexican strode in and spoke to The Spider. The Spider
called to a man at one of the tables. The noisy talk ceased suddenly.
"One," said The Spider. "From the south."
Pete heard and he shifted his position a little, approximating the
distance between himself and the outer doorway. Card-games were
resumed as before when a figure filled the doorway. Pete's hand slid
slowly to his hip. His fingers stiffened, then relaxed, as he got to
his feet.
It was Boca--alone, and smiling in the soft glow of lamplight. The
Spider hobbled from behind the bar. Some one called a laughing
greeting. "It's Boca, boys! We'll sure cut loose to-night! When Boca
comes to town the bars is down!"
Pete heard--and anger and surprise darkened his face. These men seemed
to know Boca too well. One of them had risen, leaving his card-game,
and was shaking hands with her. Another asked her to sing "La Paloma."
Even The Spider seemed gracious to her. Pete, leaning against the
doorway of the patio, stared at her as though offended by her presence.
She nodded to him and smiled. He raised his hat awkwardly. Boca read
jealousy in his eye. She was happy. She wanted him to care. "I
brought your saddle, señor," she said, nodding again. The men laughed,
turning to glance at Pete. Still Pete did not quite realize the
significance of her coming. "Thanks," he said abruptly.
Boca deliberately turned her back on him and talked with The Spider.
She was hurt, and a little angry. Surely she had been his good friend.
Was Pete so stupid that he did not realize why she had ridden to
Showdown?
The Spider, who had just learned why she was there, called to his
Mexican, who presently set a table in the patio. Slowly it dawned on
Pete that Boca had made a long ride--that she must be tired and hungry.
He felt ashamed of himself. She had been a friend to him when he
sorely needed a friend. And of course these men knew her. No doubt
they had seen her often at the Flores rancho. She had brought his
saddle back--which meant that she had found the buckskin, riderless,
and fearing that something serious had happened, had caught up the pony
and ridden to Showdown, alone, and no doubt against the wishes of her
father and mother. It was mighty fine of her! He had never realized
that girls did such things. Well, doggone it! he would let her know
that he was mighty proud to have such a pardner!
The Spider hobbled to the patio and placed a chair for Boca, who
brushed past Pete as though he had not been there.
"That's right!" laughed Pete. "But say, Boca, what made _me_ sore was
the way them hombres out there got fresh, joshin' you and askin' you to
sing, jest like they had a rope on you--"
"You think of that Malvey?"
"Well, I ain't forgittin' the way he--"
Boca's eyes flashed. "Yes! But here it is different. The Spider, he
is my friend. It is that when I have rested and eaten he will ask me
to sing. Manuelo will play the guitar. I shall sing and laugh, for I
am no longer tired. I am happy. Perhaps I shall sing the song of 'The
Outlaw,' and for you."
"I'll be listenin'--every minute, Boca. Mebby if I ain't jest
_lookin'_ at you--it'll be because--"
"Si! Even like the caballero of whom I shall sing." And Boca hummed a
tune, gazing at Pete with unreadable eyes, half-smiling, half-sad. How
young, smooth-cheeked, and boyish he was, as he glanced up and returned
her smile. Yet how quickly his face changed as he turned his head
toward the doorway, ever alert for a possible surprise. Boca pushed
back her chair. "The guitar," she called, nodding to The Spider.
Manuelo brought the guitar, tuned it, and sat back in the corner of the
patio. The men in the saloon rose and shuffled to where Boca stood,
seating themselves roundabout in various attitudes of expectancy.
Pete, who had risen, recalled The Spider's terse warning, and stepped
over to the patio doorway. Manuelo had just swept the silver strings
in a sounding prelude, when The Spider, behind the bar, gestured to
Pete.
"No, it ain't Malvey," said The Spider, as Pete answered his abrupt
summons. "Here, take a drink while I talk. Keep your eye on the
front. Don't move your hands off the bar, for there's three men out
there, afoot, just beyond the hitching-rail. There was five, a minute
ago. I figure two of 'em have gone round to the back. Go ahead--drink
a little, and set your glass down, natural. I'm joshin' with you,
see!"--and The Spider grinned hideously. "Smile! Don't make a break
for the patio. The boys out there wouldn't understand, and Boca might
get hurt. She's goin' to sing. You turn slow, and listen. When your
back's turned, those hombres out there will step in." The Spider
laughed, as though at something Pete had said. "You're mighty
surprised to see 'em and you start to talk. Leave the rest to me."
Pete nodded and lifted his glass. From the patio came the sound of
Boca's voice and the soft strumming of the guitar. Pete heard but
hardly realized the significance of the first line or two of the
song--and then:
"A rider stood at the lamplit bar,
tugging the knot of his neckscarf loose,
While some one sang to the silver strings,
in the moonlight patio."
It was the song of "The Outlaw." Pete turned slowly and faced the
patio. Manuelo swept the strings in a melodious interlude. Boca, her
vivid lips parted, smiled at Pete even as she began to sing again.
Pete could almost feel the presence of men behind him. He knew that he
was trapped, but he kept his gaze fixed on Boca's face. The Spider
spoke to some one--a word of surprised greeting. In spite of his hold
on himself Pete felt the sweat start on his lip and forehead. He was
curious as to what these men would look like; as to whether he would
know them. Perhaps they were not after him, but after some of the men
in the patio--
"Annersley!"
Pete swung round, his hands up. He recognized two of the men--deputies
of Sheriff Sutton of Concho. The third man was unknown to him.
"You're under arrest for the killing of Steve Gary."
"How's that?" queried The Spider.
"Steve Gary. This kid shot him--over to the Blue. We don't want any
trouble about this," continued the deputy. "We've got a couple of men
out back--"
"There won't be any trouble," said The Spider.
"No--there won't be any trouble," asserted Pete. "Gimme a drink,
Spider."
"No, you don't!" said the deputy. "You got too many friends out
there," and he gestured toward the patio with his gun.
"Not my friends," said Pete.
Boca's song ended abruptly as she turned from her audience to glance in
Pete's direction. She saw him standing with upraised hands--and in
front of him three men--strangers to Showdown.
Came the shuffling of feet as the men in the patio turned to see what
she was staring at.
"Sit still!" called The Spider. "This ain't your deal, boys. They got
the man they want."
But Boca, wide-eyed and trembling, stepped through the doorway.
"That's close enough!" called a deputy.
She paused, summoning all of her courage and wit to force a laugh.
"Si, señor. But you are mistaken. It is not that I care what you do
with _him_. I do but come for the wine for which I have asked, but
there was no one to bring it to me,"--and she stepped past the end of
the bar into The Spider's room. She reappeared almost instantly with a
bottle of wine.
"I will open that for you," said The Spider.
"Never mind!" said one of the deputies; "the lady seems to know how."
Boca took a glass from the counter. "I will drink in the patio with my
friends." But as she passed round the end of the bar and directly
beneath the hanging lamp, she turned and paused. "But no! I will
drink once to the young vaquero, with whom is my heart and my life."
And she filled the glass and, bowing to Pete, put the glass to her lips.
The deputy nearest Pete shrugged his shoulder. "This ain't a show."
"Of a truth, no!" said Boca, and she swung the bottle. It shivered
against the lamp. With the instant darkness came a streak of red and
the close roar of a shot. Pete, with his gun out and going, leapt
straight into the foremost deputy. They crashed down. Staggering to
his feet, Pete broke for the outer doorway. Behind him the room was a
pit of flame and smoke. 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.
[Illustration: "Of a truth, no!" said Boca, and she swung the bottle.]
Back in The Spider's place men grouped round a huddled something on the
floor. The Spider, who had fetched a lamp from his room, stooped and
peered into the upturned face of Boca. A dull, black ooze spread and
spread across the floor.
"Boca!" he shrilled, and his face was hideous.
"Did them coyotes git her?"
"Who was it?"
"Where's the kid?"
The Spider straightened and held the lamp high. "Take her in there,"
and he gestured toward his room. Two of the men carried her to the
couch and covered her with the folds of the serape which had slipped
from her shoulders as she fell.
"Say the word, Spider, and we'll ride 'em down!" It was "Scar-Face"
who spoke, a man notorious even among his kind.
The Spider, strangely quiet, shook his head. "They'll ride back here.
They were after Young Pete. She smashed the lamp to give him a chance
to shoot his way out. They figured he'd break for the back--but he
went right into 'em. They don't know yet that they got her. And he
don't know it." He hobbled round to the back of the bar. "Have a
drink, boys, and then I'm going to close up till--" and he indicated
his room with a movement of the head.
Young Pete, riding into the night, listened for the sound of running
horses. Finally he pulled his pony to a walk. He had ridden north--up
the trail which the posse had taken to Showdown, and directly away from
where they were searching the desert for him. And as Pete rode, he
thought continually of Boca. Unaware of what had happened--yet he
realized that she had been in great danger. This worried him--an
uncertainty that became an obsession--until he could no longer master
it with reason. He had ridden free from present hazard, unscratched
and foot-loose, with many hours of darkness before him in which to
evade the posse. He would be a fool to turn back. And yet he did,
slowly, as though an invisible hand were on his bridle-rein; forcing
him to ride against his judgment and his will. He reasoned, shrewdly,
that the posse would be anywhere but at The Spider's place, just then.
In an hour he had returned and was knocking at the door, surprised that
the saloon was closed.
At Pete's word, the door opened. The Spider, ghastly white in the
lamplight, blinked his surprise.
"Playin' a hunch," stated Pete. And, "Boca here?" he queried, as he
entered.
"In there," said The Spider, and he took the lamp from the bar.
"What's the use of wakin' her?" said Pete. "I come back--I got a
hunch--that somethin' happened when I made my get-away. But if she's
all right--"
"You won't wake her," said The Spider, and his voice sounded strange
and far-away. "You better go in there."
A hot flash shot through Pete. Then came the cold sweat of a dread
anticipation. He followed The Spider to where Boca lay on the couch,
as though asleep. Pete turned swiftly, questioning with his eyes. The
Spider set the lamp on the table and backed from the room. Breathing
hard, Pete stepped forward and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's
pretty mouth smiled up at him--but her eyes were as dead pools in the
night.
The full significance of that white face and those dull, unseeing eyes,
swept through him like a flame. "Pardner!" he whispered, and flung
himself on his knees beside her, his shadow falling across her head and
shoulders. In the dim light she seemed to be breathing. Long he gazed
at her, recalling her manner as she had raised her glass: "I drink to
the young vaquero, with whom is my heart--_and my life_."
Dully Pete wondered why such things should happen; why he had not been
killed instead of the girl, and which one of the three deputies had
fired the shot that had killed her. But no one could ever know
that--for the men had all fired at him when the lamp crashed down--yet
he, closer to them than Boca, had broken through their blundering
fusillade. He knew that Boca had taken a great risk--and that she must
have known it also. And she had taken that risk that he might win free.
Too stunned and shaken to reason it out to any definite conclusion,
Pete characteristically accepted the facts as they were as he thrust
aside all thought of right or wrong and gave himself over to tearless
mourning for that which Boca had been. That dead thing with dark,
staring eyes and faintly smiling lips was not Boca. But where was she
then?
Slowly the lamplight paled as dawn fought through the heavy shadows of
the room. The door swung open noiselessly. The Spider glanced in and
softly closed the door again.
The Spider, he of the shriveled heart and body, did the most human
thing he had done for years. At the little table opposite the bar he
sat with brandy and a glass and deliberately drank until he felt
neither the ache of his old wounds nor the sting of this fresh thrust
of fate. Then he knew that he was drunk, but that his keen, crooked
mind would obey his will, unfeelingly, yet with no hesitation and no
stumbling.
He rose and hobbled to the outer door. A vagrant breeze stirred the
stale air in the room. Back in the patio his Mexican, Manuelo, lay
snoring, wrapped in a tattered blanket. The Spider turned from the
doorway and gazed at the sanded spot on the floor, leaning against the
bar and drumming on its edge with his nervous fingers. "He'll see her
in every night-fire when he's alone--and he'll talk to her. He will
see her face among the girls in the halls--and he'll go cold and speak
her name, and then some girl will laugh. He will eat out his heart
thinking of her--and what she did for him. He's just a kid--but when
he comes out of that room . . . he won't give a damn if he's bumped off
or not. He'll play fast--and go through every time! God! I ought to
know!"
The Spider turned and gazed across the morning desert. Far out rode a
group of men. One of them led a riderless horse. The Spider's thin
lips twisted in a smile.