Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up and entered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riders were expected to reach Showdown that day—perhaps by noon. Then The Spider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched in a high key yet was little more than a whisper.
The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed him for a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like the rush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently left the room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glanced up, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swung around as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes shifted to Pete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would have read: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand." And Pete's eyes had 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 a word. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power. Pete turned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely. The Spider pushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again. Pete shook his head. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and moving quickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patio set with tables and chairs. Pete nodded.
They were establishing a tentative understanding without speech. The test was hard for Pete. The Spider was uncanny—though quick of movement and shifty of eye—intensely alive withal.
As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased. This was but a youth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of a rendezvous. The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wall of the patio opened on a corral. The corral bars opened to the desert—Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than the patio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking. The Spider considered this highly commendable.
Pete knew at a glance that The Spider was absolutely without honor—that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and that he 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 sufficient provocation offered. Nor did this displease the autocrat of Showdown in the least. He was accustomed to dealing with such men. Yet one thing bothered him. Had the stranger made a get-away that would bring a posse to Showdown—as the Mexican had intimated? If so the sooner the visitor left, the better. If he were merely some cowboy looking for easy money and excitement, that was a different matter. Or perhaps he had but stolen a horse, or butchered and sold beef that bore a neighbor's brand. Yet there was something about Pete that impressed The Spider more deeply than mere horse- or cattle-stealing could. The youth's eye was not the eye of a thief. He had not come to Showdown to consort 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 the huddled adobes, and slowly filtering into the room. With his back to the bar, Pete idly flicked bits of a broken match at a knot-hole in the floor. Tired of that, he rolled a cigarette with one hand, and swiftly. Pete's hands were compact, of medium size, with the finger joints lightly defined—the hands of a conjuror—or, as The Spider thought, of a born gunman. And Pete was always doing something with his hands, even when apparently oblivious to everything around him. A novice at reading men would have considered him nervous. He was far from nervous. This was proven to The Spider's satisfaction when Malvey entered—"Bull" Malvey, red-headed, bluff and huge, of a gaunt frame, with large-knuckled hands and big feet. Malvey tossed a coin on the bar noisily, and in that one act Pete read him for what he was—a man who "bullied" his way through life with much bluster and profanity, but a man who, if he boasted, would make good his boast. What appeared to be hearty good-nature in Malvey was in reality a certain blatantly boisterous vigor—a vigor utterly soulless, and masking a nature at bottom as treacherous as The Spider's—but in contrast squalid and mean. Malvey would steal five dollars. The Spider would not touch a job for less than five hundred. While cruel, treacherous, and a killer, The Spider had nothing small or mean about him. And subtle to a degree, he hated the blunt-spoken, blustering Malvey, but for reasons unadvertised, 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 to name 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 never laughed.
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 like to feed him." And The Spider indicated the direction of the corral with 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 were quietly curious to find out who he was—and what he had done that brought him to Showdown. But Malvey knew nothing about Pete, nor of any recent trouble over Concho way. And Pete, unsaddling his pony, knew that he would either make good with The Spider or else he would make a mistake, and then there would be no need for further subterfuge. Pete surveyed the corral and outbuildings. The whole arrangement was cleverly planned. He calculated from the position of the sun that it lacked about three hours of noon. Well, so far he had played his hand with 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 Malvey were standing out in the road, gazing toward the north. "I see only three of them," he heard The Spider say in his peculiar, high-pitched voice. 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 was obviously acting his part, but The Spider's attitude seemed sincere. "Pete," he called, "Malvey says there are four riders drifting in from the 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 more shrewd than they had suspected. And evidently he would be followed to Showdown.
"It's a killing," whispered The Spider. "I thought that it was. How do you size him up?"
"Pretty smooth—for a kid," said Malvey.
"Worth a blanket?" queried The Spider, which meant, worth hiding from the 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 middle of his web and made plain his immediate desire. "Strangers are welcome in Showdown, riding single," he told Pete. "We aren't hooked up to entertain a crowd. If you got friends coming—friends that are suffering to see you—why, you ain't here when they come. And you ain't been here. If nobody is following your smoke, why, take your time."
"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' a stranger 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 in which there was both a challenge and a confession. Yet there was no boastful pride in the confession. It was as though Pete had stated the simple fact that he had killed a man in self-defense—perhaps more than one man—and had earned the hatred of those who had the power to make him pay with his life, whether he were actually guilty or not.
If this young stranger had three notches in his gun, and thus far had managed to evade the law, there was a possibility of his becoming a satellite among The Spider's henchmen. Not that The Spider cared in the least what became of Pete, save that if he gave promise of becoming useful, it would be worth while helping him to evade his pursuers this once at least. He knew that if he once earned Pete's gratitude, he would have one stanch friend. Moreover, The Spider was exceedingly crafty, always avoiding trouble when possible to do so. So he set about weaving the blanket that was to hide Pete from any one who might become too solicitous about his welfare and so disturb the present peace 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 him south—to Flores's rancho. Tell Flores he is a friend of mine. When you get a chance, take his horse, and fan it over to Blake's. Leave the horse there. I want you to set him afoot at Flores's. When I'm ready, 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 am any judge of a good animal."
"He'll give me fifty, mebby. Blake ain't payin' too much for any hosses 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 in front 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 make this right with you," said Pete.
"Forget it," said The Spider.
Showdown dozed in the desert heat. The street was deserted. The Mexican who helped about the saloon was asleep in the patio. The Spider opened a new pack of cards, shuffled them, and began a game of solitaire. Occasionally he glanced out into the glare, blinking and muttering to himself. Malvey and Pete had been gone about an hour when a lean dog that had lain across from the hitching-rail, rose, shook himself, and turned to gaze up the street. The Spider called to the man in the patio. He came quickly. "I'm expecting visitors," said The Spider in Mexican. The other started toward the front doorway, but The Spider called him back with a word, and gestured to the door back of the bar—the doorway to The Spider's private room. The Mexican entered the room and closed the door softly, drew up a chair, and sat close to the door in the attitude of one who listens. Presently he heard the patter of hoofs, the grunt of horses pulled up sharply, and the tread of men entering the saloon. The Mexican drew his gun and rested his forearm across his knees, the gun hanging easily in his half-closed hand. He did not know who the men were nor how The Spider had known that they were coming. But he knew what was expected of him in case of trouble. 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 Spider glanced up from his card-game, and nodded casually.
The sound of shuffling feet, and the Mexican knew that the strangers were facing the bar. He softly holstered his gun. While he could not understand English, he knew by the tone of the conversation that these men were not the enemies of his weazened master.
"Seen anything of a kind of dark-complected young fella wearin' a black Stetson 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 raid a 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," blurted Simpson.
Houck realized that The Spider knew more than he cared to tell. Simpson had blundered in stating their future plans, Houck tried to cover the blunder. "We like to get some chuck—enough to carry us back to the ranch."
"I'm short on chuck," said The Spider. "If you men were deputies—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 searching farther, a fact obvious even to the hot-headed Simpson when at the edge of the town they tried to buy provisions from a Mexican and were met with a shrug and a reiterated "No sabe."
"And that just about settles it," said Houck as he reined his pony round and faced north.
CHAPTER XX
BULL MALVEY
Malvey, when not operating a machine gun for Mexican bandits, was usually busy evading a posse on the American side of the border. Needless to say, he knew the country well—and the country knew him only too well. He had friends—of a kind—and he had enemies of every description and color from the swart, black-eyed Cholas of Sonora to the ruddy, blue-eyed Rangers of Texas. He trusted no man—and no man who knew him trusted him—not even The Spider, though he could have sent Malvey to the penitentiary on any one of several counts.
Malvey had no subtlety. He simply knew the game and possessed a tremendous amount of nerve. Like most red-headed men, he rode rough-shod and aggressively to his goal. He "bulled" his way through, when more capable men of equal nerve failed.
Riding beside him across the southern desert, Young Pete could not help noticing Malvey's hands—huge-knuckled and freckled—and Pete surmised correctly that this man was not quick with a gun. Pete also noticed that Malvey "roughed" his horse unnecessarily; that he was a good rider, but a poor horseman. Pete wondered that desert life had not taught Malvey to take better care of his horse.
As yet Pete knew nothing of their destination—nor did he care. It was good to be out in the open, again with a good horse under him. The atmosphere of The Spider's saloon had been too tense for comfort. Pete simply wanted to vacate Showdown until such time as he might return safely. He had no plan—but he did believe that Showdown would know him again. He could not say why. And it was significant of Young Pete's descent to the lower plane that he should consider Showdown safe at any time.
Pete was in reality never more unsafe than at the present time. While space and a swift pony between his knees argued of bodily freedom, he felt uneasy. Perhaps because of Malvey's occasional covert glance at Blue Smoke—for Pete saw much that he did not appear to see. Pete became cautious forthwith, studying the lay of the land. It was a bad country to travel, being so alike in its general aspect of butte and arroyo, sand and cacti, that there was little to lay hold upon as a landmark. A faint line of hills edged the far southern horizon and there were distant hills to the east and west. They journeyed across an immense basin, sun-smitten, desolate, unpromisin
g.
"Just plain hell," said Malvey as though reading Pete's thought.
"You act like you was to home all right," laughed Pete.
Malvey glanced quickly at his companion, alive to an implied insult, but he saw only a young, smooth-cheeked rider in whose dark eyes shone neither animosity nor friendliness. They jogged on, neither speaking for many miles. When Malvey did speak, his manner was the least bit patronizing. He could not quite understand Pete, yet The Spider had seemed to understand him. As Pete had said nothing about the trouble that had driven him to the desert, Malvey considered silence on that subject emanated from a lack of trust. He wanted to gain Pete's confidence—for the time being at least. It would make it that much easier to follow The Spider's instructions in regard to Pete's horse. But to all Malvey's hints Pete was either silent or jestingly unresponsive. As the journey thinned the possibilities of Pete's capture, it became monotonous, even to Malvey, who set about planning how he could steal Pete's horse with the least risk to himself. Aside from The Spider's instructions Malvey coveted the pony—a far better horse than his own—and he was of two minds as to whether he should not keep the pony for his own use. The Concho was a long cry from Showdown—while the horse Malvey rode had been stolen from a more immediate neighborhood. As for setting this young stranger afoot in the desert, that did not bother Malvey in the least. No posse would ride farther south than Showdown, and with Pete afoot at Flores's rancho, Malvey would be free to follow his own will, either to Blake's ranch or farther south and across the border. Whether Pete returned to Showdown or not was none of Malvey's affair. To get away with the horse might require some scheming. Malvey made no further attempt to draw Pete out—but rode on in silence.
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 15