“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.