THE SPIDER'S ACCOUNT
That the news of Pete's serious condition should hit The Spider as hard
as it did was as big a surprise to The Spider himself as it could ever
have been to his closest acquaintance. Yet it was a fact--and The
Spider never quarreled with facts.
The spider of the web-weaving species who leaves his web, invites
disaster unless he immediately weaves another, and The Spider of
Showdown was only too well aware of this. Always a fatalist, he took
things as they came, but had never yet gone out of his way to tempt the
possibilities.
Shriveled and aged beyond his natural years, with scarcely a true
friend among his acquaintances, weary of the monotony of life--not in
incident but in prospect--too shrewd to drug himself with drink, and
realizing that the money he had got together both by hook and by crook
and banked in El Paso could never make him other than he was, he faced
the alternative of binding himself to Pete's dire need and desperate
condition, or riding to Baxter and taking the train from thence to El
Paso--his eyes open to what he was doing, both as a self-appointed
Samaritan and as a much-wanted individual in the town where Pete lay
unconscious, on the very last thin edge of Nothingness.
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. Whether
or not he surmised what was going to happen is a question--but he did
not disregard possibilities.
His Mexican was left in charge of the saloon with instructions to keep
it open as usual, tell no one where his master had gone, and wait for
further instructions.
The Spider chose a most ordinary horse from his string and wore a most
ordinary suit of clothes. The only things in keeping with his lined
and weathered face were his black Stetson and his high-heeled boots.
He knew that it would be impossible to disguise himself. He would be
foolish to make the attempt. His bowed legs, the scar running from
chin to temple, his very gait made disguise impossible. To those who
did not know him he would be an "old-timer" in from the desert. To
those who did know him . . . Well, they were not many nor over-anxious
to advertise the fact.
He left at night, alone, and struck south across the desert, riding
easily--a shrunken and odd figure, but every inch a horseman. Just
beneath his unbuttoned vest, under his left arm, hung the
service-polished holster of his earlier days. He had more than enough
money to last him until he reached El Paso, and a plentiful stock of
cigars. It was about nine o'clock next morning when he pulled up at
Flores's 'dobe and dismounted stiffly. Flores was visibly surprised
and fawningly obsequious. His chief was dressed for a long journey.
It had been many years since The Spider had ridden so far from
Showdown. Something portentous was about to happen, or had happened.
Flores's wife, however, showed no surprise, but accepted The Spider's
presence in her usual listless manner. To her he addressed himself as
she made coffee and placed a chair for him. They talked of Boca---and
once The Spider spoke of Boca's mother, whom the Señora Flores had
known in Mexico.
Old Flores fed The Spider's horse, meanwhile wondering what had drawn
the chief from the security of his web. He concluded that The Spider
was fleeing from some danger---the law, perhaps, or from some ancient
grudge that had at last found him out to harry him into the desert, a
hunted man and desperate. The Mexican surmised that The Spider had
money with him, perhaps all his money--for local rumor had it that The
Spider possessed great wealth. And of course he would sleep there that
night . . .
Upon returning to the 'dobe Flores was told by The Spider to say
nothing of having seen him. This confirmed the old Mexican's suspicion
that The Spider had fled from danger. And Flores swore by the saints
that none should know, while The Spider listened and his thin lips
twitched.
"You'd knife me in my bed for less than half the money on me," he told
Flores.
The Mexican started back, as though caught in the very act, and whined
his allegiance to The Spider. Had he not always been faithful?
"No," said The Spider, "but the señora has."
Flores turned and shuffled toward the corral. The Spider, standing in
the doorway of the 'dobe, spoke to Flores's wife over his shoulder: "If
I don't show up before next Sunday, señora, get your man to take you to
Showdown. Juan will give you the money, and the things I left up
there."
"You will not come back," said the Mexican woman.
"Don't know but that you are right--but you needn't tell Flores that."
An hour later The Spider had Flores bring up his horse. He mounted and
turned to glance round the place. He shrugged his shoulders. In a few
minutes he was lost to sight on the trail south which ran along the
cañon-bed.
That night he arrived at Baxter, weary and stiff from his long ride.
He put his horse in the livery-stable and paid for its keep in
advance--"a week," he said, and "I'll be back."
Next morning he boarded the local for El Paso. He sat in the
smoking-compartment, gazing out on the hurrying landscape. At noon he
got off the train and entered an eating-house across from the station.
When he again took his seat in the smoker he happened to glance out.
On the platform was a square-built, sombrero'd gentleman, his back to
the coach and talking to an acquaintance. There was something familiar
in the set of those shoulders. The Spider leaned forward that he might
catch a glimpse of the man's face. Satisfied as to the other's
identity, he leaned back in his seat and puffed his cigar. The Spider
made no attempt to keep from sight. The square-shouldered man was the
town marshal of Hermanas. As the train pulled out, the marshal turned
and all but glanced up when the brakeman, swinging to the steps of the
smoker, reached out and playfully slapped him on the shoulder. The car
slid past. The Spider settled himself in his seat.
With the superstition of the gambler he believed that he would find an
enemy in the third person to recognize him, and with a gambler's stolid
acceptance of the inevitable he relaxed and allowed himself to plan for
the immediate future. On Pete's actual condition would depend what
should be done. The Spider drew a newspaper clipping from his pocket.
The El Paso paper stated that there was one chance in a thousand of
Pete recovering. The paper also stated that there had been money
involved--a considerable sum in gold--which had not been found. The
entire affair was more or less of a mystery. It was hinted that the
money might not have been honestly come by in the first place,
and--sententiously--that crime breeds crime, in proof of which, the
article went on to say; "the man who had been shot by the police was
none other than Pete Annersley, notorious as a gunman in the service of
the even more notorious Jim Ewell, of Showdown, or 'The Spider,' as he
was known to his associates." Followed a garbled account of the raid
on the Annersley homestead and the later circumstance of the shooting
of Gary, all of which, concluded the item, spoke for itself.
"More than Pete had a chance to do," soliloquized The Spider. "They
got the kid chalked up as a crook--and he's as straight as a die." And
strangely enough this thought seemed to please The Spider.
Shouldering through the crowd at the El Paso station, The Spider rubbed
against a well-dressed, portly Mexican who half-turned, showed surprise
as he saw the back of a figure which seemed familiar--the bowed legs
and peculiar walk--and the portly Mexican, up from the south because
certain financial interests had backed him politically were becoming
decidedly uncertain, named a name, not loudly, but distinctly and with
peculiar emphasis. The Spider heard, but did not heed nor hurry. A
black-shawled Mexican woman carrying a baby blundered into the portly
Mexican. He shoved her roughly aside. She cursed him for a pig who
robbed the poor--for he was known to most Mexicans--and he so far
forgot his dignity and station as to curse her heartily in return. The
Spider meanwhile was lost in the crowd that banked the station platform.
El Paso had grown--was not the El Paso of The Spider's earlier days,
and for a brief while he forgot his mission in endeavoring mentally to
reconstruct the old town as he had known it. Arrived at the Plaza he
turned and gazed about. "Number two," he said to himself, recalling
the portly Mexican--and the voice. He shrugged his shoulders.
His request to see the president of the Stockmen's Bank was borne
hesitatingly to that individual's private office, the messenger
returning promptly with instructions to "show the gentleman in."
Contrary to all precedent the president, Hodges, was not portly, but a
man almost as lean as The Spider himself; a quick, nervous man,
forceful and quite evidently "self-made."
"Sit down, Jim."
The Spider pulled up a chair. "About that last deposit--"
The president thrust his hand into a pigeon-hole and handed The Spider
a slip of paper.
"So he got here with the cash before they nailed him?" And The Spidery
face expressed surprise.
"The money came by express--local shipment. I tried to keep it out of
the papers. None of their dam' business."
"I'm going to close my account," stated The Spider.
"Going south?"
"No. I got some business in town. After that--"
"You mean you've got _no_ business in town. Why didn't you write?"
"You couldn't handle it. Figure up my credit--and give me a draft for
it, I'll give you my check. Make it out to Peter Annersley," said The
Spider.
"One of your gunmen, eh? I see by the papers he's got a poor chance of
using this."
"So have I," and The Spider almost smiled.
Hodges pushed back his chair. "See here, Jim. You've got no business
in this town and you know it! And you've got enough money to keep you
comfortable anywhere--South America, for instance. Somebody'll spot
you before you've been here twenty-four hours. Why don't you let me
call a taxi--there's a train south at eleven-thirty."
"Thanks, E.H.--but I'm only going over to the hospital."
"You sure will, if you stick around this town long."
"I'm going to see that boy through," said The Spider.
"Then you're not after any one?"
"No, not that way."
"Well, you got me guessing. I thought I knew you."
"Mebby, Ed. Now, if the boy comes through all right, and I don't, I
want you to see that he gets this money. There's nobody in town can
identify him but me--and mebby I won't be around here to do it. If he
comes here and tells you he's Pete Annersley and that The Spider told
him to come, hand him the draft. 'Course, if things go smooth, I'll
take care of that draft myself."
"Making your will, Jim?"
"Something like that."
"All right. I might as well talk to the moon. I used to think that
you were a wise one--"
"Just plain dam' fool, same as you, E.H. The only difference is that
you're tryin' to help _me_ out--and I aim to help out a kid that is
plumb straight."
"But I have some excuse. If it hadn't been for you when I was down
south on that Union Oil deal--"
"Ed, we're both as crooked as they make 'em, only you play your game
with stocks and cash, inside--and I play mine outside, and she's a lone
hand. This kid, Pete, is sure a bad hombre to stack up against--but
he's plumb straight."
"You seem to think a whole lot of him."
"I do," said The Spider simply.
The president shook his head. The Spider rose and stuck out his hand.
"So-long, Ed."
"So-long, Jim. I'll handle this for you. But I hate like hell to
think it's the last time I _can_ handle a deal for you."
"You can't tell," said The Spider.
The president of the Stockmen's Security sat turning over the papers on
his desk. It had been a long while since he had been in the
saddle--some eighteen or twenty years. As a young man he had been sent
into Mexico to prospect for oil. There were few white men in Mexico
then. But despite their vicarious callings they usually stood by each
other. The Spider, happening along during a quarrel among the natives
and the oil-men, took a hand in the matter, which was merely incidental
to his profession. The oil-men had managed to get out of that part of
the country with the loss of but two men--a pretty fair average, as
things went those days. Years afterwards the president of the
Stockmen's Security happened to meet The Spider in El Paso--and he did
not forget what he owed him. The Spider at that time had considerable
gold which he finally banked with the Stockmen's Security at the
other's suggestion. The arrangement was mutually agreeable. The
Spider knew that the president of the Stockmen's Security would never
disclose his identity to the authorities--and Hodges felt that as a
sort of unofficial trustee he was able to repay The Spider for his
considerable assistance down in Mexico.