Old Flores fed The Spider’s horse, meanwhile wondering what had drawn the chief from the security of his web.  He concluded that The Spider was fleeing from some danger—–­the law, perhaps, or from some ancient grudge that had at last found him out to harry him into the desert, a hunted man and desperate.  The Mexican surmised that The Spider had money with him, perhaps all his money—­for local rumor had it that The Spider possessed great wealth.  And of course he would sleep there that night . . .

Upon returning to the ’dobe Flores was told by The Spider to say nothing of having seen him.  This confirmed the old Mexican’s suspicion that The Spider had fled from danger.  And Flores swore by the saints that none should know, while The Spider listened and his thin lips twitched.

“You’d knife me in my bed for less than half the money on me,” he told Flores.

The Mexican started back, as though caught in the very act, and whined his allegiance to The Spider.  Had he not always been faithful?

“No,” said The Spider, “but the senora has.”

Flores turned and shuffled toward the corral.  The Spider, standing in the doorway of the ’dobe, spoke to Flores’s wife over his shoulder:  “If I don’t show up before next Sunday, senora, get your man to take you to Showdown.  Juan will give you the money, and the things I left up there.”

“You will not come back,” said the Mexican woman.

“Don’t know but that you are right—­but you needn’t tell Flores that.”

An hour later The Spider had Flores bring up his horse.  He mounted and turned to glance round the place.  He shrugged his shoulders.  In a few minutes he was lost to sight on the trail south which ran along the canon-bed.

That night he arrived at Baxter, weary and stiff from his long ride.  He put his horse in the livery-stable and paid for its keep in advance—­“a week,” he said, and “I’ll be back.”

Next morning he boarded the local for El Paso.  He sat in the smoking-compartment, gazing out on the hurrying landscape.  At noon he got off the train and entered an eating-house across from the station.  When he again took his seat in the smoker he happened to glance out.  On the platform was a square-built, sombrero’d gentleman, his back to the coach and talking to an acquaintance.  There was something familiar in the set of those shoulders.  The Spider leaned forward that he might catch a glimpse of the man’s face.  Satisfied as to the other’s identity, he leaned back in his seat and puffed his cigar.  The Spider made no attempt to keep from sight.  The square-shouldered man was the town marshal of Hermanas.  As the train pulled out, the marshal turned and all but glanced up when the brakeman, swinging to the steps of the smoker, reached out and playfully slapped him on the shoulder.  The car slid past.  The Spider settled himself in his seat.