owdown, and directly away from
where they were searching the desert for him. And as Pete rode, he
thought continually of Boca. Unaware of what had happened--yet he
realized that she had been in great danger. This worried him--an
uncertainty that became an obsession--until he could no longer master
it with reason. He had ridden free from present hazard, unscratched
and foot-loose, with many hours of darkness before him in which to
evade the posse. He would be a fool to turn back. And yet he did,
slowly, as though an invisible hand were on his bridle-rein; forcing
him to ride against his judgment and his will. He reasoned, shrewdly,
that the posse would be anywhere but at The Spider's place, just then.

In an hour he had returned and was knocking at the door, surprised that
the saloon was closed.

At Pete's word, the door opened. The Spider, ghastly white in the
lamplight, blinked his surprise.

"Playin' a hunch," stated Pete. And, "Boca here?" he queried, as he
entered.

"In there," said The Spider, and he took the lamp from the bar.

"What's the use of wakin' her?" said Pete. "I come back--I got a
hunch--that somethin' happened when I made my get-away. But if she's
all right--"

"You won't wake her," said The Spider, and his voice sounded strange
and far-away. "You better go in there."

A hot flash shot through Pete. Then came the cold sweat of a dread
anticipation. He followed The Spider to where Boca lay on the couch,
as though asleep. Pete turned swiftly, questioning with his eyes. The
Spider set the lamp on the table and backed from the room. Breathing
hard, Pete stepped forward and lifted a corner of the serape. Boca's
pretty mouth smiled up at him--but her eyes were as dead pools in the
night.

The full significance of that white face and those dull, unseeing eyes,
swept through him like a flame. "Pardner!" he whispered, and flung
himself on his knees beside her, his shadow falling across her head and
shoulders. In the dim light she seemed to be breathing. Long he gazed
at her, recalling her manner as she had raised her glass: "I drink to
the young vaquero, with whom is my heart--_and my life_."

Dully Pete wondered why such things should happen; why he had not been
killed instead of the girl, and which one of the three deputies had
fired the shot that had killed her. But no one could ever know
that--for the men had all fired at him when the lamp crashed down--yet
he, closer to th