Shriveled and aged beyond his natural years, with scarcely a true friend among his acquaintances, weary of the monotony of life—­not in incident but in prospect—­too shrewd to drug himself with drink, and realizing that the money he had got together both by hook and by crook and banked in El Paso could never make him other than he was, he faced the alternative of binding himself to Pete’s dire need and desperate condition, or riding to Baxter and taking the train from thence to El Paso—­his eyes open to what he was doing, both as a self-appointed Samaritan and as a much-wanted individual in the town where Pete lay unconscious, on the very last thin edge of Nothingness.

The Spider’s preparations for leaving Showdown were simple enough.  He had his Mexican bale and cord the choicest of the rugs and blankets, the silver-studded saddle and bridle, the Bayeta cloth—­rare and priceless—­and the finest of his Indian beadwork.  Each bale was tagged, and on each tag was written the name of Boca’s mother.  All these things were left in his private room, which he locked.  Whether or not he surmised what was going to happen is a question—­but he did not disregard possibilities.

His Mexican was left in charge of the saloon with instructions to keep it open as usual, tell no one where his master had gone, and wait for further instructions.

The Spider chose a most ordinary horse from his string and wore a most ordinary suit of clothes.  The only things in keeping with his lined and weathered face were his black Stetson and his high-heeled boots.  He knew that it would be impossible to disguise himself.  He would be foolish to make the attempt.  His bowed legs, the scar running from chin to temple, his very gait made disguise impossible.  To those who did not know him he would be an “old-timer” in from the desert.  To those who did know him . . .  Well, they were not many nor over-anxious to advertise the fact.

He left at night, alone, and struck south across the desert, riding easily—­a shrunken and odd figure, but every inch a horseman.  Just beneath his unbuttoned vest, under his left arm, hung the service-polished holster of his earlier days.  He had more than enough money to last him until he reached El Paso, and a plentiful stock of cigars.  It was about nine o’clock next morning when he pulled up at Flores’s ’dobe and dismounted stiffly.  Flores was visibly surprised and fawningly obsequious.  His chief was dressed for a long journey.  It had been many years since The Spider had ridden so far from Showdown.  Something portentous was about to happen, or had happened.

Flores’s wife, however, showed no surprise, but accepted The Spider’s presence in her usual listless manner.  To her he addressed himself as she made coffee and placed a chair for him.  They talked of Boca—–­and once The Spider spoke of Boca’s mother, whom the Senora Flores had known in Mexico.