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.
CHAPTER XXXIV
DORIS
Contrast to the rules of the hospital, the head-surgeon was chatting rather intimately with Pete's nurse. They were in the anteroom of the surgical ward. She was getting ready to go on duty.
"No, Miss Gray," said the surgeon positively, "he can't hold out much longer unless we operate. And I don't think he could stand an operation. He has amazing vitality, he's young, and in wonderful condition—outdoor life and pretty clean living. But he don't seem to care whether he lives or not. Has he said anything to you about—" The surgeon paused and cleared his throat.
"No. He just stares at me. Sometimes he smiles—and, Dr. Andover, I've been here two years—and I'm used to it, but I simply can't help feeling—that he ought to have a chance."
The surgeon studied her wistful face and for a moment forgot that he was the head-surgeon of the General, and that she was a nurse. He liked Doris Gray because of her personality and ability. Two years of hard work at the General had not affected her quietly cheerful manner.
"You're wearing yourself out worrying about this case," said the surgeon presently. "And that won't do at all."
She flushed and her seriousness vanished. "I'm willing to," she said simply.
The doctor smiled and shook his finger at her. "Miss Gray, you know a good nurse—"
"I know, Dr. Andover, but he hasn't a friend in the world. I asked him yesterday if I should write to any one, or do anything for him. He just smiled and shook his head. He doesn't seem to be afraid of anything—nor interested in anything. He—oh, his eyes are just like the eyes of a dog that is hurt and wants so much to tell you something, and can't. I don't care what the newspapers say—and those men from the police station! I don't believe he is really bad. Now please don't smile and tell me I'm silly."
"I thought you just said he didn't have a friend in the world."
"Oh, I don't count—that way." Then hurriedly: "I forgot—he did ask me to write to some one—the first day—a Jim Ewell, in Arizona. He asked me to say he had 'delivered the goods.' I don't know that I should have done it without reporting it, but—well, you said he couldn't live—"
"Some outlaw pal of his, probably," said Andover, frowning. "But that has nothing to do with his—er—condition right now."
"And sometimes he talks when he is half-conscious, and he often speaks to some one he calls 'The Spider,'" asserted Doris.
"Queer affair. Well, I'll think about it. If we do operate, I'll want you—"
The surgeon was interrupted by a nurse who told him there was a man who wanted to see Peter Annersley: that the man was insistent. The head-nurse was having supper, and should the caller be allowed in after visiting hours?
"Send him in," said the surgeon, and he stepped into the superintendent's office. Almost immediately The Spider sidled across the hallway and entered the room. The surgeon saw a short, shriveled, bow-legged man, inconspicuously dressed save for his black Stetson and the riding-boots which showed below the bottom of his trousers. The Spider's black beady eyes burned in his weather-beaten and scarred face—"the eyes of a hunted man"—thought the surgeon. In a peculiar, high-pitched voice, he asked Andover if he were the doctor in charge.
"I'm Andover, head-surgeon," said the other. "Won't you sit down?"
The other glanced round. Andover got up and closed the door. "You wish to see young Annersley, I understand."
"You looking after him?"
Andover nodded.
"Is he hurt pretty bad?"
"Yes. I doubt if he will recover."
"Can I see him?
"
"Well,"—and the surgeon hesitated,—"it's after hours. But I don't suppose it will do any harm. You are a friend of his?"
"About the only one, I reckon."
"Well—I'll step in with you. He may be asleep. If he is—"
"I won't bother him."
The nurse met them, and put her finger to her lips. Andover nodded and stepped aside as The Spider hobbled to the cot and gazed silently at Pete's white face. Then The Spider turned abruptly and hobbled down the aisle, followed by Andover. "Come in here," said the surgeon as The Spider hesitated.
Andover told him briefly that there was one chance in a thousand of Pete's recovery; that the shock had been terrific, describing just where the bullet was lodged and its effect upon the sensory nerves. Andover was somewhat surprised to find that this queer person knew considerable about gun-shot wounds and was even more surprised when The Spider drew a flat sheaf of bills from his pocket and asked what an operation would cost. Andover told him.
The Spider immediately counted out the money and handed it to Andover. "And get him in a room where he can be by himself. I'll pay for it."
"That's all right, but if he should not recover from the operation—"
"I'm gambling that he'll pull through," said The Spider. "And there's my ante. It's up to you."
"I'll have a receipt made out—"
The Spider shook his bead. "His life'll be my receipt. And you're writing it—don't make no mistake."
Andover's pale face flushed. "I'm not accustomed to having my reputation as a surgeon questioned."
"See here," said The Spider, laying another packet of bills on the surgeon's desk. "Where I come from money talks. And I reckon it ain't got tongue-tied since I was in El Paso last. Here's a thousand. Pull that boy through and forget where you got the money."
"I couldn't do more if you said ten thousand," asserted Andover.
"Gambling is my business," said The Spider. "I raise the ante. Do you come in?"
"This is not a sporting proposition,"—Andover hesitated,—"but I'll come in," he added slowly.
"You're wrong," said The Spider; "everything is a sporting proposition from the day a man is born till he cashes in, and mebby after. I don't know about that, and I didn't come here to talk. My money 'll talk for me."
Andover, quite humanly, was thinking that a thousand dollars would help considerably toward paying for the new car that he had had in mind for some time. He used a car in his work and he worked for the General Hospital. His desire to possess a new car was not altogether professional, and he knew it. But he also knew that he was overworked and underpaid.
"Who shall I say called?" asked Andover, picking up the packet of bills.
"Just tell him it was a friend."
Andover was quite as shrewd in his way as was this strange visitor, who evidently did not wish to be known. "This entire matter is rather irregular," he said,—"and the—er—bonus—is necessarily a confidential matter!"
"Which suits me,"—and The Spider blinked queerly.
Dr. Andover stepped to the main doorway. As he bade The Spider good-night, he told him to call up on the telephone about ten-thirty the next morning, or to call personally if he preferred.
The Spider hesitated directly beneath the arc-light at the entrance. "If I don't call up or show up—you needn't say anything about this deal to him—but you can tell him he's got a friend on the job."
The doctor nodded and walked briskly back to the superintendent's office, where he waited until the secretary appeared, when he turned over the money that had been paid to him for the operation and a private room, which The Spider had engaged for two weeks. He told the secretary to make out a receipt in Peter Annersley's name. "A friend is handling this for him," he explained.
Then he sent for the head-nurse. "I would like to have Miss Gray and Miss Barlow help me," he told her, in speaking of the proposed operation.
"Miss Gray is on duty to-night," said the head-nurse.
"Then if you will arrange to have her get a rest, please. And—oh, yes, we'll probably need the oxygen. And you might tell Dr. Gleason that this is a special case and I'd like to have him administer the anaesthetic."
Andover strode briskly to the surgical ward and stopped at Pete's couch. As he stooped and listened to Pete's breathing, the packet of crisp bills slipped from his inside pocket, and dropped to the floor.
He was in the lobby, on his way to his car, when Doris came running after him. "Dr. Andover," she called. "I think you dropped this,"—and she gave him the packet of bills.
"Mighty careless of me," he said, feeling in his inside pocket. "Handkerchief—slipped them in on top of it. Thank you."
Doris gazed at him curiously. His eyes wavered. "We're going to do our best to pull him through," he said with forced sprightliness.
Doris smiled and nodded. But her expression changed as she again entered the long, dim aisle between the double row of cots. Only that evening, just before she had talked with Andover about Pete, she had heard the surgeon tell the house-physician jokingly that all that stood between him and absolute destitution was a very thin and exceedingly popular check-book—and Andover had written his personal check for ten dollars which he had cashed at the office. Doris wondered who the strange man was that had come in with Andover, an hour ago, and how Dr. Andover had so suddenly become possessed of a thousand dollars.
CHAPTER XXXV
"CAUGHT IT JUST IN TIME"
At exactly ten-thirty the next morning The Spider was at the information desk of the General Hospital, inquiring for Andover.
"He's in the operating-room," said the clerk.
"Then I'll wait." The Spider sidled across to the reception-room and sat nervously fingering the arm of his chair. Nurses passed and repassed the doorway, going quietly through the hall. From somewhere came the faint animal-like wail of a newly born babe. The Spider had gripped the arm of his chair. A well-gowned woman stopped at the information desk and left a great armful of gorgeous roses wrapped in white tissue paper. Presently a man—evidently a laborer—hobbled past on crutches, his foot bandaged; a huge, grotesque white foot that he held stiffly in front of him and which he seemed to be following, rather than guiding. A nurse walked slowly beside him. The Spider drummed the chair-arm with nervous fingers. His little beady eyes were constantly in motion, glancing here and there,—at the empty chairs in the room, at the table with its neatly piled magazines, at a large picture of the hospital, and a great group of nurses standing on the stone steps, and then toward the doorway. Presently a nurse came in and told him that Dr. Andover would be unable to see him for some time: that the patient just operated on was doing as well as could be expected.
"He—he's come through all right?"
"Yes. You might call up in an hour or so."
The Spider rose stiffly and put on his hat.
"Thanks," he said and hobbled out and across the lobby. A cab was waiting for him, and the driver seemed to know his destination, for he whipped up his horse and drove south toward the Mexican quarter, finally stopping at an inconspicuous house on a dingy side street that led toward the river. The Spider glanced up and down the street before he alighted. Then he gave the driver a bill quite out of proportion to his recent service. "You can come about the same time to-morrow," said The Spider, and he turned and hobbled to the house.
About noon he came out, and after walking several blocks stopped at a corner grocery and telephoned to the hospital, asking for Andover, who informed him that the operation had been successful, as an operation, but that the patient was in a critical condition—that it would be several hours before they would dare risk a definite statement as to his chances of recovery. The surgeon told The Spider that they were using oxygen, which fact in itself was significant.
The Spider crossed the street to a restaurant, drank several cups of coffee, and on his way out bought a supply of cigars. He played solitaire in his room all that afternoon, smoking and muttering to himself until the
fading light caused him to glance at his watch. He slipped into his coat and made his way uptown.
Shortly after seven he entered the hospital. Andover had left word that he be allowed to see Pete. And again The Spider stood beside Pete's cot, gazing down upon a face startlingly white in contrast to his dark hair and black eyebrows—a face drawn, the cheeks pinched, and the lips bloodless. "You taking care of him?"—and The Spider turned to Doris. She nodded, wondering if this queer, almost deformed creature were "The Spider" that Pete had so often talked to when half-conscious. Whoever he was, her quick, feminine intuition told her that this man's stiff and awkward silence signified more than any spoken solicitude; that behind those beady black eyes was a soul that was tormented with doubt and hope, a soul that had battled through dark ways to this one great unselfish moment… How could one know that this man risked his life in coming there? Yet she did know it. The very fact that he was Pete's friend would almost substantiate that. Had not the papers said that Peter Annersley was a hired gunman of The Spider's? And although this man had not given his name, she knew that he was The Spider of Pete's incoherent mutterings. And The Spider, glancing about the room, gazed curiously at the metal oxygen tank and then at the other cot.
"You staying here right along?" he queried.
"For a while until he is out of danger."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know. But I do know that he is going to live."
"Did the doc say so?"
Doris shook her head. "No, Dr. Andover thinks he has a chance, but I know that he will get well."
"Does Pete know that I been here?"
"No. The doctor thought it best not to say anything about that yet."
"I reckon that's right."
"Is he your son?" asked Doris.
"No. Just a kid that used to—work for me."
And without further word, The Spider hobbled to the doorway and was gone.
Hour after hour Doris sat by the cot watching the faintly flickering life that, bereft of conscious will, fought for existence with each deep-drawn breath. About two in the morning Pete's breathing seemed to stop. Doris felt the hesitant throb of the pulse and, rising, stepped to the hall and telephoned for the house-surgeon.
The Ridin Kid from Powder River Page 26