The Spider, who had just learned why she was there, called to his Mexican, who presently set a table in the patio.  Slowly it dawned on Pete that Boca had made a long ride—­that she must be tired and hungry.  He felt ashamed of himself.  She had been a friend to him when he sorely needed a friend.  And of course these men knew her.  No doubt they had seen her often at the Flores rancho.  She had brought his saddle back—­which meant that she had found the buckskin, riderless, and fearing that something serious had happened, had caught up the pony and ridden to Showdown, alone, and no doubt against the wishes of her father and mother.  It was mighty fine of her!  He had never realized that girls did such things.  Well, doggone it! he would let her know that he was mighty proud to have such a pardner!

The Spider hobbled to the patio and placed a chair for Boca, who brushed past Pete as though he had not been there.

“That’s right!” laughed Pete.  “But say, Boca, what made me sore was the way them hombres out there got fresh, joshin’ you and askin’ you to sing, jest like they had a rope on you—­”

“You think of that Malvey?”

“Well, I ain’t forgittin’ the way he—­”

Boca’s eyes flashed.  “Yes!  But here it is different.  The Spider, he is my friend.  It is that when I have rested and eaten he will ask me to sing.  Manuelo will play the guitar.  I shall sing and laugh, for I am no longer tired.  I am happy.  Perhaps I shall sing the song of ’The Outlaw,’ and for you.”

“I’ll be listenin’—­every minute, Boca.  Mebby if I ain’t jest lookin’ at you—­it’ll be because—­”

“Si!  Even like the caballero of whom I shall sing.”  And Boca hummed a tune, gazing at Pete with unreadable eyes, half-smiling, half-sad.  How young, smooth-cheeked, and boyish he was, as he glanced up and returned her smile.  Yet how quickly his face changed as he turned his head toward the doorway, ever alert for a possible surprise.  Boca pushed back her chair.  “The guitar,” she called, nodding to The Spider.

Manuelo brought the guitar, tuned it, and sat back in the corner of the patio.  The men in the saloon rose and shuffled to where Boca stood, seating themselves roundabout in various attitudes of expectancy.  Pete, who had risen, recalled The Spider’s terse warning, and stepped over to the patio doorway.  Manuelo had just swept the silver strings in a sounding prelude, when The Spider, behind the bar, gestured to Pete.

“No, it ain’t Malvey,” said The Spider, as Pete answered his abrupt summons.  “Here, take a drink while I talk.  Keep your eye on the front.  Don’t move your hands off the bar, for there’s three men out there, afoot, just beyond the hitching-rail.  There was five, a minute ago.  I figure two of ’em have gone round to the back.  Go ahead—­drink a little, and set your glass down, natural.  I’m joshin’ with you, see!”—­and