The Ridin' Kid from Powder River Part 34

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 sc.r.a.ped 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.

"h.e.l.l!" 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.