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Neither spoke until a Mexican, quite evidently in haste, rode up and
entered the saloon. The Mexican bore the strange news that four riders
were expected to reach Showdown that day--perhaps by noon. Then The
Spider spoke, and Pete was startled by the voice, which was pitched in
a high key yet was little more than a whisper.
The Mexican began to expostulate shrilly. The Spider had cursed him
for a loud-mouthed fool. Again came that sinister whisper, like the
rush of a high wind in the reeds. The Mexican turned and silently left
the room. When Pete, who had pretended absorption in thought, glanced
up, the Spider's eyes were fixed on Pete's horse, which had swung
around as the Mexican departed. The Spider's deep-set eyes shifted to
Pete, who smiled. The Spider nodded. Interpreted this would have
read: "I see you ride a horse with the Concho brand." And Pete's eyes
had retorted: "I sure do. I was waiting for you to say that."
Still The Spider had not addressed his new guest nor had Pete uttered a
word. It was a sort of cool, deliberate duel of will power.


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