It was Pony Baxter who gave the names of the dead gunmen to the police, confirming the records of White-Eye, Pino, Longtree, and Jim Ewell—­known as The Spider.  The identity of the fourth man, he of the deformed shoulder and shriveled arm, was unknown to Baxter.  The police had no record of him under any alias, and he would have been entered on their report of findings as “unknown,” had not the faro-dealer and the lookout both asserted that The Spider had called him Gary—­in fact had singled him out unmistakenly, asking him what be had to do with the quarrel, which evidently concerned but three of the four men whom The Spider had killed.  Pony Baxter, slowly recovering from an all but fatal gun-shot wound, disclaimed any knowledge of a “frame-up” to get The Spider, stating that, while aware that the gunmen and The Spider were enemies, The Spider’s sudden appearance was as much of a surprise to him as it evidently was to the gunmen—­and Baxter’s serious condition pretty well substantiated this statement.  Baxter’s negro was also questioned—­concerning Baxter’s story and explaining the circumstances under which he had admitted The Spider to the back room.

When confronted with the torn slip of paper on which was written the address of White-Eye, Baxter admitted that he knew of the rendezvous of the gunmen, but refused to explain why he had their address in his possession, and he put a quietus on that phase of the situation by asking the police why they had not raided the place themselves before the shooting occurred, as they seemed to have known of it for several months.  Eventually Baxter and the police “fixed it up.”  The gambler did a thriving business through the notoriety the affair had given him.  Many came to see the rooms where The Spider had made his last venomous fight, men who had never turned a card in their lives, and who doubted the rumors current in the sporting world until actually in the room and listening to the faro-dealer’s cold and impassive account of the men and the battle.  And more often than not these curious souls, who came to scoff, remained to play.

Pete, convalescing rapidly, had asked day after day if he might not be allowed to sit with the other patients who, warmly blanketed, enjoyed the sunshine on the wide veranda overlooking the city.  One morning Andover gave his consent, restricting Pete’s first visit to thirty minutes.  Pete was only too glad of a respite from the monotony of back-rest and pillow, bare walls, and the essential but soul-wearying regularity of professional attention.

Not until Doris had helped him into the wheel-chair did he realize how weak he was.