CHAPTER XXXVIII
GETTING ACQUAINTED
It was Pony Baxter who gave the names of the dead gunmen to the police,confirming the records of White-Eye, Pino, Longtree, and JimEwell--known as The Spider. The identity of the fourth man, he of thedeformed shoulder and shriveled arm, was unknown to Baxter. The policehad no record of him under any alias, and he would have been entered ontheir report of findings as "unknown," had not the faro-dealer and thelookout both asserted that The Spider had called him Gary--in fact hadsingled him out unmistakenly, asking him what be had to do with thequarrel, which evidently concerned but three of the four men whom TheSpider had killed. Pony Baxter, slowly recovering from an all butfatal gun-shot wound, disclaimed any knowledge of a "frame-up" to getThe Spider, stating that, while aware that the gunmen and The Spiderwere enemies, The Spider's sudden appearance was as much of a surpriseto him as it evidently was to the gunmen--and Baxter's seriouscondition pretty well substantiated this statement. Baxter's negro wasalso questioned--concerning Baxter's story and explaining thecircumstances under which he had admitted The Spider to the back room.
When confronted with the torn slip of paper on which was written theaddress of White-Eye, Baxter admitted that he knew of the rendezvous ofthe gunmen, but refused to explain why he had their address in hispossession, and he put a quietus on that phase of the situation byasking the police why they had not raided the place themselves beforethe shooting occurred, as they seemed to have known of it for severalmonths. Eventually Baxter and the police "fixed it up." The gamblerdid a thriving business through the notoriety the affair had given him.Many came to see the rooms where The Spider had made his last venomousfight, men who had never turned a card in their lives, and who doubtedthe rumors current in the sporting world until actually in the room andlistening to the faro-dealer's cold and impassive account of the menand the battle. And more often than not these curious souls, who cameto scoff, remained to play.
Pete, convalescing rapidly, had asked day after day if he might not beallowed to sit with the other patients who, warmly blanketed, enjoyedthe sunshine on the wide veranda overlooking the city. One morningAndover gave his consent, restricting Pete's first visit to thirtyminutes. Pete was only too glad of a respite from the monotony ofback-rest and pillow, bare walls, and the essential but soul-wearyingregularity of professional attention.
Not until Doris had helped him into the wheel-chair did he realize howweak he was.
Out on the veranda, his weakness, the pallid faces of the otherconvalescents, and even Doris herself, were forgotten as he gazedacross the city and beyond to the sunlit spaces softly glowing beneatha cloudless sky. Sunlight! He had never known how much it meant,until then. He breathed deep. His dark eyes closed. Life, which hehad hitherto valued only through sheer animal instinct, seemed to meanso much more than he had ever imagined it could. Yet not in anydefinite way, nor through contemplating any definite attainment. Itwas simply good to be alive--to feel the pleasant, natural warmth ofthe sun--to breathe the clear, keen air. And all his curiosity as towhat the world might look like--for to one who has come out of theeternal shadows the world is ever strange--was drowned in the supremeindifference of absolute ease and rest. It seemed to him as though hewere floating midway between the earth and the sun, not in a weirddream wherein the subconscious mind says, "This is not real; I knowthat I dream"; but actual, in that Pete could feel nothing above norbeneath him. Being of a very practical turn of mind he straightwayopened his eyes and was at once conscious of the arm of the wheel-chairbeneath his hand and the blanket across his knees.
He was not aware that some of the patients were gazing at himcuriously--that gossip had passed his name from room to room and thatthe papers had that morning printed a sort of revised sequel to theoriginal story of "The Spider Mystery"--as they chose to call it.
Doris glanced at her watch. "We'll have to go in," she said, risingand adjusting Pete's pillow.
"Oh, shucks! We jest come out!"
"You've been asleep," said Doris.
Pete shook his head. "Nope. But I sure did git one good rest. DocAndover calls this a vacation, eh? Well, then I guess I got to go backto work--and it sure is work, holdin' down that bed in there--andnothin' to do but sleep and eat and--but it ain't so bad when you'rethere. Now that there cow-bunny with the front teeth--"
"S-sh!" Doris flushed, and Pete glanced around, realizing that theywere not alone.
"Well, I reckon we got to go back to the corral!" Pete sighed heavily.
Back in bed he watched Doris as she made a notation on the chart of his"case." He frowned irritably when she took his temperature.
"The doctor will want to know how you stood your first outing," shesaid, smiling.
Pete wriggled the little glass thermometer round in his mouth until itstuck up at an assertive angle, as some men hold a cigar, and glancedmischievously at his nurse. "Why don't you light it?" he mumbled.
Doris tried not to laugh as she took the thermometer, glanced at it,and charted a slight rise in the patient's temperature.
"Puttin' it in that glass of water to cool it off?" queried Pete.
She smiled as she carefully charted the temperature line.
"Kin I look at it?" queried Pete.
She gave the chart to him and he studied it frowningly. "What's thishere that looks like a range of mountains ?" he asked.
"Your temperature." And she explained the meaning of the wavering line.
"Gee! Back here I sure was climbin' the high hills! That's ainterestin' tally-sheet."
Pete saw a peculiar expression in her gray eyes. It was as though shewere searching for something beneath the surface of his superficialhumor; for she knew that there was something that he wanted tosay--something entirely alien to these chance pleasantries. She allbut anticipated his question.
"Would you mind tellin' me somethin'?" he queried abruptly.
"No. If there is anything that I can tell you."
"I was wonderin' who was payin' for this here private room--and reg'larnurse. I been sizin' up things--and folks like me don't get such fancytrimmin's without payin'."
"Why--it was your--your father."
Pete sat up quickly. "My father! I ain't got no father. I--I reckonsomebody got things twisted."
"Why, the papers"--and Doris bit her lip--"I mean Miss Howard, thenurse who was here that night . . ."
"When The Spider cashed in?"
Doris nodded.
"The Spider wasn't my father. But I guess mebby that nurse thought hewas, and got things mixed."
"The house-doctor would not have had him brought up here if he hadthought he was any one else."
"So The Spider said he was my father--so he could git to see me!" Peteseemed to be talking to himself. "Was he the friend you was tellin' mecalled regular?"
"Yes. I don't know, but I think he paid for your room and theoperation."
"Don't they make those operations on folks, anyhow, if they ain't gotmoney?"
"Yes, but in your case it was a very difficult and dangerous operation.I saw that Dr. Andover hardly wanted to take the risk."
"So The Spider pays for everything!" Pete shook his head. "I don'tjust sabe."
"I saw him watching you once--when you were asleep," said Doris. "Heseemed terribly anxious. I was afraid of him--and I felt sorry forhim--"
Pete lay back and stared at the opposite wall. "He sure was game!" hemurmured. "And he was my friend."
Pete turned his head quickly as Doris stepped toward the door. "Couldyou git me some of them papers--about The Spider?"
"Yes," she answered hesitatingly, as she left the room.
Pete closed his eyes. He could see The Spider standing beside his bedsupported by two internes, dying on his feet, fighting for breath as hetold Pete to "see that party--in the letter"--and "that some one hadtrailed him too close." And "close the cases," The Spider had said.The game was ended.
When Doris came in again Pet
e was asleep. She laid a folded newspaperby his pillow, gazed at him for a moment, and stepped softly from theroom.
At noon she brought his luncheon. When she came back for the tray shenoticed that he had not eaten, nor would he talk while she was there.But that evening he seemed more like himself. After she had taken histemperature he jokingly asked her if he bit that there little glassdingus in two what would happen?"
"Why, I'd have to buy a new one," she replied, smiling.
Pete's face expressed surprise. "Say!" he queried, sitting up, "didThe Spider pay you for bein' my private nurse, too?"
"He must have made some arrangement with Dr. Andover. He put me incharge of your case."
"But don't you git anything extra for--for smilin' atfolks--and--coaxin' 'em to eat--and wastin' your time botherin' around'em most all day?"
"The hospital gets the extra money. I get my usual salary."
"You ain't mad at me, be you?"
"Why, no, why should I be?"
"I dunno. I reckon I talk kind of rough--and that mebby I saidsomethin'--but--would you mind if I was to tell you somethin'. I beenthinkin' about it ever since you brung that paper. It's somethin'mighty important--and--"
"Your dinner is getting cold," said Doris.
"Shucks! I jest got to tell somebody! Did you read what was in thatpaper?"
Doris nodded.
"About that fella called Steve Gary that The Spider bumped off in thatgamblin'-joint?"
"Yes."
"Well, if that's right--and the papers ain't got things twisted, likewhen they said The Spider was my father--why, if it _was_ Steve Gary--Ikin go back to the Concho and kind o' start over ag'in."
"I don't understand."
"'Course you don't! You see, me and Gary mixed onct--and--"
Doris' gray eyes grew big as Pete spoke rapidly of his early life, ofthe horse-trader, of Annersley and Bailey and Montoya, and young AndyWhite--characters who passed swiftly before her vision as she followedPete's fortunes up to the moment when he was brought into the hospital.And presently she understood that he was trying to tell her that if thenewspaper report was authentic he was a free man. His eagerness tovindicate himself was only too apparent.
Suddenly he ceased talking. The animation died from his dark eyes."Mebby it wa'n't the same Steve Gary," he said.
"If it had been, you mean that you could go back to your friends--andthere would be no trouble--?"
Pete nodded. "But I don't know."
"Is there any way of finding out--before you leave here?" she asked.
"I might write a letter and ask Jim Bailey, or Andy. They would know."
"I'll get you a pen and paper."
Pete flushed. "Would you mind writin' it for me? I ain't no reg'lar,professional writer. Pop Annersley learned me some--but I reckon Jimcould read your writin' better."
"Of course I'll write the letter, if you want me to. If you'll justtell me what you wish to say I'll take it down on this pad and copy itin my room."
"Can't you write it here? Mebby we might want to change somethin'."
"Well, if you'll eat your dinner--" And Doris went for pen and paper.When she returned she found that Pete had stacked the dishes in aperilous pyramid on the floor, that the bed-tray might serve as a tableon which to write.
He watched her curiously as she unscrewed the cap of her fountain penand dated the letter.
"Jim Bailey, Concho--that's over in Arizona," he said, then hehesitated. "I reckon I got to tell you the whole thing first and mebbyyou kin put it down after I git through." Doris saw him eying the penintently. "You didn't fetch the ink," he said suddenly.
Doris laughed as she explained the fountain pen to him. Then shelistened while he told her what to say.
The letter written, Doris went to her room. Pete lay thinking of herpleasant gray eyes and the way that she smiled understandingly andnodded--"When most folks," he soliloquized, "would say something or askyou what you was drivin' at."
To him she was an altogether wonderful person, so quietly cheerful,natural, and unobtrusively competent . . . Then, through some queertrick of memory, Boca's face was visioned to him and his thoughts wereof the desert, of men and horses and a far sky-line. "I got to get outof here," he told himself sleepily. And he wondered if he would eversee Doris Gray again after he left the hospital.
The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Page 38