He never went anywhere, yet he
accumulated sustenance. He usually had a victim tangled in his web.
It was said that The Spider never let a wounded outlaw die for lack of
proper attention if he considered the outlaw worth saving--as an
investment. And possibly this was the secret of his power, for he was
ever ready to grub-stake or doctor any gentleman in need or wounded in
a desert affair--and he had had a large experience in caring for
gun-shot wounds.
Pete, dismounting at the worn hitching-rail, entered the saloon, nodded
casually to The Spider, and called for a drink. The Spider, who always
officiated at the bar for politic reasons, aside from the selling of
liquor, noticed that the young stranger's eyes were clear and
steady--that he showed no trace of hard night-riding; yet he had
arrived in Showdown at sunup. As Pete drank, The Spider sized up his
horse--which looked fresh. He had already noticed that Pete's gun hung
well down and handy, and assumed correctly that it was not worn for
ornament. The Spider knew that the drink was a mere formality--that
the stranger was not a drinking man in the larger sense.
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