f his way to tempt the
possibilities.

Shriveled and aged beyond his natural years, with scarcely a true
friend among his acquaintances, weary of the monotony of life--not in
incident but in prospect--too shrewd to drug himself with drink, and
realizing that the money he had got together both by hook and by crook
and banked in El Paso could never make him other than he was, he faced
the alternative of binding himself to Pete's dire need and desperate
condition, or riding to Baxter and taking the train from thence to El
Paso--his eyes open to what he was doing, both as a self-appointed
Samaritan and as a much-wanted individual in the town where Pete lay
unconscious, on the very last thin edge of Nothingness.

The Spider's preparations for leaving Showdown were simple enough. He
had his Mexican bale and cord the choicest of the rugs and blankets,
the silver-studded saddle and bridle, the Bayeta cloth--rare and
priceless--and the finest of his Indian beadwork. Each bale was
tagged, and on each tag was written the name of Boca's mother. All
these things were left in his private room, which he locked. Whether
or not he surmised what was going to happen is a question--but he did
not disregard possibilities.

His Mexican was left in charge of the saloon with instructions to keep
it open as usual, tell no one where his master had gone, and wait for
further instructions.

The Spider chose a most ordinary horse from his string and wore a most
ordinary suit of clothes. The only things in keeping with his lined
and weathered face were his black Stetson and his high-heeled boots.
He knew that it would be impossible to disguise himself. He would be
foolish to make the attempt. His bowed legs, the scar running from
chin to temple, his very gait made disguise impossible. To those who
did not know him he would be an "old-timer" in from the desert. To
those who did know him . . . Well, they were not many nor over-anxious
to advertise the fact.

He left at night, alone, and struck south across the desert, riding
easily--a shrunken and odd figure, but every inch a horseman. Just
beneath his unbuttoned vest, under his left arm, hung the
service-polished holster of his earlier days. He had more than enough
money to last him until he reached El Paso, and a plentiful stock of
cigars. It was about nine o'clock next morning when he pulled up at
Flores's 'dobe and dismounted stiffly. Flores was visibly surprised
and fawningly