"And
he's in El Paso now," concluded Malvey, "at the hospital. He writ to
The Spider for money--and The Spider sure sent it to him."
"Who was he fightin' for?" queried Pete, interested in spite of himself.
"Fightin' for? For hisself! Because he likes the game. You don't
want to git the idea that any white man is down there fightin' just to
help a lot of dirty Greasers--on either side of the scrap."
A quick and significant glance shot from Boca's eyes to her mother's.
Old Flores ate stolidly. If he had heard he showed no evidence of it.
"'Bull' Malvey! A darn good name for him," thought Pete. And he felt
a strange sense of shame at being in his company. He wondered if
Flores were afraid of Malvey or simply indifferent to his raw talk.
And Pete--who had never gone out of his way to make a friend--decided
to be as careful of what he said as Malvey was careless. Pete had
never lacked nerve, but he was endowed with considerable caution--a
fact that The Spider had realized and so had considered him worth the
trouble of hiding--as an experiment.
After supper the men sat out beneath the vine-covered portal--Malvey
and Flores with a wicker-covered demijohn of wine between them--and
Pete lounging on the doorstep, smoking and gazing across the canon at
the faint stars of an early evening.
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