saddled Blue
Smoke and rode south toward the Flores rancho. From Flores's place he
would ride on south, across the line to where he could always find
employment for his particular talents. Experience had taught him that
it was useless to go against The Spider, whose warning, whether it were
based on fact or not, was a hint to leave the country.

The posse from Concho, after circling the midnight desert and failing
to find any trace of Pete, finally drew together and decided to wait
until daylight made it possible to track him. As they talked together,
they saw a dim figure coming toward them. Swinging from their course,
they rode abruptly down a draw. Four of them dismounted. The fifth,
the chief deputy, volunteered to ride out and interview the horseman.
The four men on foot covered the opening of the draw, where the trail
passed, and waited.

The deputy sat his horse, as though waiting for some one. Malvey at
once thought of Young Pete--then of The Spider's warning--and finally
that the solitary horseman might be some companion from below the
border, cautiously awaiting his approach. Half-inclined to ride wide,
he hesitated--then loosening his gun he spurred his restless pony
toward the other, prepared to "bull" through if questioned too closely.

Within thirty feet of the deputy Malvey reined in. "You're ridin'
late," he said, with a forced friendliness in his voice.

"This the trail to Showdown?" queried the deputy.

"This is her. Lookin' for anybody in particular?"

"Nope. And I reckon nobody is lookin' for me. I'm ridin my own horse."

It was a chance shot intended to open the way to a parley--and identify
the strange horseman by his voice, if possible. It also was a
challenge, if the unknown cared to accept it as such. Malvey's slow
mind awakened to the situation. A streak of red flashed from his hand
as he spurred straight for the deputy, who slipped from his saddle and
began firing over it, shielded by his pony. A rifle snarled in the
draw. Malvey jerked straight as a soft-nosed slug tore through him.
Another slug shattered his thigh. Cursing, he lunged sideways, as Blue
Smoke bucked. Malvey toppled and fell--an inert bulk in the dim light
of the stars.

The chief deputy struck a match and stooped. "We got the wrong man,"
he called to his companions.

"It's Bull Malvey," said one of the deputies as the match flickered
out. "I knew him in Phoenix."

"Heard of him. He was a wild