“Suits me,” said a deputy.  His companions nodded.

“Then let’s get busy.  The sand’s loose here.  We can drag a blanket over this—­and leave the rest to the coyotes.”

They scraped a long, shallow hole in the arroyo-bed and buried Malvey along with his saddle and bridle.

The Spider smiled as he saw them coming.  He was still smiling as he watched them ride up the street and tie their tired ponies to the hitching-rail.  He identified the led horse as the one Malvey had stolen from Pete.

“I see you got him,” he said in his high-pitched voice.

The chief deputy nodded.  “He’s planted—­out there.”

“I meant the horse,” said The Spider.

Ordinarily, The Spider was a strange man.  The posse thought him unusually queer just then.  His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiar faint, bluish film.  His manner was over-deliberate.  There was something back of it all that they could not fathom.  Moreover, the place was darkened.  Some one had hung blankets over the windows.  The deputies—­four of them—­followed The Spider into the saloon.

“I guess you boys want to eat,” said The Spider.

“We sure do.”

“All right.  I’ll have Manuelo get you something.”  And he called to the Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room—­The Spider’s own room, back of the bar.  While the Mexican prepared breakfast, the posse accepted their chief’s invitation to have a drink, which they felt they needed.  Presently The Spider led the way to his room.  The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold as they peered in.  A lamp was burning on the table.  There were plates, knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon . . .  Beyond the lamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them.  His eyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep.

The Spider held up his hand.  “You’re planted—­out there.  These gentlemen say so.  So you ain’t here!”

Pete’s belt and gun lay on the floor.  The Spider was in his shirt-sleeves and apparently unarmed.

The chief deputy sized up the situation in a flash and pulled his gun.  “I guess we got you—­this trip, Pete.”

“No,” said The Spider.  “You’re wrong.  He’s planted—­out there.  What you staring at, boys?  Pete, stand over there.  Come right in, boys!  Come on in!  I got something to show you.”

“Watch the door, Jim,” said the chief.  “Ed, you keep your eye on The Spider.”  The chief deputy stepped to the table and peered across it at a huddled something on the couch, over which was thrown a shimmering serape.  He stepped round the table and lifted a corner of the serape.  Boca’s sightless eyes stared up at him.

“Christ!” he whispered.  “It’s the girl!” And even as he spoke he knew what had happened—­that he and his men were responsible for this.  His hand shook as he turned toward The Spider.