Pete shrugged his shoulders and stepped out.  Night was coming swiftly.  He unsaddled Blue Smoke and hobbled him.  The pony strayed off up the stream-bed.  Pete made a fire by the corral, ate some beans which he warmed in the can, drank a cup of coffee, and, raking together some coarse dried grass, turned in and slept until the sound of his pony’s feet on the rocks of the stream-bed awakened him.  He smelt dawn in the air, although it was still dark in the canon, and having in mind the arid stretch between the canon and Showdown, he made breakfast.  He caught up his horse and rode up the trail toward the desert.  On the mesa-edge he re-cinched his saddle and turned toward the north.

Flores, who with his wife was living at The Spider’s place, recognized him at once and invited him in.

“What hit this here town, anyhow?” queried Pete.  “I didn’t see a soul as I come through.”

Flores shrugged his shoulders.  “The vaqueros from over there”—­and he pointed toward the north—­“they came—­and now there is but this left”—­and he indicated the saloon.  “The others they have gone.”

“Cleaned out the town, eh?  Reckon that was the T-Bar-T and the boys from the Blue and the Concho.  How’d they come to miss you?”

“I am old—­and my wife is old—­and after they had drank the wine—­leaving but little for us—­they laughed and said that we might stay and be dam’:  that we were too old to steal cattle.”

“Uh-huh.  Cleaned her out reg’lar!  How’s the senora?”

Flores touched his forehead.  “She is thinking of Boca—­and no one else does she know.”

“Gone loco, eh?  Well, she ain’t so bad off at that—­seein’ as you’re livin’ yet.  No, I ain’t comin’ in.  But you can sell me some tortillas, if you got any.”

“It will be night soon.  If the senor—­”

“Go ask the Senora if she has got any tortillas to sell.  I wouldn’t bush in there on a bet.  Don’t you worry about my health.”

“We are poor, senor!  We have this place, and the things—­but of the money I know nothing.  My wife she has hidden it.”

“She ain’t so crazy as you think, if that’s so.  Do you run this place—­or are you jest starvin’ to death here?”

“There is still a little wine—­and we buy what we may need of Mescalero.  If you will come in—­”

“So they missed old Mescalero!  Well, he’s lucky.  No, I don’t come in.  I tried boardin’ at your house onct.”

“Then I will get the tortillas.”  And Flores shuffled into the saloon.  Presently he returned with a half-dozen tortillas wrapped up in an old newspaper.  Pete tossed him a dollar, and packing the tortillas in his saddle-pockets, gazed round at the town, the silent and deserted houses, the empty street, and finally at The Spider’s place.

Old Flores stood in the doorway staring at Pete with drink-blurred eyes.  Pete hesitated.  He thought of dismounting and going in and speaking to Flores’s wife.  But no!  It would do neither of them any good.  Flores had intimated that she had gone crazy.  And Pete did not want to talk of Boca—­nor hear her name mentioned.  “Boca’s where she ain’t worryin’ about anybody,” he reflected as he swung round and rode out of town.