“Why—­no.  We’ll tell him.”

“’Cause I aim to take a little walk this afternoon,” asserted Pete, “and mebby he’d kind o’ like to keep me comp’ny.”

“You’ll have company—­if you take a walk,” said one of the detectives significantly.

CHAPTER XL

THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS

Pete did not return to the veranda to finish his puzzle game with little Ruth.  He smiled rather grimly as he realized that he had a puzzle game of his own to solve.  He lay on the cot and his eyes closed as he reviewed the vivid events in his life, from the beginning of the trail, at Concho, to its end, here in El Paso.  It seemed to spread out before him like a great map:  the desert and its towns, the hills and mesas, trails and highways over which men scurried like black and red ants, commingling, separating, hastening off at queer tangents, meeting in combat, disappearing in crevices, reappearing and setting off again in haste, searching for food, bearing strange burdens, scrambling blindly over obstacles—­collectively without seeming purpose—­yet individually bent upon some quest, impetuous and headstrong in their strange activities.  “And gittin’ nowhere,” soliloquized Pete, “except in trouble.”

He thought of the letter from Bailey, and, sitting up, re-read it slowly.  So Steve Gary had survived, only to meet the inevitable end of his kind.  Well, Gary was always hunting trouble . . .  Roth, the storekeeper at Concho, ought to have the number of that gun which Pete packed.  If the sheriff of Sanborn was an old-timer he would know that a man who packed a gun for business reasons did not go round the country experimenting with different makes and calibers.  Only the “showcase” boys in the towns swapped guns.  Ed Brevoort had always used a Luger.  Pete wondered if there had been any evidence of the caliber of the bullet which had killed Brent.  If the sheriff were an old-timer such evidence would not be overlooked.

Pete got up and wandered out to the veranda.  The place was deserted.  He suddenly realized that those who were able had gone to their noon meal.  He had forgotten about that.  He walked back to his room and sat on the edge of his cot.  He was lonesome and dispirited.  He was not hungry, but he felt decidedly empty.  This was the first time that Doris had allowed him to miss a meal, and it was her fault!  She might have called him.  But what did she care?  In raw justice to her—­why should she care?

Pete’s brooding eyes brightened as Doris came in with a tray.  She had thought that he had rather have his dinner there.  “I noticed that you did not come down with the others,” she said.

Pete was angry with himself.  Adam-like he said he wasn’t hungry anyhow.

“Then I’ll take it back,” said Doris sweetly,

Adam-like, Pete decided that he was hungry.  “Miss Gray,” he blurted, “I—­I’m a doggone short-horn!  I’m goin’ to eat.  I sure want to square myself.”