WHITE-EYE
The third time that The Spider called at the hospital, and, as usual,
in the evening, he was told by the young house-doctor, temporarily in
charge, that he could not see the patient in room 218 without
permission from the physician in charge of the case, as it was after
visiting hours, and, moreover, there had been altogether too much
freedom allowed visitors as it was. This young doctor knew nothing of
The Spider's connection with the Annersley case, and was altogether
unimpressed by The Spider's appearance, save that he mentally labeled
him a "rough-neck" who was evidently pretty badly crippled by
rheumatism.
The Spider felt tempted to resort to bribery, but there was something
so officious and aggressively professional in the manner of this
"straw-boss"--as The Spider mentally labeled him--that The Spider
hesitated to flatter his egotism by admitting that he held the
whip-hand.
"Then mebby you can find out how he's getting along?" queried The
Spider, in his high-pitched voice.
"No objection to that," said the young doctor, reaching for the desk
'phone. "Two-eighteen, please. Two-eighteen? How is your patient
to-night? That so? H-m-m! Oh, this is Miss Gray talking? H-m-m!
Thanks." And he hung up the receiver.
"The patient is doing very well--exceptionally well. Would you care to
leave any message?"
"You might tell Doc Andover to leave word that when I call, I get to
see the folks I come to see--and I reckon he'll set you straight."
"Oh, I didn't--er--know you were a friend of Dr. Andover's. What is
the name, please?"
"'T wouldn't interest you none, little man. Thanks for the
information." And The Spider hobbled out and clumped stiffly down the
wide stone stairway.
The young doctor adjusted his glasses and stared into vacancy. "H-m-m!
And he had the nerve to call _me_ 'little man.' Now I should call him
a decidedly suspicious character. Looks something like an overgrown
spider. Birds of a feather," he added sententiously, with an air of
conscious rectitude, and a disregard for the propriety of the implied
metaphor. It is not quite certain whether he had Andover or Pete in
mind. But it is most probable that had he allowed The Spider to see
Pete that evening and talk with him, The Spider would have left El Paso
the next day, as he had planned, instead of waiting until the following
evening, against his own judgment and in direct opposition to that
peculiar mental reaction called "a hunch" by those not familiar with
the niceties of the English language, and called nothing really more
expressive by those who are.
So far as The Spider knew, he had not been recognized by any one. Yet
with that peculiar intuition of the gunman and killer he knew that he
was marked. He wondered which of his old enemies had found him
out--and when and how that enemy would strike.
That night he wrote a short letter to Pete, stating that he was in town
and would call to see him the following evening, adding that if he
failed to call Pete was to go to the Stockmen's Security and ask for
the president when he was able to be about. He mailed the letter
himself, walking several blocks to find a box. On his way back a man
passed him who peered at him curiously. The Spider's hand had crept
toward his upper vest-pocket as the other approached. After he passed,
The Spider drew out a fresh cigar and lighted it from the one he was
smoking. And he tossed the butt away and turned and glanced back. "I
wonder what White-Eye is doing in El Paso?" he asked himself. "He knew
me all right." The Spider shrugged his shoulders. His hunch had
proved itself. There was still time to leave town, but the fact that
White-Eye had recognized him and had not spoken was an insidious
challenge, the kind of a challenge which a killer never lets pass. For
the killer, strangely enough, is drawn to his kind through the instinct
of self-preservation, a psychological paradox to the layman, who does
not understand that peculiar pride of the gunman which leads him to
remove a menace rather than to avoid it. Curiosity as to a rival's
ability, his personal appearance, his quality of nerve, the sound of
his voice, has drawn many noted killers together--each anxious to prove
conclusively that he was the better man. And this curiosity, driven by
the high nervous tension of the man who must ever be on the alert, is
insatiable, and is assuaged only by insanity or his own death. The
removal of a rival does not satisfy this hunger to kill, but rather
creates a greater hunger, until, without the least provocation, the
killer will shoot down a man merely to satisfy temporarily this inhuman
and terrible craving. The killer veritably feeds upon death, until
that universal abhorrence of the abnormal, triumphant in the end,
adjusts the quivering balance--and Boot Hill boasts one more wooden
cross.
The Spider, limping up the stairway to his room, knew that he would not
leave El Paso, knew that he could not leave the town until satisfied as
to what White-Eye's silence meant. And not only that, but he would
find out. He lighted the oil-lamp on the dresser and gazed at himself
in the glass. Then he took off his coat, shaved, washed, and put on a
clean shirt and collar. He took some gold and loose silver from his
money-belt, put on his hat and coat, and hobbled downstairs. He
thought he knew where he could get word of White-Eye's whereabouts,
stopped at a cigar-stand and telephoned for his cab--and his regular
driver. In a few minutes the cab was at the corner. He mentioned a
street number to the driver, who nodded knowingly. Pony Baxter's
place--where the game ran big. No place for a tin-horn. Only the real
ones played at Pony's. So this old-timer who paid so well was going to
take a whirl at the game? The cabby thought he saw a big tip coming.
Being somewhat of a sportsman in his way, and grateful for what The
Spider had already done for him, he drew up within a block of his
destination and, stepping down, told The Spider that Pony's place was
being watched--and had been for more than a week: that the bulls were
out for some strangers who were wanted bad.
The Spider showed no sign of surprise. "Suppose I was one of 'em, eh?"
he queried.
"That's none of my business, Captain. I ain't workin' for the force;
I'm workin' for myself."
"All right. I'll walk down to Pony's place. After I go up, you can
drive down there and wait. I may be five minutes--or a couple of
hours. Here's something to make you forget who you're waiting for if
anybody should ask you."
The cabby tucked the money in his pocket and climbed back to his seat.
"Don't know if somebody was to ask me," he said to himself, as he
watched The Spider hobble down the next block. "Lemme see," he
continued as he drove slowly along. "Some guy comes up and asks me for
a match and starts talkin' friendly, and mebby asks me to have a drink,
and I get friendly and tell him about that young sport from the East
that's been seein' the town and how somebody over to his hotel must 'a'
told him about the game at Pony's--and how he's upstairs, gettin' his
hair cut--short. Oh, I guess I ain't been in this business eight years
for nothin'."
But the inquisitive stranger did not appear and the cabby's invention
was wasted.
The Spider entered the first door to the left of the long hallway. The
room was fitted up as an office, with huge leather-upholstered chairs,
a mahogany center table, and a mahogany desk. In one corner stood a
large safe. On the safe-door was lettered "A. L. Baxter & Co."
A man with a young, smooth face and silver-white hair was sitting at
the desk. He turned and nodded pleasantly.
"I want to see Pony," said The Spider.
"You're talking to him," said the other. "What can I do for you?"
"You can tell Pony that I want to see him, here," said The Spider.
"And don't worry, he knows me."
"The name, please."
"Never mind that. Just take a good look at me--and tell him. He'll
come."
The other rose and, stepping to the inner door, beckoned to some one in
the room beyond. The Spider seated himself, lighted a cigar, and
leaned back as though thoroughly at home. Presently a big man came in
briskly: a full-bodied, smooth-cheeked man who looked like the
prosperous manager of some legitimate business enterprise, save for the
large diamond horseshoe scintillating in his gray silk tie.
"Why, hello, Jim!" he cried, evidently surprised. He told his partner
casually that he could go on inside and look after things for a few
minutes. When the other had gone he turned to The Spider. "What can I
do for you, Jim?"
"Tell me where I can find White-Eye."
"White-Eye? He hasn't been in here for three or four years. I didn't
know he was in town."
"That might go with the bulls, Pony. I know White-Eye doesn't hang out
reg'lar here--ain't his kind of a joint. But you can tell me where he
does hang out. And I want to know."
"You looking for him, Jim?"
"No. But I've got a hunch he's looking for me."
"Just how bad do you think he wants to see you?" queried Baxter,
tilting back his swing-chair and glancing sideways at The Spider.
"About as bad as I want to see him," said The Spider.
"You haven't been in town for quite a while, Jim."
"No. Fifteen years, I reckon."
"You don't change much."
"I was thinking the same of you; always playing safe. You ought to
know better than to pull a bluff like that on me. But if that is your
game, I call. I want White-Eye."
Pony Baxter had plenty of nerve. But he knew The Spider. "I haven't
seen White-eye for over three years," he said, turning to his desk. He
tore a memorandum slip from a pad and wrote something on it and handed
it to The Spider. It was simply a number on Aliso Street. The Spider
glanced at it and tore the slip in two.
"He's stayin' with friends?" queried The Spider.
"Yes. And I think you know most of them."
"Thanks for the tip, Pony."
"You going down there alone, Jim?"
"I might."
"I wouldn't," said Baxter.
"I know dam' well _you_ wouldn't," laughed The Spider.
Scarcely had The Spider stepped into the cab when four men slouched
from a dark stairway entrance a few doors down the street and watched
the cab turn a distant corner.
"Well, you missed a good chance," said one of the men, as they moved
slowly toward the entrance to Pony Baxter's.
"How about you? If you ain't forgetting it was the first one of us
that seen him was to get him."
"And White-Eye, here, seen him first, when he crawled out of that rig.
If we'd 'a' gone up, instead of standin' here lettin' our feet git
cold--"
"He must 'a' had his roll with him," said Pino, one of White-Eye's
companions and incidentally a member of that inglorious legion, "The
Men Who Can't Come Back."
"'T ain't his roll I want," said White-Eye.
"Too dam' bad about you not wantin' his roll. Any time--"
"Any time you git The Spider's roll, you got to git him," asserted
another member of this nocturnal quartette, a man whose right arm and
shoulder sagged queerly.
"The Spider ain't no _kid_, neither,"--and White-Eye paused at the
dimly lighted stairway entrance.
The man with the deformed shoulder cursed White-Eye. The others
laughed.
"Let's go git a drink--and then we'll have a talk with Pony. Come on,
Steve."
They turned and drifted on up the street. Presently they were back at
the stairway entrance. "Pony won't stand for no rough stuff," advised
White-Eye as they turned and climbed the stair. "I'll do the talkin'."
"I reckon he'll stand for anything we hand him," said Pino. "Fancy
clothes don't cut any figure with me."
"Nobody that ever got a good look at you would say so," asserted
White-Eye. He paused at the head of the stairs. "I aim to find out
what The Spider wanted up here."
"Go to it!"--and Pino grinned.
As they entered the "office," Baxter was talking with his partner, with
whom he exchanged a significant glance as he realized who his visitors
were. The partner excused himself and stepped into the room beyond.
"Well, boys, what can I do for you?" Baxter's manner was suavely
affable.
"We're lookin' for a friend," declared White-Eye.
"I don't think he's here." And Baxter smiled his professional smile.
"But he's been here," asserted White-Eye. "We ain't here to make a
noise. We jest want to know what The Spider was doin' up here a spell
ago."
"Oh, Jim? Why, he dropped in to shake hands. I hadn't seen him for
several years. Didn't know he was in town."
"Feed that soft stuff to the yearlins'," snarled White-Eye. "The
Spider ain't chousin' around El Paso for his health, or yours."
Baxter was about to say something when Pino stooped and picked up the
pieces of paper which The Spider had torn in two just before he left.
Pino had no special motive in picking up those torn bits of paper. He
simply saw them, picked them up, and rolled them nervously in his
fingers. White-Eye, watching Baxter, saw him blink and in turn watch
Pino's fingers as he twisted and untwisted the bits of paper.
"He can't keep his hands still," said White-Eye, shrugging his shoulder
toward Pino. "Ever meet Pino. No? Well, he's a artist--when it comes
to drawin'--"
Pino dropped the bits of paper, rose, and shook hands indifferently
with Baxter. As Pino sat down again, Baxter stooped and casually
picked up the torn pad-leaf on which he had written White-Eye's
address. He turned to his desk and taking a box of cigars from a
drawer passed it around. White-Eye's pin-point pupils glittered. Pony
Baxter seemed mighty anxious to get those two bits of paper out of
sight. White-Eye had seen him drop them in the drawer as he opened it.
"Where did you send The Spider?" asked White-Eye quickly.
"Send him! Didn't send him anywhere. He said he was going back to his
hotel."
White-Eye blinked. He knew that The Spider was not stopping at a
hotel. For some reason Baxter had lied.
"How's the game to-night?" queried White-Eye.
"Quiet," replied Baxter.
"Any strangers inside?"
"No--not the kind of strangers you mean."
"Then I reckon we'll take a look in. Don't mind takin' a whirl at the
wheel myself."
"Come right in," said Baxter, as though relieved, and he opened the
door and stood aside to let them pass.
A quiet game of poker was running at a table near the door. Farther
down the room, which was spacious and brilliantly lighted, a group were
playing the wheel. At the table beyond the usual faro game was in
progress. All told there were some fifteen men in the room, not
counting the dealers and lookout. One or two men glanced up as
White-Eye and his companions entered and sauntered from table to table.
To the regular habitues of the place, White-Eye and his companions were
simply "rough-necks" to whom Baxter was showing "the joint."
Presently Baxter excused himself and, telling his visitors to make
themselves at home, strode back to his office. White-Eye and Pino
watched the wheel, while the man with the deformed shoulder and his
companion stood watching the faro game. The room was quiet save for
the soft click of the chips, the whirring of the ball, an occasional
oath, and the monotonous voice of the faro-dealer.
Pino nudged White-Eye and indicated the little pile of gold that was
stacked before a player at the faro table. White-Eye shook his head
and stepped casually back. Pino sauntered over to him.
"Chanct for a clean-up?" whispered Pino.
"No show. The lookout's a gun. I know him. So is that guy at the
wheel. Pony's pardner packs a gat; and that guy standin' over by the
wall, smoking is drawin' down reg'lar pay for jest standin' there,
every night. 'Sides, they ain't enough stuff in sight to take a chanct
for. We ain't organized for this kind of a deal."
"Then what's the use of hangin' around?"
"'Cause they was somethin' on that piece of paper you picked up out
there that Pony didn't want us to see--and I aim to find out what it
was."
"The number of some dame, most like," said Pino, grinning.
"Did you hear him say The Spider went back to his _hotel_? Well, Pony
is double-crossin' somebody. Jest stick around and keep your eye on
the door."
Meanwhile The Spider had arrived at the address given him--an empty
basement store in the south end of town. The place was dark and
evidently abandoned. Back of the store was a room in which were two
cheap iron beds, a washstand, and two chairs. The rear door of this
room opened on an alley, and it was through this door that White-Eye
and his companions entered and left the premises, which they had rented
at a low rate from the lessee of the place who now ran a grocery on the
street level, near the corner.
The Spider had no means of knowing of the back room and thought that
Baxter had sent him to a chance number to get rid of him; or that the
latter would possibly suggest that White-Eye must have left the
neighborhood.
"Is there a back stairs to Pony's place?" queried The Spider as he
stood by the cab.
"No. But there's a fire-escape in the alley back of the block. The
last time they raided Pony the bulls got six gents comin' down the iron
ladder."
"Just drive round that way." The Spider stepped into the cab.
"You ain't a Government man, are you?" queried cabby.
"No. I play a lone hand," said The Spider.