"PLANTED--OUT THERE"
Malvey, loafing at the ranch of Mescalero, received The Spider's
message about the posse with affected indifference. He had Pete's
horse in his possession, which in itself would make trouble should he
be seen. When he learned from the messenger that Young Pete was in
Showdown, he fumed and blustered until evening, when he saddled Blue
Smoke and rode south toward the Flores rancho. From Flores's place he
would ride on south, across the line to where he could always find
employment for his particular talents. Experience had taught him that
it was useless to go against The Spider, whose warning, whether it were
based on fact or not, was a hint to leave the country.
The posse from Concho, after circling the midnight desert and failing
to find any trace of Pete, finally drew together and decided to wait
until daylight made it possible to track him. As they talked together,
they saw a dim figure coming toward them. Swinging from their course,
they rode abruptly down a draw. Four of them dismounted. The fifth,
the chief deputy, volunteered to ride out and interview the horseman.
The four men on foot covered the opening of the draw, where the trail
passed, and waited.
The deputy sat his horse, as though waiting for some one. Malvey at
once thought of Young Pete--then of The Spider's warning--and finally
that the solitary horseman might be some companion from below the
border, cautiously awaiting his approach. Half-inclined to ride wide,
he hesitated--then loosening his gun he spurred his restless pony
toward the other, prepared to "bull" through if questioned too closely.
Within thirty feet of the deputy Malvey reined in. "You're ridin'
late," he said, with a forced friendliness in his voice.
"This the trail to Showdown?" queried the deputy.
"This is her. Lookin' for anybody in particular?"
"Nope. And I reckon nobody is lookin' for me. I'm ridin my own horse."
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. A rifle snarled in the
draw. Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him.
Another slug shattered his thigh. Cursing, he lunged sideways, as Blue
Smoke bucked. Malvey toppled and fell--an inert bulk in the dim light
of the stars.
The chief deputy struck a match and stooped. "We got the wrong man,"
he called to his companions.
"It's Bull Malvey," said one of the deputies as the match flickered
out. "I knew him in Phoenix."
"Heard of him. He was a wild one," said another deputy.
"Comin' and goin'! One of The Spider's bunch, and a hoss-thief right!
I reckon we done a good job."
"He went for his gun," said the chief.
"We had him covered from the start," asserted a deputy. "He sure won't
steal no more hosses."
"Catch up his cayuse," commanded the chief deputy.
Two of them, after a hard ride, finally put Blue Smoke within reach of
a rope. He was led back to where Malvey lay.
"Concho brand!" exclaimed the chief.
"Young Pete's horse," asserted another.
"There'll be hell to pay if Showdown gets wise to what happened to Bull
Malvey," said the deputy, who recognized the dead outlaw.
Dawn was just breaking when the chief deputy, disgusted with what he
termed their "luck," finally evolved a plan out of the many discussed
by his companions. "We got the cayuse--which will look good to the
T-Bar-T boys. We ain't down here for our health and we been up against
it from start to finish--and so far as I care, this is the finish. Get
it right afore we start. Young Pete is dead. We got his horse." He
paused and glanced sharply at Blue Smoke. "He's got the Concho brand!"
he exclaimed.
"Young Pete's horse was a blue roan," said a deputy. "I guess this is
him--blue roan with a white blaze on his nose--so Cotton told me."
"Looks like it!" said the chief deputy. "Well, say we got his horse,
then. We're in luck for once."
"Now it's easy diggin' down there in the draw. 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. We can drag a blanket
over this--and leave the rest to the coyotes."
They scraped a long, shallow hole in the arroyo-bed and buried Malvey
along with his saddle and bridle.
The Spider smiled as he saw them coming. He was still smiling as he
watched them ride up the street and tie their tired ponies to the
hitching-rail. He identified the led horse as the one Malvey had
stolen from Pete.
"I see you got him," he said in his high-pitched voice.
The chief deputy nodded. "He's planted--out there."
"I meant the horse," said The Spider.
Ordinarily, The Spider was a strange man. The posse thought him
unusually queer just then. His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiar
faint, bluish film. His manner was over-deliberate. There was
something back of it all that they could not fathom. Moreover, the
place was darkened. Some one had hung blankets over the windows. The
deputies--four of them--followed The Spider into the saloon.
"I guess you boys want to eat," said The Spider.
"We sure do."
"All right. I'll have Manuelo get you something." And he called to
the Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room--The
Spider's own room, back of the bar. While the Mexican prepared
breakfast, the posse accepted their chief's invitation to have a drink,
which they felt they needed. Presently The Spider led the way to his
room. The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold as
they peered in. A lamp was burning on the table. There were plates,
knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon . . . Beyond the
lamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them. His
eyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep.
The Spider held up his hand. "You're planted--out there. These
gentlemen say so. So you ain't here!"
Pete's belt and gun lay on the floor. The Spider was in his
shirt-sleeves and apparently unarmed.
The chief deputy sized up the situation in a flash and pulled his gun.
"I guess we got you--this trip, Pete."
"No," said The Spider. "You're wrong. He's planted--out there. What
you staring at, boys? Pete, stand over there. Come right in, boys!
Come on in! I got something to show you."
"Watch the door, Jim," said the chief. "Ed, you keep your eye on The
Spider." The chief deputy stepped to the table and peered across it at
a huddled something on the couch, over which was thrown a shimmering
serape. He stepped round the table and lifted a corner of the serape.
Boca's sightless eyes stared up at him.
"Christ!" he whispered. "It's the girl!" And even as he spoke he knew
what had happened--that he and his men were responsible for this. His
hand shook as he turned toward The Spider.
"She--she ran into it when she-- It's pretty tough, but--"
"Your breakfast is waiting," said The Spider.
"This was accidental," said the deputy, recovering himself, and
glancing from one to another of his men. Then he turned to Pete.
"Pete, you'll have to ride back with us."
"No," said The Spider with a peculiar stubborn shrug of his shoulders.
"He's planted out there. You said so."
"That's all right, Spider. We made a mistake. This is the man we
want."
"Then who is planted out there?" queried The Spider in a soft,
sing-song voice, high-pitched and startling.
"That's our business," stated the deputy.
"No--mine!" The Spider glanced past the deputy, who turned to face a
Mexican standing in the doorway. The Mexican's hands were held belt
high and they were both "filled."
"Get the first man that moves," said The Spider in Mexican. And as he
spoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the stroke
of a snake. Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, as
cold as the eyes of a rattler. The deputy read his own doom and the
death of at least two of his men should he move a muscle. He had Young
Pete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed. The
deputy lowered his gun.
Pete blinked and drew a deep breath. "Give me a gun, Spider--and we'll
shoot it out with 'em, right here."
The Spider laughed. "No. You're planted out there. These gents say
so. I'm working this layout."
"Put up your gun, Ed," said the chief, addressing the deputy who had
The Spider covered. "He's fooled us, proper."
"Let 'em out, one at a time," and The Spider gestured to the Mexican,
Manuelo. "And tell your friends," he continued, addressing the chief
deputy, "that Showdown is run peaceful _and that I run her_."
When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete. "Want to ride back to
Concho?"
Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hear
the question. Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which he
had dipped in a water-bucket--as casually busy as though he had never
had a gun in his hand. Something in the Mexican's supreme indifference
touched Pete's sense of humor. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Who's goin' to tell her father?" he queried, gesturing toward the
inner room.
"He knows," said The Spider, who stood staring at the Mexican.
"You're drunk," said Pete.
"Maybe I'm drunk," echoed The Spider. "But I'm her father."
Pete stepped forward and gazed into The Spidery scarred and lined face.
"Hell!" Then he thrust out his hand. "Spider, I reckon I'll throw in
with you."