ing the records of White-Eye, Pino, Longtree, and Jim
Ewell--known as The Spider. The identity of the fourth man, he of the
deformed shoulder and shriveled arm, was unknown to Baxter. The police
had no record of him under any alias, and he would have been entered on
their report of findings as "unknown," had not the faro-dealer and the
lookout both asserted that The Spider had called him Gary--in fact had
singled him out unmistakenly, asking him what be had to do with the
quarrel, which evidently concerned but three of the four men whom The
Spider had killed. Pony Baxter, slowly recovering from an all but
fatal gun-shot wound, disclaimed any knowledge of a "frame-up" to get
The Spider, stating that, while aware that the gunmen and The Spider
were enemies, The Spider's sudden appearance was as much of a surprise
to him as it evidently was to the gunmen--and Baxter's serious
condition pretty well substantiated this statement. Baxter's negro was
also questioned--concerning Baxter's story and explaining the
circumstances under which he had admitted The Spider to the back room.

When confronted with the torn slip of paper on which was written the
address of White-Eye, Baxter admitted that he knew of the rendezvous of
the gunmen, but refused to explain why he had their address in his
possession, and he put a quietus on that phase of the situation by
asking the police why they had not raided the place themselves before
the shooting occurred, as they seemed to have known of it for several
months. Eventually Baxter and the police "fixed it up." The gambler
did a thriving business through the notoriety the affair had given him.
Many came to see the rooms where The Spider had made his last venomous
fight, men who had never turned a card in their lives, and who doubted
the rumors current in the sporting world until actually in the room and
listening to the faro-dealer's cold and impassive account of the men
and the battle. And more often than not these curious souls, who came
to scoff, remained to play.

Pete, convalescing rapidly, had asked day after day if he might not be
allowed to sit with the other patients who, warmly blanketed, enjoyed
the sunshine on the wide veranda overlooking the city. One morning
Andover gave his consent, restricting Pete's first visit to thirty
minutes. Pete was only too glad of a respite from the monotony of
back-rest and pillow, bare walls, and the essential but soul-wearying
regularity of