“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.”