CHAPTER XIX
THE SPIDER
Where the old Ranger Trail, crossing the Blue Mesa, leaves the highmesa and meanders off into the desert, there is a fork which leadssouthwest, to the Apache country--a grim and waterless land--andfinally swings south toward the border. Pete dismounted at this fork,pulled up his slackened cinches, and making certain that he was leavinga plain track, rode down the main trail for half a mile. Then hereined his pony to a bare spot on the grass-dotted tufa, and againdismounted. He looped Blue Smoke's fore feet, then threw him, andpulled his shoes with a pair of wire nippers, and stowed the shoes inhis saddle-pockets.
He again rode directly down the trail, surmising that the occasionaltrack of a barefoot horse would appear natural enough should the posse,whom he knew would follow him, split up and ride both trails. Fartheron he again swung from the trail to the tufa, never slackening pace,and rode across the broken ground for several miles. He had often seenthe unshod and unbranded ponies of the high country run along a trailfor a mile or so and then dash off across the open. Of course, if theposse took the direct trail to the border, paying no attention totracks, they would eventually overtake him. Pete was done with thecompanionship of men who allowed the wanton killing of a man likeAnnersley to go unpunished. He knew that if he were caught, he wouldmost probably be hanged or imprisoned for the shooting of Gary--if hewere not killed in being taken. The T-Bar-T interests ruled thecourts. Moreover, his reputation was against him. Ever since the raidon Annersley's place Pete had been pointed out as the "kid who stoodoff the raiders and got two of them." And Pete knew that the very folkwho seemed proud of the fact would be the first to condemn him for thekilling of Gary. He was outlawed--not for avenging the death of hisfoster-father, but actually because he had defended his own life, afact difficult to establish in court and which would weigh littleagainst the evidence of the six or eight men who had heard himchallenge Gary at the round-up. Jim Bailey had been right. Men talkedtoo much as a usual thing. Gary had talked too much.
Pete realized that his loyalty to the memory of Annersley had earnedhim disrepute. He resented the injustice of this, and all his oldhatred of the law revived. Yet despite all logic of justice as againstlaw--he could see Gary's hand clutching against his chest, his staringeyes, and the red ooze starting through those tense fingers--Petereasoned that had he not been so skilled and quick with a gun, he wouldbe in Gary's place now. As it was, he was alive and had a good horsebetween 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 nailsin the horseshoes and tacked them on again with a piece of rock. Theywould hold until he reached the desert town of Showdown--a place ofill-repute and a rendezvous for outlawry and crime.
He rode on until he came within sight of the town--a dim huddle of lowbuildings 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 horsein this desert land. At best a posse could not reach Showdown beforenoon the next day, and rather than blunder into Showdown at night andtake unnecessary risks, he decided to rest, and ride in at sunup, whenhe would be able to see what he was doing and better estimate thepossibilities of getting food for himself and his horse and of findingrefuge in some out-of-the-way ranch or homestead. In spite of hisvivid imaginings he slept well. At dawn he caught up his pony and rodeinto town.
Showdown boasted some fifteen or eighteen low-roofed adobes, the mostpretentious being the saloon. These all faced a straggling road whichran east and west, disappearing at either end of the town as thoughanxious to obliterate itself in the clean sand of the desert. Theenvirons of Showdown were garnished with tin cans and trash, dirt anddesolation. Unlike the ordinary cow-town this place was not sprightly,but morose, with an aspect of hating itself for existing. Even therailroad swung many miles to the south as though anxious to leave thetown 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 ownedShowdown body and--but Showdown had no soul.
Men arrived and departed along the several desert trails that led inand out of the town. These men seldom tarried long. And they usuallycame alone, perchance from the Blue, the Gila, the T-Bar-T, or frombelow the border, for their business was with the border rustlers andparasites. Sheriffs of four counties seldom disturbed the place,because a man who had got as far south as Showdown was pretty hard toapprehend. From there to the border lay a trackless desert. Showdownwas a rendezvous for that inglorious legion, "The Men Who Can't ComeBack," renegades who when below the line worked machine guns forwhichever side of the argument promised the more loot. Horse- andcattle-thieves, killers, escaped convicts, came and went--ominous birdsof passage, the scavengers of war and banditry.
The Spider was lean, with legs warped by long years in the saddle. Hewas called The Spider because of his physical attributes as well asbecause of his attitude toward life. He never went anywhere, yet heaccumulated sustenance. He usually had a victim tangled in his web.It was said that The Spider never let a wounded outlaw die for lack ofproper attention if he considered the outlaw worth saving--as aninvestment. And possibly this was the secret of his power, for he wasever ready to grub-stake or doctor any gentleman in need or wounded ina desert affair--and he had had a large experience in caring forgun-shot wounds.
Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, noddedcasually to The Spider, and called for a drink. The Spider, who alwaysofficiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling ofliquor, noticed that the young stranger's eyes were clear andsteady--that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he hadarrived in Showdown at sunup. As Pete drank, The Spider sized up hishorse--which looked fresh. He had already noticed that Pete's gun hungwell down and handy, and assumed correctly that it was not worn forornament. The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality--thatthe stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense.
Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up andentered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riderswere expected to reach Showdown that day--perhaps by noon. Then TheSpider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched ina high key yet was little more than a whisper.
The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed himfor a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like therush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently leftthe room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glancedup, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swungaround as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes shifted toPete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would haveread: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand." And Pete's eyeshad 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 aword. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power. Peteturned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely. The Spiderpushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again.Pete shook his head. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and movingquickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patioset with tables and chairs. Pete nodded.
They were establishing a tentative understanding without speech. Thetest was hard for Pete. The Spider was uncanny--though quick ofmovement and shifty of eye--intensely alive withal.
As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased. This was but ayouth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of arendezvous. The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wallof the patio opened on a corral. The corral bars opened to thedesert--Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than thepatio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking. The Spiderconsidered this highly commendable.
Pete k
new at a glance that The Spider was absolutely withouthonor--that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and thathe 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 sufficientprovocation offered. Nor did this displease the autocrat of Showdownin the least. He was accustomed to dealing with such men. Yet onething bothered him. Had the stranger made a get-away that would bringa posse to Showdown--as the Mexican had intimated? If so the soonerthe visitor left, the better. If he were merely some cowboy lookingfor easy money and excitement, that was a different matter. Or perhapshe had but stolen a horse, or butchered and sold beef that bore aneighbor's brand. Yet there was something about Pete that impressedThe Spider more deeply than mere horse- or cattle-stealing could. Theyouth's eye was not the eye of a thief. He had not come to Showdown toconsort 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 thehuddled adobes, and slowly filtering into the room. With his back tothe bar, Pete idly flicked bits of a broken match at a knot-hole in thefloor. Tired of that, he rolled a cigarette with one hand, andswiftly. Pete's hands were compact, of medium size, with the fingerjoints lightly defined--the hands of a conjuror--or, as The Spiderthought, of a born gunman. And Pete was always doing something withhis hands, even when apparently oblivious to everything around him. Anovice at reading men would have considered him nervous. He was farfrom nervous. This was proven to The Spider's satisfaction when Malveyentered--"Bull" Malvey, red-headed, bluff and huge, of a gaunt frame,with large-knuckled hands and big feet. Malvey tossed a coin on thebar noisily, and in that one act Pete read him for what he was--a manwho "bullied" his way through life with much bluster and profanity, buta man who, if he boasted, would make good his boast. What appeared tobe hearty good-nature in Malvey was in reality a certain blatantlyboisterous vigor--a vigor utterly soulless, and masking a nature atbottom as treacherous as The Spider's--but in contrast squalid andmean. Malvey would steal five dollars. The Spider would not touch ajob for less than five hundred. While cruel, treacherous, and akiller, The Spider had nothing small or mean about him. And subtle toa degree, he hated the blunt-spoken, blustering Malvey, but for reasonsunadvertised, 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 toname 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 neverlaughed.
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 liketo feed him." And The Spider indicated the direction of the corralwith 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 werequietly curious to find out who he was--and what he had done thatbrought him to Showdown. But Malvey knew nothing about Pete, nor ofany recent trouble over Concho way. And Pete, unsaddling his pony,knew that he would either make good with The Spider or else he wouldmake a mistake, and then there would be no need for further subterfuge.Pete surveyed the corral and outbuildings. The whole arrangement wascleverly planned. He calculated from the position of the sun that itlacked about three hours of noon. Well, so far he had played his handwith 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 Malveywere standing out in the road, gazing toward the north. "I see onlythree of them," he heard The Spider say in his peculiar, high-pitchedvoice. 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 wasobviously acting his part, but The Spider's attitude seemed sincere."Pete," he called, "Malvey says there are four riders drifting in fromthe 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 moreshrewd than they had suspected. And evidently he would be followed toShowdown.
"It's a killing," whispered The Spider. "I thought that it was. Howdo you size him up?"
"Pretty smooth--for a kid," said Malvey.
"Worth a blanket?" queried The Spider, which meant, worth hiding fromthe 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 middleof his web and made plain his immediate desire. "Strangers are welcomein Showdown, riding single," he told Pete. "We aren't hooked up toentertain a crowd. If you got friends coming--friends that aresuffering to see you--why, you ain't here when they come. _And youain't been here_. If nobody is following your smoke, why, take yourtime."
"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' astranger 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 inwhich there was both a challenge and a confession. Yet there was noboastful pride in the confession. It was as though Pete had stated thesimple fact that he had killed a man in self-defense--perhaps more thanone man--and had earned the hatred of those who had the power to makehim pay with his life, whether he were actually guilty or not.
If this young stranger had three notches in his gun, and thus far hadmanaged to evade the law, there was a possibility of his becoming asatellite among The Spider's henchmen. Not that The Spider cared inthe least what became of Pete, save that if he gave promise of becominguseful, it would be worth while helping him to evade his pursuers thisonce at least. He knew that if he once earned Pete's gratitude, hewould have one stanch friend. Moreover, The Spider was exceedinglycrafty, always avoiding trouble when possible to do so. So he setabout weaving the blanket that was to hide Pete from any one who mightbecome too solicitous about his welfare and so disturb the presentpeace 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 himsouth--to Flores's rancho. Tell Flores he is a friend of mine. Whenyou get a chance, take his horse, and fan it over to Blake's. Leavethe horse there. I want you to set him afoot at Flores's. When I'mready, 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 amany judge of a good animal."
"He'll give me fifty, mebby. Blake ain't payin' too much for anyhosses 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 infront 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 makethis right with you," said Pete.
"Forget it," said The Spider.
Showdown dozed in the desert heat. The street was deserted. TheMexican who helped about the saloon was asleep in the patio. TheSpider opened a new pack of cards, shuffled them, and began a game ofsolitaire. Occasionally he glanced out into the glare, blinking andmuttering to himself. Malvey and Pete had been gone about an hour whena lean dog that had lain across from the hitching-rail, rose, shookhimself, and turned to gaze up the street. The Spider called to theman in the patio. He came quickly. "I'm expecting visitors," said TheSpider in Mexican. The other started toward the front doorway, but TheSpider called him back with a word, and gestured to the door back ofthe bar--the doorway to The Spider's private room. The Mexican enteredthe room and closed the door softly, drew up a chair, and sat close tothe door in the attitude of one who listens. Presently he heard thepatter of hoofs, the grunt of horses pulled up sharply, and the treadof men entering the saloon. The Mexican drew his gun and rested hisforearm across his knees, the gun hanging easily in his half-closedhand. He did not know who the men were nor how The Spider had knownthat they were coming. But he knew what was expected of him in case oftrouble. 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 Spiderglanced up from his card-game, and nodded casually.
The sound of shuffling feet, and the Mexican knew that the strangerswere facing the bar. He softly holstered his gun. While he could notunderstand English, he knew by the tone of the conversation that thesemen were not the enemies of his weazened master.
"Seen anything of a kind of dark-complected young fella wearin' a blackStetson 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 raida 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," blurtedSimpson.
Houck realized that The Spider knew more than he cared to tell.Simpson had blundered in stating their future plans, Houck tried tocover the blunder. "We like to get some chuck--enough to carry us backto the ranch."
"I'm short on chuck," said The Spider. "If you men weredeputies--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 searchingfarther, a fact obvious even to the hot-headed Simpson when at the edgeof the town they tried to buy provisions from a Mexican and were metwith a shrug and a reiterated "No sabe."
"And that just about settles it," said Houck as he reined his ponyround and faced north.
The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Page 19