Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, nodded casually to The Spider, and called for a drink.  The Spider, who always officiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling of liquor, noticed that the young stranger’s eyes were clear and steady—­that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he had arrived in Showdown at sunup.  As Pete drank, The Spider sized up his horse—­which looked fresh.  He had already noticed that Pete’s gun hung well down and handy, and assumed correctly that it was not worn for ornament.  The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality—­that the stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense.

Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up and entered the saloon.  The Mexican bore the strange news that four riders were expected to reach Showdown that day—­perhaps by noon.  Then The Spider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched in a high key yet was little more than a whisper.

The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly.  The Spider had cursed him for a loud-mouthed fool.  Again came that sinister whisper, like the rush of a high wind in the reeds.  The Mexican turned and silently left the room.  When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glanced up, the Spider’s eyes were fixed on Pete’s horse, which had swung around as the Mexican departed.  The Spider’s deep-set eyes shifted to Pete, who smiled.  The Spider nodded.  Interpreted this would have read:  “I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand.”  And Pete’s eyes had retorted:  “I sure do.  I was waiting for you to say that.”

Still The Spider had not addressed his new guest nor had Pete uttered a word.  It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power.  Pete turned his head and surveyed the long room leisurely.  The Spider pushed the bottle toward him, silently inviting him to drink again.  Pete shook his head.  The Spider hobbled from behind the bar and moving quickly across the room flung open the back door, discovering a patio set with tables and chairs.  Pete nodded.

They were establishing a tentative understanding without speech.  The test was hard for Pete.  The Spider was uncanny—­though quick of movement and shifty of eye—­intensely alive withal.

As for The Spider himself, he was not displeased.  This was but a youth, yet a youth who was not unfamiliar with the fine points of a rendezvous.  The back door opened on a patio and the door in the wall of the patio opened on a corral.  The corral bars opened to the desert—­Pete had almost sensed that, without seeing farther than the patio, and had nodded his approval, without speaking.  The Spider considered this highly commendable.

Pete knew at a glance that The Spider was absolutely without honor—­that his soul was as crooked as his badly bowed legs; and that he called no man friend and meant it.