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, unpromising.

"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.

They came upon the canon suddenly, so suddenly that Pete's horse shied and circled. Malvey, leading, put his own pony down a steep and winding trail. Pete followed, fixing his eyes on a far green spot at the bottom of the canon, and the thin thread of smoke above the trees that told of a habitation.

At a bend in the trail, Malvey turned in the saddle: "We'll bush down here. Friends of mine."

Pete nodded.

They watered their horses at the thin trickle of water in the canon-bed and then rode slowly past a weirdly fenced field. Presently they came to a rude adobe stable and scrub-cedar corral. A few yards beyond, and hidden by the bushes, was the house. A pock-marked Mexican greeted Malvey gruffly. The Spider's name was mentioned, and Pete was introduced as his friend. The horses were corralled and fed.

As Pete entered the adobe, a thin, listless Mexican woman—Flores's wife—called to some one in an inner room. Presently Flores's daughter appeared, supple of movement and smiling. She greeted Malvey as though he were an old friend, cast down her eyes at Pete's direct gaze, and straightway disappeared again. From the inner room came the sound of a song. The young stranger with Malvey was good-looking—quite worth changing her dress for. She hoped he would think her pretty. Most men admired her—she was really beautiful in her dark, Southern way—and some of them had given her presents—a cheap ring, a handkerchief from Old Mexico, a pink and, to her, wonderful brush and comb. Boca Dulzura—or "pretty mouth" of the Flores rancho—cared for no man, but she liked men, especially when they gave her presents.

When she came from her room, Malvey laughingly accused her of "fixing up" because of Pete, as he teased her about her gay rebosa and her crimson sash. She affected scorn for his talk—but was naturally pleased. And the young stranger was staring at her, which pleased her still more.

"This here hombre is Pete," said Malvey. "He left his other name to home." And he laughed raucously.

Pete bowed, taking the introduction quite seriously.

Boca was piqued. This young caballero did not seem anxious to know her—like the other men. He did not smile.

"Pete," she lisped, with a tinge of mockery in her voice. "Pete has not learned to talk yet—he is so young?"

Malvey slapped his thigh and guffawed. Pete stood solemnly eying him for a moment. Then he turned to the girl. "I ain't used to talkin' to women—'specially pretty ones—like you."

Boca clapped her hands. "There! 'Bool' Malvey has never said anything so clever as that."

"Bool" Malvey frowned. But he was hungry, and Flores's wife was preparing supper. Despite Boca's pretty mouth and fine dark eyes, which invited to conversation, Pete felt very much alone—very much of a stranger in this out-of-the-way household. He thought of his chum Andy White, and of Ma Bailey and Jim, and the boys of the Concho. He wondered what they were doing—if they were talking about him—and Gary. It seemed a long time since he had thrown his hat in the corner and pulled up his chair to the Concho table. He wished that he might talk with some one—he was thinking of Jim Bailey—and tell him just what there had been to the shooting. But with these folks . . .

The shadows were lengthening. Already the lamp on Flores's table was lighted, there in the kitchen where Malvey was drinking wine with the old Mexican. Pete had forgotten Boca—almost forgotten where he was for the moment, when something touched his arm. He turned a startled face to the girl. She smiled and then whispered quickly, "It is that I hate that 'Bool' Malvey. He is bad. Of what are you thinking, senor?"

Pete blinked and hesitated. "Of my folks—back there," he said.

Boca darted from him as her mother called her to help set the table. Pete's lips were drawn in a queer line. He had no folks "back there"—or anywhere. "It was her eyes made me feel that way," he thought. And, "Doggone it—I'm livin'—anyhow."

From the general conversation at the table that evening Pete gathered that queer visitors came to this place frequently. It was a kind of isolated, halfway house between the border and Showdown. He heard the name of "Scar-Face," "White-Eye," "Sonora Jim," "Tio Verdugo," a rare assortment of border vagabonds known by name to the cowboys of the high country. The Spider was frequently mentioned. It was evident that he had some peculiar influence over the Flores household, from the respectful manner in which his name was received by the whole family. And Pete, unfamiliar with the goings and comings of those men, their quarrels, friendships, and sinister escapades, ate and listened in silence, realizing that he too had earned a tentative place among them. He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of a machine-gun duel between two white men,—renegades and leaders in opposing factions below the border,—and how one of them, shot through and through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemy sharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the other machine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turned the machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of his own company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him. "And he's in El Paso now," concluded Malvey, "at the hospital. He writ to The Spider for money—and The Spider sure sent it to him."

"Who was he fightin' for?" queried Pete, interested in spite of himself.

"Fightin' for? For hisself! Because he likes the game. You don't want to git the idea that any white man is down there fightin' just to help a lot of dirty Greasers—on either side of the scrap."

A quick and significant glance shot from Boca's eyes to her mother's. Old Flores ate stolidly. If he had heard he showed no evidence of it.

"'Bull' Malvey! A darn good name for him," thought Pete. And he felt a strange sense of shame at being in his company. He wondered if Flores were afraid of Malvey or simply indifferent to his raw talk. And Pete—who had never gone out of his way to make a friend—decided to be as careful of what he said as Malvey was careless. Pete had never lacked nerve, but he was endowed with considerable caution—a fact that The Spider had realized and so had considered him worth the trouble of hiding—as an experiment.

After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal—Malvey and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them—and Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the canon at the faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores's manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness which in no way deceived Pete. And Malvey, whose intent was plainly to get drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line. He hinted that he had put more than one Mexican out of the way—and he slapped Flores on the back—and Flores laughed. He spoke of raids on the horse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired in his drink, openly asserted that he was the "slickest hoss-thief in Arizona," turning to Pete as he spoke.

"I'll take your word for it," said Pete.

"But what's the use of settin' out here like a couple of dam' buzzards when the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and be leered at Flores.

The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly. They entered the 'dobe, Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing.

"I can listen out here." Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct. As for old Flores, Pete despised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "a dirty bunch of Greasers," and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor sort of a man.

Disgusted with Malvey's loud talk and his raw attitude toward Boca, Pete sat in the moon-flung shadows of the portal and smoked and gazed at the stars. He was half-asleep when he heard Boca tell Malvey that he was a pig and the son of a pig. Malvey laughed. There came the sound of a scuffle. Pete glanced over his shoulder. Malvey had his arm around the girl and was trying to kiss her. Flores was watching them, grinning in a kind of drunken indifference.

Pete hesitated. He was there on sufferance—a stranger. After all, this was none of his business. Boca's father and mother were also there . . .

Boca screamed. Malvey let go of her and swung round as Pete stepped up. "What's the idee, Malvey?"

"You don't draw no cards in this deal," snarled Malvey.

"Then we shuffle and cut for a new deal," said Pete.

Malvey's loose mouth hardened as he backed toward the corner of the room, where Boca cringed, her hands covering her face. Suddenly the girl sprang up and caught Malvey's arm, "No! No!" she cried.

He flung her aside and reached for his gun—but Pete was too quick for him. They crashed down and rolled across the room. Pete wriggled free and rose. In a flash he realized that he was no match for Malvey's brute strength. He had no desire to kill Malvey—but he did not intend that Malvey should kill him. Pete jerked his gun loose as Malvey staggered to his feet, but Pete dared not shoot on account of Boca. He saw Malvey's hand touch the butt of his gun—when something crashed down from behind. Pete dimly remembered Boca's white face—and the room went black.

Malvey strode forward.

Old Flores dropped the neck of the shattered bottle and stood gazing down at Pete. "The good wine is gone. I break the bottle," said Flores, grinning.

"To hell with the wine! Let's pack this young tin-horn out where he won't be in the way."

But as Malvey stooped, Boca flung herself in front of him. "Pig!" she flamed. She turned furiously on her father, whose vacuous grin faded as she cursed him shrilly for a coward.

Listless and heavy-eyed came Boca's mother. Without the slightest trace of emotion she examined Pete's wound, fetched water and washed it, binding it up with a handkerchief. Quite as listlessly she spoke to her husband, telling him to leave the wine and go to bed.

Flores mumbled a protest. Malvey asked him if he let the women run the place. Boca's mother turned to Malvey. "You will go," she said quietly. Malvey cursed as he stepped from the room. He could face Boca's fury, or face any man in a quarrel, but there was something in the deathlike quietness of the sad-eyed Mexican woman that chilled his blood. He did not know what would happen if he refused to go—yet he knew that something would happen. It was not the first time that Flores's wife had interfered in quarrels of the border outlaws sojourning at the ranch. In Showdown men said that she would as soon knife a man as not. Malvey, who had lived much in Old Mexico, had seen women use the knife.

He went without a word. Boca heard him speak sharply to his horse, as she and her mother lifted Pete and carried him to the bedroom.



CHAPTER XXI

BOCA DULZURA

Just before dawn Pete became conscious that some one was sitting near him and occasionally bathing his head with cool water. He tried to sit up. A slender hand pushed him gently back. "It is good that you rest," said a voice. The room was dark—he could not see—but he knew that Boca was there and he felt uncomfortable. He was not accustomed to being waited upon, especially by a woman.

"Where's Malvey?" he asked.

"I do not know. He is gone."

Again Pete tried to sit up, but sank back as a shower of fiery dots whirled before his eyes. He realized that he had been hit pretty hard—that he could do nothing but keep still just then. The hot pain subsided as the wet cloth again touched his forehead and he drifted to sleep. When he awakened at midday he was alone.

He rose, and steadying himself along the wall, finally reached the doorway. Old Flores was working in the distant garden-patch. Beyond him, Boca and her mother were pulling beans. Pete stepped out dizzily and glanced toward the corral. His horse was not there.

Pete was a bit hasty in concluding that the squalid drama of the previous evening (the cringing girl, the drunkenly indifferent father, and the malevolent Malvey) had been staged entirely for his benefit. The fact was that Malvey had been only too sincere in his boorishness toward Boca; Flores equally sincere in his indifference, and Boca herself actually frightened by the turn Malvey's drink had taken. That old Flores had knocked Pete out with a bottle was the one and extravagant act that even Malvey himself could hardly have anticipated had the whole miserable affair been prearranged. In his drunken stupidity Flores blindly imagined that the young stranger was the cause of the quarrel.

Pete, however, saw in it a frame-up to knock him out and make away with his horse. And back of it all he saw The Spider's craftily flung web that held him prisoner, afoot and among strangers. "They worked it slick," he muttered.

Boca happened to glance up. Pete was standing bareheaded in the noon sunlight. With an exclamation Boca rose and hastened to him. Young Pete's eyes were sullen as she begged him to seek the shade of the portal.

"Where's my horse?" he challenged, ignoring her solicitude.

She shook her head. "I do not know. Malvey is gone."

"That's a cinch! You sure worked it slick."

"I do not understand."

"Well, I do."

Pete studied her face. Despite his natural distrust, he realized that the girl was innocent of plotting against him. He decided to confide in her—even play the lover if necessary—and he hated pretense—to win her sympathy and help; for he knew that if he ever needed a friend it was now.

Boca steadied him to the bench just outside the doorway, and fetched water. He drank and felt better. Then she carefully unrolled the bandage, washed the clotted blood from the wound and bound it up again.

"It is bad that you come here," she told him.

"Well, I got one friend, anyhow," said Pete.

"Si, I am your friend," she murmured.

"I ain't what you'd call hungry—but I reckon some coffee would kind of stop my head from swimmin' round," suggested Pete.

"Si, I will get it."

Pete wondered how far he could trust the girl—whether she would really help him or whether her kindness were such as any human being would extend to one injured or in distress—"same as a dog with his leg broke," thought Pete. But after he drank the coffee he ceased worrying about the future and decided to take things an they came and make the best of them.

"Perhaps it is that you have killed a man?" ventured Boca, curious to know why he was there.

Pete hesitated, as he eyed her sharply. There seemed to be no motive behind her question other than simple curiosity. "I've put better men than Malvey out of business," he asserted.

Boca eyed him with a new interest. She had thought that perhaps this young senor had but stolen a horse or two—a most natural inference in view of his recent associate. So this young vaquero was a boy in years only?—and outlawed! No doubt there was a reward for his capture. Boca had lightly fancied Young Pete the evening before; but now she felt a much deeper interest. She quickly cautioned him to say nothing to her father about the real reason for his being there. Rather Pete was to say, if questioned, that he had stolen a horse about which Malvey and he had quarreled.

Pete scowled. "I'm no low-down hoss-thief!" he flared.

Boca smiled. "Now it is that I know you have killed a man!"

Pete was surprised that the idea seemed to please her.

"But my father"—she continued—"he would sell you—for money. So it is that you will say that you have stolen a horse."

"I reckon he would,"—and Pete gently felt the back of his head. "So I'll tell him like you say. I'm dependin' a whole lot on you—to git me out of this," he added.

"You will rest," she told him, and turned to go back to her work. "I am your friend," she whispered, pausing with her finger to her lips.

Pete understood and nodded.

So far he had done pretty well, he argued. Later, when he felt able to ride, he would ask Boca to find a horse for him. He knew that there must be saddle-stock somewhere in the canon. Men like Flores always kept several good horses handy for an emergency. Meanwhile Pete determined to rest and gain strength, even while he pretended that he was unfit to ride. When he did leave, he would leave in a hurry and before old Flores could play him another trick.

For a while Pete watched the three figures puttering about the bean-patch. Presently he got up and stepped into the house, drank some coffee, and came out again. He sat down on the bench and took mental stock of his own belongings. He had a few dollars in silver, his erratic watch, and his gun. Suddenly he bethought him of his saddle. The sun made his head swim as he stepped out toward the corral. Yes, his saddle and bridle hung on the corral bars, just where he had left them. He was about to return to the shade of the portal when he noticed the tracks of unshod horses in the dust. So old Flores had other horses in the canon? Well, in a day or so Pete would show the Mexican a trick with a large round hole in it—the hole representing the space recently occupied by one of his ponies. Incidentally Pete realized that he was getting deeper and deeper into the meshes of The Spider's web—and the thought spurred him to a keener vigilance. So far he had killed three men actually in self-defense. But when he met up with Malvey—and Pete promised himself that pleasure—he would not wait for Malvey to open the argument. "Got to kill to live," he told himself. "Well, I got the name—and I might as well have the game. It's nobody's funeral but mine, anyhow." He felt, mistakenly, that his friends had all gone back on him—a condition of mind occasioned by his misfortunes rather than by any logical thought, for at that very moment Jim Bailey was searching high and low for Pete in order to tell him that Gary was not dead—but had been taken to the railroad hospital at Enright, operated on, and now lay, minus the fragments of three or four ribs, as malevolent as ever, and slowly recovering from a wound that had at first been considered fatal.

Young Pete was not to know of this until long after the knowledge could have had any value in shaping his career. Bailey, with two of his men, traced Pete as far as Showdown, where the trail went blind, ending with The Spider's apparently sincere assertion that he knew nothing whatever of Peters whereabouts.

Paradoxically, those very qualities which won him friends now kept Pete from those friends. The last place toward which he would have chosen to ride would have been the Concho—and the last man he would have asked for help would have been Jim Bailey. Pete felt that he was doing pretty well at creating trouble for himself without entangling his best friends.

"Got to kill to live," he reiterated.

"Como 'sta, senor?" Old Flores had just stepped from behind the crumbling 'dobe wall of the stable.

"Well, it ain't your fault I ain't a-furnishin' a argument for the coyotes."

"The senor would insult Boca. He was drunk," said Flores.

"Hold on there! Don't you go cantelopin' off with any little ole idea like that sewed up in your hat. Which senor was drunk?"

Flores shrugged his shoulders. "Who may say?" he half-whined.

"Well, I can, for one," asserted Pete. "You was drunk and Malvey was drunk, and the two of you dam' near fixed me. But that don't count—now. Where's my hoss?"

"Quien sabe?"

"You make me sick," said Pete in English. Flores caught the word "sick" and thought Pete was complaining of his physical condition.

"The senor is welcome to rest and get well. What is done is done, and cannot be mended. But when the senor would ride, I can find a horse—a good horse and not a very great price."

"I'm willin' to pay," said Pete, who thought that he had already pretty well paid for anything he might need.

"And a good saddle," continued Flores.

"I'm usin' my own rig," stated Pete.

"It is the saddle, there, that I would sell to the senor." The old Mexican gestured toward Pete's own saddle.

Pete was about to retort hastily when he reconsidered. The only way to meet trickery was with trickery. "All right," he said indifferently. "You'll sure get all that is comin' to you."



CHAPTER XXII

"A DRESS—OR A RING, PERHAPS"

All that day Pete lay in the shade of the 'dobe feigning indifference to Boca as she brought him water and food, until even she was deceived by his listlessness, fearing that he had been seriously injured. Not until evening did he show any sign of interest in her presence. With the shadows it grew cooler. Old Flores sat in the doorway smoking. His wife sat beside him, gazing at the far rim of the evening canon. Presently she rose and stepped round to where Pete and Boca were talking. "You will go," said Boca's mother abruptly. "Boca shall find a horse for you."

Pete, taken by surprise,—Boca's mother had spoken just when Pete had asked Boca where her father kept the horses,—stammered an acknowledgment of her presence; but the Mexican woman did not seem to hear him. "To-night," she continued, "Boca will find a horse. It is good that you go—but not that you go to Showdown."

"I sure want to thank you both. But, honest, I wouldn't know where else to go but to Showdown. Besides, I got a hunch Malvey was headed that way."

"That is as a man speaks," said the senora. "My man was like that once—but now—"

"I'm broke—no dineros," said Pete.

"It is my horse that he shall have—" Boca began.

But her mother interrupted quietly. "The young senor will return—and there are many ways to pay. We are poor. You will not forget us. You will come again, alone in the night. And it is not Malvey that will show you the way."

"Not if I see him first, senora."

"You jest—but even now you would kill Malvey if he were here."

"You sure are tellin' Malvey's fortune," laughed Pete. "Kin you tell mine?"

"Again you jest—but I will speak. You will not kill Malvey, yet you shall find your own horse. You will be hunted by men, but you will not always be as you are now. Some day you will have wealth, and then it is that you will remember this night. You will come again at night, and alone—but Boca will not be here. You will grow weary of life from much suffering, even as I. Then it is that you will think of these days and many days to come—and these days shall be as wine in your old age—" Boca's mother paused as though listening. "But like wine—" and again she paused.

"Headache?" queried Pete. "Well, I know how that feels, without the wine. That fortune sounds good to me—all except that about Boca. Now, mebby you could tell me which way Malvey was headed?"

"He has ridden to Showdown."

"So that red-headed hoss-thief fanned it right back to his boss, eh? He must 'a' thought I was fixed for good."

"It is his way. Men spake truly when they called him the bull. He is big—but he is as a child."

"Well, there's goin' to be one mighty sick child for somebody to nurse, right soon," stated Pete.

"I have said that it is bad that you ride to Showdown. But you will go there—and he whom men call The Spider—he shall be your friend—even with his life."

As quietly as she came the Mexican woman departed, leaving Boca and Pete gazing at each other in the dusk. "She makes me afraid sometimes," whispered Boca.

"Sounds like she could jest plumb see what she was talkin' about. Kind of second-sight, I reckon. Wonder why she didn't put me wise to Malvey when I lit in here with him? It would 'a' saved a heap of trouble."

"It is the dream," said Boca. "These things she has seen in a dream."

"I ain't got nothin' against your ole—your mother, Boca, but by the way I'm feelin', she's sure due to have a bad one, right soon."

"You do not believe?" queried Boca quite seriously.

"Kind of—half. I don't aim to know everything."

"She said you would come back," and Boca smiled.

"That dream'll sure come true. I ain't forgettin'. But I ain't goin' to wait till you're gone."

Boca touched Pete's hand. "And you will bring me a present. A dress—or a ring, perhaps?"

"You kin jest bank on that! I don't aim to travel where they make 'em reg'lar, but you sure get that present—after I settle with Malvey."

"That is the way with men," pouted Boca. "They think only of the quarrel."

"You got me wrong, senorita. I don't want to kill nobody. The big idee is to keep from gittin' bumped off myself. Now you'd think a whole lot of me if I was to ride off and forgit all about what Malvey done?"

"I would go with you," said Boca softly.

"Honest? Well, you'd sure make a good pardner." Pete eyed the girl with a new interest. Then he shook his head. "I—you'd sure make a good pardner—but it would be mighty tough for you. I'd do most anything—but that. You see, Chicita, I'm in bad. I'm like to get mine most any time. And I ain't no ladies' man—nohow."

"But you will come back?" queried Boca anxiously.

"As sure as you're livin'! Only you want to kind o' eddicate your ole man to handle bottles more easy-like. He ought to know what they're made for."

"Your head—it is cool," said Boca, reaching up and touching Pete's forehead.

"Oh, I'm feelin' fine, considerin'."

"Then I am happy," said Boca.

Pete never knew just how he happened to find Boca's hand in his own. But he knew that she had a very pretty mouth, and fine eyes; eyes that glowed softly in the dusk. Before he realized what had happened, Boca was in his arms, and he was telling her again and again that "he sure would come back."

She murmured her happiness as he kissed her awkwardly, and quickly, as though bidding her a hasty farewell. But she would not let him go with that. "Mi amor! Mi corazone!" she whispered, as she clasped her hands behind his head and gently drew his mouth to hers.

Pete felt embarrassed, but his embarrassment melted in the soft warmth of her affection and he returned her kisses with all the ardor of youth. Suddenly she pushed him away and rose. Her mother had called her.

"About twelve," whispered Pete. "Tell your ole man I'll bush out here. It's a heap cooler."

She nodded and left him. Pete heard Flores speak to her gruffly.

"Somebody ought to put that ole side-of bacon in the well," soliloquized Pete. "I could stand for the ole lady, all right, and Boca sure is a lily . . . but I was forgettin' I got to ride to Showdown to-night."



CHAPTER XXIII

THE DEVIL-WIND

As Pete lay planning his departure—he wondered if Boca would think to find him a canteen and food for his long ride—the stars, hitherto clear-edged and brilliant, became blurred as though an almost invisible mist had drifted between them and the earth. He rubbed his eyes. Yes, there was no mistake about it. He was wide awake, and the sky was changing. That which had seemed a mist now appeared more like a fine dust, that swept across the heavens and dimmed the desert sky. It occurred to him that he was at the bottom of a fairly deep canon and that that impalpable dust meant wind, A little later he heard it,—at first a faint, far-away sound like the whisper of many voices; then a soft, steady hiss as when wind-driven sand runs over sand. A hot wind sprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled canon. It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf and shrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When the devil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery. Horses and cattle stand with heads lowered and flanks drawn in, suffering an invisible torture from which there is no escape. The dawn brings no relief—no freshening of the air. The heat drives on—three days—say those who know the southern desert—and no man rides the trails, but seeks what shade may be, and lies torpid and silent—or if he speaks, it is to curse the land.

Pete knew that this devil-wind would make old Flores restless. He stepped round to the doorway and asked for water. From the darkness within the adobe came Flores's voice and the sound of a match against wood. The Mexican appeared with a candle.

"My head feels queer," stated Pete, as an excuse for disturbing Flores. "I can't find the olla—and I'm dead for a drink."

"Then we shall drink this," said Flores, fetching a jug of wine from beneath the bench.

"Not for mine! I'm dizzy enough, without that."

"It is the devil-wind. One may get drunk and forget. One may then sleep. And if one sleeps, it is not so bad."

Pete shook his head, but tasted the wine that Flores poured for him. If the old man would only get drunk enough to go to sleep . . . The Mexican's oily, pock-marked face glistened in the flickering candle-light. He drank and smacked his lips. "If one is to die of the heat—one might as well die drunk," he laughed. "Drink, senor!"

Pete sipped the wine and watched the other as he filled and emptied his glass again. "It is the good wine," said Flores. The candle-light cast a huge, distorted shadow of the Mexican's head and shoulders on the farther wall. The faint drone of the hot wind came to them from the plains above. The candle-flame fluttered. Flores reached down for the jug and set it on the table. "All night we shall drink of the good wine, for no man may sleep.",

"I'm with you," said Pete. "Only I ain't so swift."

"No man may sleep," reiterated Flores, again emptying his tumbler.

"How about the women-folks?" queried Pete.

Flores waved his hand in a gesture indicative of supreme indifference to what the "women-folks" did. He noticed that Pete was not drinking and insisted that he drink and refill his glass. Pete downed the raw red wine and presently complained of feeling sleepy. Flores grinned. "I do not sleep," he asserted—"not until this is gone"—and he struck the jug with his knuckles. Pete felt that he was in for a long session, and inwardly cursed his luck. Flores's eyes brightened and he grew talkative. He spoke of his youth in Old Mexico; of the cattle and the women of that land. Pete feigned a heaviness that he did not feel. Presently Flores's talk grew disconnected; his eye became dull and his swarthy face was mottled with yellow. The sweat, which had rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his nose, now seemed to coagulate in tiny, oily globules. He put down a half-empty tumbler and stared at Pete. "No man sleeps," he mumbled, as his lids drooped. Slowly his chin sank to his chest and he slumped forward against the table. Pete started to get up. Flores raised his head. "Drink—senor!" he murmured, and slumped forward, knocking the tumbler over. A dark red line streaked the table and dripped to the floor.

Something moved in the kitchen doorway. Pete glanced up to see Boca staring at him. He gestured toward her father. She nodded indifferently and beckoned Pete to follow her.

"I knew that you would think me a lie if I did not come," she told him, as they stood near the old corral—Pete's impatience to be gone evident, as he shouldered his saddle. "But you will not ride tonight. You would die."

"It's some hot—but I aim to go through."

"But no—not to-night! For three days will it be like this! It is terrible! And you have been ill."

She pressed close to him and touched his arm. "Have I not been your friend?"

"You sure have! But honest, Boca, I got a hunch that it's time to fan it. 'T ain't that I'm sore at your old man now—or want to leave you—but I got a hunch somethin' is goin' to happen."

"You think only of that Malvey. You do not think of me," complained Boca.

"I'm sure thinkin' of you every minute. It ain't Malvey that's botherin' me now."

"Then why do you not rest—and wait?"

"Because restin' and waitin' is worse than takin" a chanct. I got to go."

"You must go?"

Pete nodded.

"But what if I will not find a horse for you?"

"Then I reckon you been foolin' me right along."

"That is not so!" Boca's hand dropped to her side and she turned from him.

"'Course it ain't! And say, Boca, I'll make it through all right. All I want is a good hoss—and a canteen and some grub."

"I have made ready the food and have a canteen for you—in my room."

"Then let's go hunt up that cayuse."

"It is that you will die—" she began; but Pete, irritated by argument and the burning wind that droned through the canon, put an end to it all by dropping the saddle and taking her swiftly in his arms. He kissed her—rather perfunctorily. "My little pardner!" he whispered.

Boca, although sixteen and mature in a sense, was in reality little more than a child. When Pete chose to assert himself, he had much the stronger will. She felt that all pleading would be useless. "You have the reata?" she queried, and turning led him past the corral and along the fence until they came to the stream. A few hundred yards down the stream she turned, and cautioning him to follow closely, entered a sort of lateral canon—a veritable box at whose farther end was Flores's cache of horses, kept in this hidden pasture for any immediate need. Pete heard the quick trampling of hoofs and the snort of startled horses.

"We will drive them on into the corral," said Boca.

Pete could see but dimly, but he sensed the situation at once. The canon was a box, narrowing to a natural enclosure with the open end fenced. He had seen such places—called "traps" by men who made a business of catching wild horses.

Several dim shapes bunched in the small enclosure, plunging and circling as Pete found and closed the bars.

"The yellow horse is of the desert—and very strong," said Boca.

"They all look alike to me," laughed Pete. "It's mighty dark, right now." He slipped through the bars and shook out his rope. The horses crowded away from him as he followed. A shape reared and backed. Pete flipped the noose and set his heels as the rope snapped taut. He held barely enough slack to make the snubbing-post, but finally took a turn round it and fought the horse up. "Blamed if he ain't the buckskin," panted Pete.

The sweat dripped from his face as he bridled and saddled the half-wild animal. It was doubly hard work in the dark. Then he came to the corral bars where Boca stood. "I'm all hooked up, Boca."

"Then I shall go back for the cantina and the food."

"I'll go right along with you. I'll wait at the other corral."

Pete followed her and sat a nervous horse until she reappeared, with the canteen and package of food. The hot wind purred and whispered round them. Above, the stars struggled dimly through the haze. Pete reached down and took her hand. She had barely touched his fingers when the horse shied and reared.

"If Malvey he kill you—I shall kill him!" she whispered fiercely.

"I'm comin' back," said Pete.

A shadow flung across the night; and Boca. was standing gazing into the black wall through which the shadow had plunged. Far up the trail she could hear quick hoofbeats, and presently above the drone of the wind came a faint musical "Adios! Adios!"

She dared not call back to him for fear of waking her father, in spite of the fact that she knew he was drugged beyond all feeling and sound. And she had her own good reason for caution. When Flores discovered his best horse gone, there would be no evidence that would entangle her or her mother in wordy argument with him for having helped the young vaquero to leave—and against the direct commands of The Spider, who had sent word to Flores through Malvey that Pete was to remain at the rancho till sent for.

At the top of the canon trail Pete reined in and tried to get his bearings. But the horse, fighting the bit, seemed to have a clear idea of going somewhere and in the general direction of Showdown. "You ought to know the trail to Showdown," said Pete. "And you ain't tryin' to git back home, so go to it! I'll be right with you."

The heavy, hot wind seethed round him and he bent his head, tying his bandanna across his nose and mouth. The buckskin bored into the night, his unshod hoofs pattering softly on the desert trail. His first "fine frenzy" done, he settled to a swinging trot that ate into the miles ceaselessly. Twice during the ride Pete raised the canteen and moistened his burning throat. Slowly he grew numb to the heat and the bite of the whipping sand, and rode as one in a horrible dream. He had been a fool to ride from comparative safety into this blind furnace of burning wind. Why had he done so? And again and again he asked himself this question, wondering if he were going mad. It had been years and years since he had left the Flores rancho. There was a girl there—Boca Dulzura—or had he dreamed of such a girl? Pete felt the back of his head. "No, it wa'n't a dream," he told himself.

A ghastly dawn burned into Showdown, baring the town's ugliness as it crept from 'dobe to 'dobe as though in search of some living thing to torture with slow fire. The street was a wind-swept emptiness, smooth with fine sand. Pete rode to the hitching-rail. The Spider's place was dumb to his knocking. He staggered round to the western side of the saloon and squatted on his heels. "Water that pony after a while," he muttered. Strange flashes of light danced before his eyes. His head pained dully and he ached all over for lack of sleep. A sudden trampling brought him to his feet. He turned the corner of the saloon just in time to see the buckskin lunge back. The reins snapped like a thread. The pony shook its head and trotted away, circling. Pete followed, hoping that the tangle of dragging rein might stop him.

Half-dazed, Pete followed doggedly, but the horse started to run. Pete staggered back to the hitching-rail, untied the end of the broken rein and tossed it across the street. He did not know why he did this; he simply did it mechanically.

He was again afoot, weak and exhausted from his night's ride. "I reckon that ole Mexican woman—was right," he muttered. "But I got one pardner yet, anyhow," and his hand slid to his holster. "You and me ag'in' the whole dam' town! God, it's hot."

He slumped to the corner of the saloon and squatted, leaning against the wall. He thought of Boca. He could hear her speak his name distinctly. A shadow drifted across his blurred vision. He glanced up. The Spider, naked to the waist, stood looking down at him, leanly grotesque in the dawn light.

"You 're going strong!" said The Spider.

"I want Malvey," whispered Pete.

The Spider's lips twitched. "You'll get some coffee and beans first. Any man that's got enough sand to foot it from Flores here—can camp on me any time—coming or going."

"I'm workin' this case myself," stated Pete sullenly.

"You play your own hand," said The Spider. And for once he meant it. He could scarcely believe that Young Pete had made it across the desert on foot—yet there was no horse in sight. If Young Pete could force himself to such a pace and survive he would become a mighty useful tool.

"Did Malvey play you?" queried The Spider.

"You ought to know."

"He said you were sick—down at Flores's rancho."

"Then he's here!" And Pete's dulling eyes brightened. "Well, I ain't as sick as he's goin' to be, Spider."



CHAPTER XXIV

"A RIDER STOOD AT THE LAMPLIT BAR"

Pete was surprised to find the darkened saloon cooler than the open desert, even at dawn; and he realized, after glancing about, that The Spider had closed the doors and windows during the night to shut out the heat.

"In here," said The Spider, opening the door back of the bar.

Pete followed, groping his way into The Spider's room. He started back as a match flared. The Spider lighted a lamp. In the sudden soft glow Pete beheld a veritable storehouse of plunder: gorgeous serapes from Old Mexico—blankets from Tehuantepec and Oaxaca, rebosas of woven silk and linen and wool, the cruder colorings of the Navajo and Hopi saddle-blankets, war-bags and buckskin garments heavy with the beadwork of the Utes and Blackfeet, a buffalo-hide shield, an Apache bow and quiver of arrows, skins of the mountain lion and lynx, and hanging from the beam-end a silver-mounted saddle and bridle and above it a Mexican sombrero heavy with golden filigree.

"You've rambled some," commented Pete.

"Some. What's the matter with your head?"

"Your friend Flores handed me one—from behind," said Pete.

The Spider gestured toward a blanket-covered couch against the wall. "Lay down there. No, on your face. Huh! Wait till I get some water."

Pete closed his eyes. Presently he felt the light touch of fingers and then a soothing coolness. He heard The Spider moving about the room. The door closed softly. Pete raised his head. The room was dark. He thought of Malvey and he wondered at The Spider's apparent solicitude. He was in The Spider's hands—for good or ill . . . Sleep blotted out all sense of being.

Late that afternoon he awoke to realize that there was some one in the room. He raised on his elbow and turned to see The Spider gazing down at him with a peculiar expression—as though he were questioning himself and awaiting an answer from some outside source.

Pete stretched and yawned and grinned lazily. "Hello, pardner! I was dreamin' of a friend of mine when I come to and saw"—Pete hesitated, sat up and yawned again—"another friend that I wa'n't dreamin' about," he concluded.

"What makes you think I'm your friend?" queried The Spider.

"Oh, hell, I dunno," said Pete, rubbing the back of his head and grinning boyishly. "But there's no law ag'in' my feelin' that way, is there? Doggone it, I'm plumb empty! Feel like my insides had been takin' a day off and had come back just pawin' the air to git to work."

"Malvey's in town."

Pete's mouth hardened, then relaxed to a grin.

"Well, if he's as hungry as I am he ain't worryin' about me."

"He's got your horse."

"That don't worry me none."

"I told Malvey to get your horse from you and set you afoot at Flores'."

"And he sure made a good job of it, didn't he? But I don't sabe your game in hog-tyin' me down to Flores's place."

"I figured you'd be safer afoot till you kind of cooled down."

Pete tried to read The Spider's face, but it was as impersonal as the desert itself. "Mebby you figured to hold me there till you was good and ready to use me," said Pete.

The Spider nodded.

"Well, there's nothin' doin'. I ain't no killer or no hoss-thief lookin' for a job. I got in bad up north—but I ain't lookin' for no more trouble. If Malvey and me lock horns—that's my business. But you got me wrong if you reckon I'm goin' to throw in with your outfit. I kin pay for what I eat a couple of times, anyhow. But I ain't hirin' out to no man."

"Go back in the patio and Juan will get you some chuck," said The Spider abruptly.

"Which I'm payin' for," said Pete.

"Which you're paying for," said The Spider.

Following its usual course, the devil-wind died down suddenly at dusk of the third day. A few Mexicans drifted into the saloon that evening and following them several white men up from the border. Pete, who sat in the patio where he could watch the outer doorway of the saloon, smoked and endeavored to shape a plan for his future. He was vaguely surprised that a posse had not yet ridden into Showdown; for The Spider had said nothing of Houck and his men, and Pete was alert to that contingency, in that he had planned to slip quietly from the patio to the corral at the back, in case they did ride in, estimating that he would have time to saddle a horse and get away before they could search the premises, even if they went that far; and he doubted that they would risk that much without The Spider's consent. Would The Spider give such consent? Pete doubted it, not because he trusted The Spider so much, but rather because the deliberate searching of premises by a posse would break an established precedent, observed in more than one desert rendezvous. That simple and eloquent statement, "Go right ahead and search—but you'll search her in smoke," had backed down more than one posse, as Pete knew.

Already the monotony of loafing at The Spider's place had begun to wear on Pete, who had slept much for two days and nights, and he was itching to do something. He had thought of riding down and across the border and had said so to The Spider, who had advised him against it. During their talk Malvey's name was mentioned. Pete wondered why that individual had chosen to keep from sight so long, not aware that The Spider had sent word to Malvey, who was at Mescalero's ranch, a few miles east of Showdown, that a posse from the Blue had ridden in and might be somewhere in the vicinity.

Little by little Pete began to realize that his present as well as his future welfare depended on caution quite as much as upon sheer courage. Insidiously The Spider's influence was working upon Pete, who saw in him a gambler who played for big stakes with a coldness and soullessness that was amazing—and yet Pete realized that there was something hidden deep in The Spider's cosmos that was intensely human. For instance, when Pete had given up the idea of crossing the border and had expressed, as much by his countenance as his speech, his imperative need to be out and earning a living, The Spider had offered to put him to work on his ranch, which he told Pete was of considerable extent, and lay just north of the national boundary and well out of the way of chance visitors. "Cattle"—The Spider had said—"and some horses."

Pete thought he knew about how that ranch had been stocked, and why it was located where it was. But then, cattle-stealing was not confined to any one locality. Any of the boys riding for the Blue or the Concho or the T-Bar-T were only too eager to brand a stray calf and consider that they were but serving their employer's interests, knowing that their strays were quite as apt to be branded by a rival outfit. So it went among men supposed to be living under the law.

The Spider's proffer of work was accepted, but Pete asserted that he would not leave Showdown until he had got his horse.

"I'll see that you get him," said The Spider.

"Thanks. But I aim to git him myself."

And it was shortly after this understanding that Pete sat in the patio back of the saloon—waiting impatiently for Malvey to show up, and half-inclined to go out and look for him. But experience had taught Pete the folly of hot-headed haste, so, like The Spider, he withdrew into himself, apparently indifferent to the loud talk of the men in the saloon, the raw jokes and the truculent swaggering, with the implication, voiced loudly by one half-drunken renegade, that the stranger was a short-horn and naturally afraid to herd in with "the bunch."

"He's got business of his own," said The Spider.

"That's different. I 'poligish."

The men laughed, and the bibulous outlaw straightway considered himself a wit. But those who carried their liquor better knew that The Spider's interruption was significant. The young stranger was playing a lone hand, and the rules of the game called for strict attention to their own business.

Presently a Mexican strode in and spoke to The Spider. The Spider called to a man at one of the tables. The noisy talk ceased suddenly. "One," said The Spider. "From the south."

Pete heard and he shifted his position a little, approximating the distance between himself and the outer doorway. Card-games were resumed as before when a figure filled the doorway. Pete's hand slid slowly to his hip. His fingers stiffened, then relaxed, as he got to his feet.

It was Boca—alone, and smiling in the soft glow of lamplight. The Spider hobbled from behind the bar. Some one called a laughing greeting. "It's Boca, boys! We'll sure cut loose to-night! When Boca comes to town the bars is down!"

Pete heard—and anger and surprise darkened his face. These men seemed to know Boca too well. One of them had risen, leaving his card-game, and was shaking hands with her. Another asked her to sing "La Paloma." Even The Spider seemed gracious to her. Pete, leaning against the doorway of the patio, stared at her as though offended by her presence. She nodded to him and smiled. He raised his hat awkwardly. Boca read jealousy in his eye. She was happy. She wanted him to care. "I brought your saddle, senor," she said, nodding again. The men laughed, turning to glance at Pete. Still Pete did not quite realize the significance of her coming. "Thanks," he said abruptly.

Boca deliberately turned her back on him and talked with The Spider. She was hurt, and a little angry. Surely she had been his good friend. Was Pete so stupid that he did not realize why she had ridden to Showdown?

The Spider, who had just learned why she was there, called to his Mexican, who presently set a table in the patio. Slowly it dawned on Pete that Boca had made a long ride—that she must be tired and hungry. He felt ashamed of himself. She had been a friend to him when he sorely needed a friend. And of course these men knew her. No doubt they had seen her often at the Flores rancho. She had brought his saddle back—which meant that she had found the buckskin, riderless, and fearing that something serious had happened, had caught up the pony and ridden to Showdown, alone, and no doubt against the wishes of her father and mother. It was mighty fine of her! He had never realized that girls did such things. Well, doggone it! he would let her know that he was mighty proud to have such a pardner!

The Spider hobbled to the patio and placed a chair for Boca, who brushed past Pete as though he had not been there.

"That's right!" laughed Pete. "But say, Boca, what made me sore was the way them hombres out there got fresh, joshin' you and askin' you to sing, jest like they had a rope on you—"

"You think of that Malvey?"

"Well, I ain't forgittin' the way he—"

Boca's eyes flashed. "Yes! But here it is different. The Spider, he is my friend. It is that when I have rested and eaten he will ask me to sing. Manuelo will play the guitar. I shall sing and laugh, for I am no longer tired. I am happy. Perhaps I shall sing the song of 'The Outlaw,' and for you."

"I'll be listenin'—every minute, Boca. Mebby if I ain't jest lookin' at you—it'll be because—"

"Si! Even like the caballero of whom I shall sing." And Boca hummed a tune, gazing at Pete with unreadable eyes, half-smiling, half-sad. How young, smooth-cheeked, and boyish he was, as he glanced up and returned her smile. Yet how quickly his face changed as he turned his head toward the doorway, ever alert for a possible surprise. Boca pushed back her chair. "The guitar," she called, nodding to The Spider.

Manuelo brought the guitar, tuned it, and sat back in the corner of the patio. The men in the saloon rose and shuffled to where Boca stood, seating themselves roundabout in various attitudes of expectancy. Pete, who had risen, recalled The Spider's terse warning, and stepped over to the patio doorway. Manuelo had just swept the silver strings in a sounding prelude, when The Spider, behind the bar, gestured to Pete.

"No, it ain't Malvey," said The Spider, as Pete answered his abrupt summons. "Here, take a drink while I talk. Keep your eye on the front. Don't move your hands off the bar, for there's three men out there, afoot, just beyond the hitching-rail. There was five, a minute ago. I figure two of 'em have gone round to the back. Go ahead—drink a little, and set your glass down, natural. I'm joshin' with you, see!"—and The Spider grinned hideously. "Smile! Don't make a break for the patio. The boys out there wouldn't understand, and Boca might get hurt. She's goin' to sing. You turn slow, and listen. When your back's turned, those hombres out there will step in." The Spider laughed, as though at something Pete had said. "You're mighty surprised to see 'em and you start to talk. Leave the rest to me."

Pete nodded and lifted his glass. From the patio came the sound of Boca's voice and the soft strumming of the guitar. Pete heard but hardly realized the significance of the first line or two of the song—and then:

"A rider stood at the lamplit bar, tugging the knot of his neckscarf loose, While some one sang to the silver strings, in the moonlight patio."

It was the song of "The Outlaw." Pete turned slowly and faced the patio. Manuelo swept the strings in a melodious interlude. Boca, her vivid lips parted, smiled at Pete even as she began to sing again. Pete could almost feel the presence of men behind him. He knew that he was trapped, but he kept his gaze fixed on Boca's face. The Spider spoke to some one—a word of surprised greeting. In spite of his hold on himself Pete felt the sweat start on his lip and forehead. He was curious as to what these men would look like; as to whether he would know them. Perhaps they were not after him, but after some of the men in the patio—

"Annersley!"

Pete swung round, his hands up. He recognized two of the men—deputies of Sheriff Sutton of Concho. The third man was unknown to him.

"You're under arrest for the killing of Steve Gary."

"How's that?" queried The Spider.

"Steve Gary. This kid shot him—over to the Blue. We don't want any trouble about this," continued the deputy. "We've got a couple of men out back—"

"There won't be any trouble," said The Spider.

"No—there won't be any trouble," asserted Pete. "Gimme a drink, Spider."

"No, you don't!" said the deputy. "You got too many friends out there," and he gestured toward the patio with his gun.

"Not my friends," said Pete.

Boca's song ended abruptly as she turned from her audience to glance in Pete's direction. She saw him standing with upraised hands—and in front of him three men—strangers to Showdown.

Came the shuffling of feet as the men in the patio turned to see what she was staring at.

"Sit still!" called The Spider. "This ain't your deal, boys. They got the man they want."

But Boca, wide-eyed and trembling, stepped through the doorway.

"That's close enough!" called a deputy.

She paused, summoning all of her courage and wit to force a laugh. "Si, senor. But you are mistaken. It is not that I care what you do with him. I do but come for the wine for which I have asked, but there was no one to bring it to me,"—and she stepped past the end of the bar into The Spider's room. She reappeared almost instantly with a bottle of wine.

"I will open that for you," said The Spider.

"Never mind!" said one of the deputies; "the lady seems to know how."

Boca took a glass from the counter. "I will drink in the patio with my friends." But as she passed round the end of the bar and directly beneath the hanging lamp, she turned and paused. "But no! I will drink once to the young vaquero, with whom is my heart and my life." And she filled the glass and, bowing to Pete, put the glass to her lips.

The deputy nearest Pete shrugged his shoulder. "This ain't a show."

"Of a truth, no!" said Boca, and she swung the bottle. It shivered against the lamp. With the instant darkness came a streak of red and the close roar of a shot. Pete, with his gun out and going, leapt straight into the foremost deputy. They crashed down. Staggering to his feet, Pete broke for the outer doorway. Behind him the room was a pit of flame and smoke. Boca's pony reared as Pete jerked the reins loose, swept into the saddle, and down the moonlit street. He heard a shot and turned his head. In the patch of moonlight round The Spider's place he saw the dim, hurrying forms of men and horses. He leaned forward and quirted the pony with the rein-ends.



Back in The Spider's place men grouped round a huddled something on the floor. The Spider, who had fetched a lamp from his room, stooped and peered into the upturned face of Boca. A dull, black ooze spread and spread across the floor.

"Boca!" he shrilled, and his face was hideous.

"Did them coyotes git her?"

"Who was it?"

"Where's the kid?"

The Spider straightened and held the lamp high. "Take her in there," and he gestured toward his room. Two of the men carried her to the couch and covered her with the folds of the serape which had slipped from her shoulders as she fell.

"Say the word, Spider, and we'll ride 'em down!" It was "Scar-Face" who spoke, a man notorious even among his kind.

The Spider, strangely quiet, shook his head. "They'll ride back here. They were after Young Pete. She smashed the lamp to give him a chance to shoot his way out. They figured he'd break for the back—but he went right into 'em. They don't know yet that they got her. And he don't know it." He hobbled round to the back of the bar. "Have a drink, boys, and then I'm going to close up till—" and he indicated his room with a movement of the head.

Young Pete, riding into the night, listened for the sound of running horses. Finally he pulled his pony to a walk. He had ridden north—up the trail which the posse had taken to Showdown, and directly away from where they were searching the desert for him. And as Pete rode, he thought continually of Boca. Unaware of what had happened—yet he realized that she had been in great danger. This worried him—an uncertainty that became an obsession—until he could no longer master it with reason. He had ridden free from present hazard, unscratched and foot-loose, with many hours of darkness before him in which to evade the posse. He would be a fool to turn back. And yet he did, slowly, as though an invisible hand were on his bridle-rein; forcing him to ride against his judgment and his will. He reasoned, shrewdly, that the posse would be anywhere but at The Spider's place, just then.

In an hour he had returned and was knocking at the door, surprised that the saloon was closed.

At Pete's word, the door opened. The Spider, ghastly white in the lamplight, blinked his surprise.

"Playin' a hunch," stated Pete. And, "Boca here?" he queried, as he entered.

"In there," said The Spider, and he took the lamp from the bar.

"What's the use of wakin' her?" said Pete. "I come back—I got a hunch—that somethin' happened when I made my get-away. But if she's all right—"

"You won't wake her," said The Spider, and his voice sounded strange and far-away. "You better go in there."

A hot flash shot through Pete. Then came the cold sweat of a dread anticipation. He followed The Spider to where Boca lay on the couch, as though asleep. Pete turned swiftly, questioning with his eyes. The Spider set the lamp on the table and backed from the room. Breathing hard, Pete stepped forward and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's pretty mouth smiled up at him—but her eyes were as dead pools in the night.

The full significance of that white face and those dull, unseeing eyes, swept through him like a flame. "Pardner!" he whispered, and flung himself on his knees beside her, his shadow falling across her head and shoulders. In the dim light she seemed to be breathing. Long he gazed at her, recalling her manner as she had raised her glass: "I drink to the young vaquero, with whom is my heart—and my life."

Dully Pete wondered why such things should happen; why he had not been killed instead of the girl, and which one of the three deputies had fired the shot that had killed her. But no one could ever know that—for the men had all fired at him when the lamp crashed down—yet he, closer to them than Boca, had broken through their blundering fusillade. He knew that Boca had taken a great risk—and that she must have known it also. And she had taken that risk that he might win free.

Too stunned and shaken to reason it out to any definite conclusion, Pete characteristically accepted the facts as they were as he thrust aside all thought of right or wrong and gave himself over to tearless mourning for that which Boca had been. That dead thing with dark, staring eyes and faintly smiling lips was not Boca. But where was she then?

Slowly the lamplight paled as dawn fought through the heavy shadows of the room. The door swung open noiselessly. The Spider glanced in and softly closed the door again.

The Spider, he of the shriveled heart and body, did the most human thing he had done for years. At the little table opposite the bar he sat with brandy and a glass and deliberately drank until he felt neither the ache of his old wounds nor the sting of this fresh thrust of fate. Then he knew that he was drunk, but that his keen, crooked mind would obey his will, unfeelingly, yet with no hesitation and no stumbling.

He rose and hobbled to the outer door. A vagrant breeze stirred the stale air in the room. Back in the patio his Mexican, Manuelo, lay snoring, wrapped in a tattered blanket. The Spider turned from the doorway and gazed at the sanded spot on the floor, leaning against the bar and drumming on its edge with his nervous fingers. "He'll see her in every night-fire when he's alone—and he'll talk to her. He will see her face among the girls in the halls—and he'll go cold and speak her name, and then some girl will laugh. He will eat out his heart thinking of her—and what she did for him. He's just a kid—but when he comes out of that room . . . he won't give a damn if he's bumped off or not. He'll play fast—and go through every time! God! I ought to know!"

The Spider turned and gazed across the morning desert. Far out rode a group of men. One of them led a riderless horse. The Spider's thin lips twisted in a smile.



CHAPTER XXV

"PLANTED—OUT THERE"

Malvey, loafing at the ranch of Mescalero, received The Spider's message about the posse with affected indifference. He had Pete's horse in his possession, which in itself would make trouble should he be seen. When he learned from the messenger that Young Pete was in Showdown, he fumed and blustered until evening, when he saddled Blue Smoke and rode south toward the Flores rancho. From Flores's place he would ride on south, across the line to where he could always find employment for his particular talents. Experience had taught him that it was useless to go against The Spider, whose warning, whether it were based on fact or not, was a hint to leave the country.

The posse from Concho, after circling the midnight desert and failing to find any trace of Pete, finally drew together and decided to wait until daylight made it possible to track him. As they talked together, they saw a dim figure coming toward them. Swinging from their course, they rode abruptly down a draw. Four of them dismounted. The fifth, the chief deputy, volunteered to ride out and interview the horseman. The four men on foot covered the opening of the draw, where the trail passed, and waited.

The deputy sat his horse, as though waiting for some one. Malvey at once thought of Young Pete—then of The Spider's warning—and finally that the solitary horseman might be some companion from below the border, cautiously awaiting his approach. Half-inclined to ride wide, he hesitated—then loosening his gun he spurred his restless pony toward the other, prepared to "bull" through if questioned too closely.

Within thirty feet of the deputy Malvey reined in. "You're ridin' late," he said, with a forced friendliness in his voice.

"This the trail to Showdown?" queried the deputy.

"This is her. Lookin' for anybody in particular?"

"Nope. And I reckon nobody is lookin' for me. I'm ridin my own horse."

It was a chance shot intended to open the way to a parley—and identify the strange horseman by his voice, if possible. It also was a challenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such. Malvey's slow mind awakened to the situation. A streak of red flashed from his hand as he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle and began firing over it, shielded by his pony. A rifle snarled in the draw. Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him. Another slug shattered his thigh. Cursing, he lunged sideways, as Blue Smoke bucked. Malvey toppled and fell—an inert bulk in the dim light of the stars.

The chief deputy struck a match and stooped. "We got the wrong man," he called to his companions.

"It's Bull Malvey," said one of the deputies as the match flickered out. "I knew him in Phoenix."

"Heard of him. He was a wild one," said another deputy.

"Comin' and goin'! One of The Spider's bunch, and a hoss-thief right! I reckon we done a good job."

"He went for his gun," said the chief.

"We had him covered from the start," asserted a deputy. "He sure won't steal no more hosses."

"Catch up his cayuse," commanded the chief deputy.

Two of them, after a hard ride, finally put Blue Smoke within reach of a rope. He was led back to where Malvey lay.

"Concho brand!" exclaimed the chief.

"Young Pete's horse," asserted another.

"There'll be hell to pay if Showdown gets wise to what happened to Bull Malvey," said the deputy, who recognized the dead outlaw.

Dawn was just breaking when the chief deputy, disgusted with what he termed their "luck," finally evolved a plan out of the many discussed by his companions. "We got the cayuse—which will look good to the T-Bar-T boys. We ain't down here for our health and we been up against it from start to finish—and so far as I care, this is the finish. Get it right afore we start. Young Pete is dead. We got his horse." He paused and glanced sharply at Blue Smoke. "He's got the Concho brand!" he exclaimed.

"Young Pete's horse was a blue roan," said a deputy. "I guess this is him—blue roan with a white blaze on his nose—so Cotton told me."

"Looks like it!" said the chief deputy. "Well, say we got his horse, then. We're in luck for once."

"Now it's easy diggin' down there in the draw. And it's gettin' daylight fast. I reckon that's Malvey's saddle and bridle on the blue roan. We'll just cover up all evidence of who was ridin' this hoss, drift into Showdown and eat, and then ride along up north and collect that reward. We'll split her even—and who's goin' to say we didn't earn it?"

"Suits me," said a deputy. His companions nodded.

"Then let's get busy. The sand's loose here. We can drag a blanket over this—and leave the rest to the coyotes."

They scraped a long, shallow hole in the arroyo-bed and buried Malvey along with his saddle and bridle.

The Spider smiled as he saw them coming. He was still smiling as he watched them ride up the street and tie their tired ponies to the hitching-rail. He identified the led horse as the one Malvey had stolen from Pete.

"I see you got him," he said in his high-pitched voice.

The chief deputy nodded. "He's planted—out there."

"I meant the horse," said The Spider.

Ordinarily, The Spider was a strange man. The posse thought him unusually queer just then. His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiar faint, bluish film. His manner was over-deliberate. There was something back of it all that they could not fathom. Moreover, the place was darkened. Some one had hung blankets over the windows. The deputies—four of them—followed The Spider into the saloon.

"I guess you boys want to eat," said The Spider.

"We sure do."

"All right. I'll have Manuelo get you something." And he called to the Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room—The Spider's own room, back of the bar. While the Mexican prepared breakfast, the posse accepted their chief's invitation to have a drink, which they felt they needed. Presently The Spider led the way to his room. The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold as they peered in. A lamp was burning on the table. There were plates, knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon . . . Beyond the lamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them. His eyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep.

The Spider held up his hand. "You're planted—out there. These gentlemen say so. So you ain't here!"

Pete's belt and gun lay on the floor. The Spider was in his shirt-sleeves and apparently unarmed.

The chief deputy sized up the situation in a flash and pulled his gun. "I guess we got you—this trip, Pete."

"No," said The Spider. "You're wrong. He's planted—out there. What you staring at, boys? Pete, stand over there. Come right in, boys! Come on in! I got something to show you."

"Watch the door, Jim," said the chief. "Ed, you keep your eye on The Spider." The chief deputy stepped to the table and peered across it at a huddled something on the couch, over which was thrown a shimmering serape. He stepped round the table and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's sightless eyes stared up at him.

"Christ!" he whispered. "It's the girl!" And even as he spoke he knew what had happened—that he and his men were responsible for this. His hand shook as he turned toward The Spider.

"She—she ran into it when she— It's pretty tough, but—"

"Your breakfast is waiting," said The Spider.

"This was accidental," said the deputy, recovering himself, and glancing from one to another of his men. Then he turned to Pete. "Pete, you'll have to ride back with us."

"No," said The Spider with a peculiar stubborn shrug of his shoulders. "He's planted out there. You said so."

"That's all right, Spider. We made a mistake. This is the man we want."

"Then who is planted out there?" queried The Spider in a soft, sing-song voice, high-pitched and startling.

"That's our business," stated the deputy.

"No—mine!" The Spider glanced past the deputy, who turned to face a Mexican standing in the doorway. The Mexican's hands were held belt high and they were both "filled."

"Get the first man that moves," said The Spider in Mexican. And as he spoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the stroke of a snake. Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, as cold as the eyes of a rattler. The deputy read his own doom and the death of at least two of his men should he move a muscle. He had Young Pete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed. The deputy lowered his gun.

Pete blinked and drew a deep breath. "Give me a gun, Spider—and we'll shoot it out with 'em, right here."

The Spider laughed. "No. You're planted out there. These gents say so. I'm working this layout."

"Put up your gun, Ed," said the chief, addressing the deputy who had The Spider covered. "He's fooled us, proper."

"Let 'em out, one at a time," and The Spider gestured to the Mexican, Manuelo. "And tell your friends," he continued, addressing the chief deputy, "that Showdown is run peaceful and that I run her."

When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete. "Want to ride back to Concho?"

Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hear the question. Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which he had dipped in a water-bucket—as casually busy as though he had never had a gun in his hand. Something in the Mexican's supreme indifference touched Pete's sense of humor. He shrugged his shoulders.

"Who's goin' to tell her father?" he queried, gesturing toward the inner room.

"He knows," said The Spider, who stood staring at the Mexican.

"You're drunk," said Pete.

"Maybe I'm drunk," echoed The Spider. "But I'm her father."

Pete stepped forward and gazed into The Spidery scarred and lined face. "Hell!" Then he thrust out his hand. "Spider, I reckon I'll throw in with you."



CHAPTER XXVI

THE OLLA

The Spider's system of bookkeeping was simple, requiring neither pen nor paper, journal nor day-book. He kept a kind of mental loose-leaf ledger with considerable accuracy, auditing his accounts with impartiality. For example, Scar-Face and three companions just up from the border recently had been credited with twenty head of Mexican cattle which were now grazing on The Spider's border ranch, the Olla. Scar-Face had attempted to sell the cattle to the leader of a Mexican faction whose only assets at the time were ammunition and hope. Scar-Face had met this chieftain by appointment at an abandoned ranch-house. Argument ensued. The Mexican talked grandiloquently of "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality." Scar-Face held out for cash. The Mexican leader needed beef. Scar-Face needed money. As he had rather carelessly informed the Mexican that he could deliver the cattle immediately, and realizing his mistake,—for he knew that the Mexican would straightway summon his retainers and take the cattle in the name of "Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality,"—Scar-Face promptly shot this self-appointed savior of Mexico, mortally wounded one of his two companions, and finally persuaded the other to help drift the cattle north with a promise of a share of the profits of the enterprise.

The surviving Mexican rode to Showdown with Scar-Face and his companions, received his share of the sale in cash,—which he squandered at The Spider's place,—and straightway rode back across the border to rejoin his captainless comrades and appoint himself their leader, gently insinuating that he himself had shot the captain whom he had apprehended in the treachery of betraying them to a rival aggregation of ragged Liberties, Fraternities, and Equalities.

The Spidery mental ledger read: "Scar-Face—Debit, chuck, liquor, and lodging"—an account of long standing—"and forty dollars in cash. Credit—twenty head of cattle, brand unknown."

Scar-Face's account was squared—for the time being.

Pete was also on The Spider's books, and according to The Spider's system of accounts, Pete was heavily in debt to him. Not that The Spider would have ever mentioned this, or have tried to collect. But when he offered Pete a job on his ranch he shrewdly put Pete in the way of meeting his obligations.

Cattle were in demand, especially in Mexico, so ravaged by lawless soldiery that there was nothing left to steal. One outlaw chieftain, however, was so well established financially that his agents were able to secure supplies from a mysterious source and pay for them with gold, which also came from an equally mysterious source—and it was with these agents that The Spider had had his dealings. His bank account in El Paso was rolling up fast. Thus far he had been able to supply beef to the hungry liberators of Mexico; but beef on the hoof was becoming scarce on both sides of the border. Even before Pete had come to Showdown, The Spider had perfected a plan to raid the herds of the northern ranches. Occasional cowboys drifting to Showdown had given him considerable information regarding the physical characteristics of the country roundabout these ranches, the water-holes, trails, and grazing.

The Spider knew that he could make only one such raid, with any chance of success. If he made a drive at all, it would be on a big scale. The cattlemen would eventually trail the first stolen herd to his ranch. True, they would not find it there. He would see to it that the cattle were pushed across the border without delay. But a second attempt would be out of the question. The chief factor in the success of the scheme would be the prompt handling of the herd upon its arrival. He had cowboys in his employ who would steal the cattle. What he needed was a man whom he could rely upon to check the tally and turn the herd over to the agents of the Mexican soldiery and collect the money on the spot, while his cowboys guarded the herd from a possible raid by the Mexicans themselves. He knew that should the northern ranchmen happen to organize quickly and in force, they would not hesitate to promptly lynch the raiders, burn his buildings, take all his horses worth taking, and generally put the ranch out of business.

Thus far the ranch had paid well as a sort of isolated clearing-house for The Spider's vicarious accounts. The cowboys who worked there were picked men, each of whom received a straight salary, asked no questions, and rode with a high-power rifle under his knee and a keen eye toward the southern ranches.

Pete, riding south, bore an unsigned letter from The Spider, with instructions to hand it to the foreman of "The Olla" and receive further instructions from that gentleman. Pete knew nothing of the contemplated raid, The Spider shrewdly surmising that Pete would balk at the prospect of stealing cattle from his own countrymen. And it was because of this very fact that The Spider had intrusted Pete—by letter to the foreman—with the even greater responsibility of receiving the money for the cattle and depositing it in a certain bank in El Paso. Heretofore, such payments had been made to The Spider's representative in that city—the president of the Stockmen's Security and Savings Bank—who had but recently notified The Spider that he could no longer act in the capacity of agent on account of local suspicion, already voiced in the current newspapers. Hereafter The Spider would have to deal directly with the Mexican agents. And The Spider unhesitatingly chose Pete as his representative, realizing that Pete was shrewdly capable, fearless, and to be trusted.