“Forget it,” said The Spider.

Showdown dozed in the desert heat.  The street was deserted.  The Mexican who helped about the saloon was asleep in the patio.  The Spider opened a new pack of cards, shuffled them, and began a game of solitaire.  Occasionally he glanced out into the glare, blinking and muttering to himself.  Malvey and Pete had been gone about an hour when a lean dog that had lain across from the hitching-rail, rose, shook himself, and turned to gaze up the street.  The Spider called to the man in the patio.  He came quickly.  “I’m expecting visitors,” said The Spider in Mexican.  The other started toward the front doorway, but The Spider called him back with a word, and gestured to the door back of the bar—­the doorway to The Spider’s private room.  The Mexican entered the room and closed the door softly, drew up a chair, and sat close to the door in the attitude of one who listens.  Presently he heard the patter of hoofs, the grunt of horses pulled up sharply, and the tread of men entering the saloon.  The Mexican drew his gun and rested his forearm across his knees, the gun hanging easily in his half-closed hand.  He did not know who the men were nor how The Spider had known that they were coming.  But he knew what was expected of him in case of trouble.  The Spider sat directly across from the door behind the bar.  Any one talking with him would be between him and the door.

“Guess we’ll have a drink—­and talk later,” said Houck.  The Spider glanced up from his card-game, and nodded casually.

The sound of shuffling feet, and the Mexican knew that the strangers were facing the bar.  He softly bolstered his gun.  While he could not understand English, he knew by the tone of the conversation that these men were not the enemies of his weazened master.

“Seen anything of a kind of dark-complected young fella wearin’ a black Stetson and ridin’ a blue roan?” queried Houck.

“Where was he from?” countered The Spider.

“The Concho, and ridin’ a hoss with the Concho brand.”

“Wanted bad?”

“Yes—­a whole lot.  He shot Steve Gary yesterday.”

“Gary of the T-Bar-T?”

“The same—­and a friend of mine,” interpolated the cowboy Simpson.

“Huh!  You say he’s young—­just a kid?”

“Yes.  But a dam’ tough kid.”

“Pete Annersley, eh?  Not the Young Pete that was mixed up in that raid a few years ago?”

“The same.”

“No—­I didn’t see anything of him,” said The Spider.

“We trailed him down this way.”

The Spider nodded.

“And we mean to keep right on ridin’—­till we find him,” blurted Simpson.

Houck realized that The Spider knew more than he cared to tell.  Simpson had blundered in stating their future plans, Houck tried to cover the blunder.  “We like to get some chuck—­enough to carry us back to the ranch.”