“She—­she ran into it when she—­ It’s pretty tough, but—­”

“Your breakfast is waiting,” said The Spider.

“This was accidental,” said the deputy, recovering himself, and glancing from one to another of his men.  Then he turned to Pete.  “Pete, you’ll have to ride back with us.”

“No,” said The Spider with a peculiar stubborn shrug of his shoulders.  “He’s planted out there.  You said so.”

“That’s all right, Spider.  We made a mistake.  This is the man we want.”

“Then who is planted out there?” queried The Spider in a soft, sing-song voice, high-pitched and startling.

“That’s our business,” stated the deputy.

“No—­mine!” The Spider glanced past the deputy, who turned to face a Mexican standing in the doorway.  The Mexican’s hands were held belt high and they were both “filled.”

“Get the first man that moves,” said The Spider in Mexican.  And as he spoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the stroke of a snake.  Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, as cold as the eyes of a rattler.  The deputy read his own doom and the death of at least two of his men should he move a muscle.  He had Young Pete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed.  The deputy lowered his gun.

Pete blinked and drew a deep breath.  “Give me a gun, Spider—­and we’ll shoot it out with ’em, right here.”

The Spider laughed.  “No.  You’re planted out there.  These gents say so.  I’m working this layout.”

“Put up your gun, Ed,” said the chief, addressing the deputy who had The Spider covered.  “He’s fooled us, proper.”

“Let ’em out, one at a time,” and The Spider gestured to the Mexican, Manuelo.  “And tell your friends,” he continued, addressing the chief deputy, “that Showdown is run peaceful and that I run her.”

When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete.  “Want to ride back to Concho?”

Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hear the question.  Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which he had dipped in a water-bucket—­as casually busy as though he had never had a gun in his hand.  Something in the Mexican’s supreme indifference touched Pete’s sense of humor.  He shrugged his shoulders.

“Who’s goin’ to tell her father?” he queried, gesturing toward the inner room.

“He knows,” said The Spider, who stood staring at the Mexican.

“You’re drunk,” said Pete.

“Maybe I’m drunk,” echoed The Spider.  “But I’m her father.”

Pete stepped forward and gazed into The Spidery scarred and lined face.  “Hell!” Then he thrust out his hand.  “Spider, I reckon I’ll throw in with you.”

CHAPTER XXVI

THE OLLA