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.