To his surprise the central building was roomy and
furnished with a big table, many chairs, and a phonograph, while the
floor was carpeted with Navajo blankets, and a big shaded hanging lamp
illumined the table on which were scattered many dog-eared magazines
and a few newspapers. Pete had remarked upon the stables while turning
his own horse into the corral. "We got some fast ones," was all that
the foreman chose to say, just then.
Pete and the foreman had something to eat in the chuck-house, and
returned to the larger building. Brent read The Spider's letter,
rolled the end of his silver-gray mustache between his thumb and
forefinger, and finally glanced up. "So, you're Pete Annersley?"
"That's my name."
"Have a chair. You're right young to be riding alone. How did you
come to throw in with The Spider?"
Pete hesitated. Why should he tell this man anything other than that
he had been sent by The Spider with the letter which--he had been
told--would explain his presence and embody his instructions?
"Don't he say in that letter?" queried Pete.
"He says you were mixed up in a bank robbery over to Enright," stated
the foreman.
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