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.