This worried him—­an uncertainty that became an obsession—­until he could no longer master it with reason.  He had ridden free from present hazard, unscratched and foot-loose, with many hours of darkness before him in which to evade the posse.  He would be a fool to turn back.  And yet he did, slowly, as though an invisible hand were on his bridle-rein; forcing him to ride against his judgment and his will.  He reasoned, shrewdly, that the posse would be anywhere but at The Spider’s place, just then.

In an hour he had returned and was knocking at the door, surprised that the saloon was closed.

At Pete’s word, the door opened.  The Spider, ghastly white in the lamplight, blinked his surprise.

“Playin’ a hunch,” stated Pete.  And, “Boca here?” he queried, as he entered.

“In there,” said The Spider, and he took the lamp from the bar.

“What’s the use of wakin’ her?” said Pete.  “I come back—­I got a hunch—­that somethin’ happened when I made my get-away.  But if she’s all right—­”

“You won’t wake her,” said The Spider, and his voice sounded strange and far-away.  “You better go in there.”

A hot flash shot through Pete.  Then came the cold sweat of a dread anticipation.  He followed The Spider to where Boca lay on the couch, as though asleep.  Pete turned swiftly, questioning with his eyes.  The Spider set the lamp on the table and backed from the room.  Breathing hard, Pete stepped forward and lifted a corner of the serape.  Boca’s pretty mouth smiled up at him—­but her eyes were as dead pools in the night.

The full significance of that white face and those dull, unseeing eyes, swept through him like a flame.  “Pardner!” he whispered, and flung himself on his knees beside her, his shadow falling across her head and shoulders.  In the dim light she seemed to be breathing.  Long he gazed at her, recalling her manner as she had raised her glass:  “I drink to the young vaquero, with whom is my heart—­and my life.”

Dully Pete wondered why such things should happen; why he had not been killed instead of the girl, and which one of the three deputies had fired the shot that had killed her.  But no one could ever know that—­for the men had all fired at him when the lamp crashed down—­yet he, closer to them than Boca, had broken through their blundering fusillade.  He knew that Boca had taken a great risk—­and that she must have known it also.  And she had taken that risk that he might win free.

Too stunned and shaken to reason it out to any definite conclusion, Pete characteristically accepted the facts as they were as he thrust aside all thought of right or wrong and gave himself over to tearless mourning for that which Boca had been.  That dead thing with dark, staring eyes and faintly smiling lips was not Boca.  But where was she then?

Slowly the lamplight paled as dawn fought through the heavy shadows of the room.  The door swung open noiselessly.  The Spider glanced in and softly closed the door again.