himself.  “He knew me all right.”  The Spider shrugged his shoulders.  His hunch had proved itself.  There was still time to leave town, but the fact that White-Eye had recognized him and had not spoken was an insidious challenge, the kind of a challenge which a killer never lets pass.  For the killer, strangely enough, is drawn to his kind through the instinct of self-preservation, a psychological paradox to the layman, who does not understand that peculiar pride of the gunman which leads him to remove a menace rather than to avoid it.  Curiosity as to a rival’s ability, his personal appearance, his quality of nerve, the sound of his voice, has drawn many noted killers together—­each anxious to prove conclusively that he was the better man.  And this curiosity, driven by the high nervous tension of the man who must ever be on the alert, is insatiable, and is assuaged only by insanity or his own death.  The removal of a rival does not satisfy this hunger to kill, but rather creates a greater hunger, until, without the least provocation, the killer will shoot down a man merely to satisfy temporarily this inhuman and terrible craving.  The killer veritably feeds upon death, until that universal abhorrence of the abnormal, triumphant in the end, adjusts the quivering balance—­and Boot Hill boasts one more wooden cross.

The Spider, limping up the stairway to his room, knew that he would not leave El Paso, knew that he could not leave the town until satisfied as to what White-Eye’s silence meant.  And not only that, but he would find out.  He lighted the oil-lamp on the dresser and gazed at himself in the glass.  Then he took off his coat, shaved, washed, and put on a clean shirt and collar.  He took some gold and loose silver from his money-belt, put on his hat and coat, and hobbled downstairs.  He thought he knew where he could get word of White-Eye’s whereabouts, stopped at a cigar-stand and telephoned for his cab—­and his regular driver.  In a few minutes the cab was at the corner.  He mentioned a street number to the driver, who nodded knowingly.  Pony Baxter’s place—­where the game ran big.  No place for a tin-horn.  Only the real ones played at Pony’s.  So this old-timer who paid so well was going to take a whirl at the game?  The cabby thought he saw a big tip coming.  Being somewhat of a sportsman in his way, and grateful for what The Spider had already done for him, he drew up within a block of his destination and, stepping down, told The Spider that Pony’s place was being watched—­and had been for more than a week:  that the bulls were out for some strangers who were wanted bad.

The Spider showed no sign of surprise.  “Suppose I was one of ’em, eh?” he queried.

“That’s none of my business, Captain.  I ain’t workin’ for the force; I’m workin’ for myself.”

“All right.  I’ll walk down to Pony’s place.  After I go up, you can drive down there and wait.  I may be five minutes—­or a couple of hours.  Here’s something to make you forget who you’re waiting for if anybody should ask you.”