From the general conversation at the table that evening Pete gathered that queer visitors came to this place frequently. It was a kind of isolated, halfway house between the border and Showdown. He heard the name of "Scar-Face," "White-Eye," "Sonora Jim," "Tio Verdugo," a rare assortment of border vagabonds known by name to the cowboys of the high country. The Spider was frequently mentioned. It was evident that he had some peculiar influence over the Flores household, from the respectful manner in which his name was received by the whole family. And Pete, unfamiliar with the goings and comings of those men, their quarrels, friendships, and sinister escapades, ate and listened in silence, realizing that he too had earned a tentative place among them. He found himself listening with keen interest to Malvey's account of a machine-gun duel between two white men,—renegades and leaders in opposing factions below the border,—and how one of them, shot through and through, stuck to his gun until he had swept the plaza of enemy sharp-shooters and had then crawled on hands and knees to the other machine gun, killed its wounded operator with a six-shooter, and turned the machine gun on his fleeing foes, shooting until the Mexicans of his own company had taken courage enough to return and rescue him. "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 cañon at the faint stars of an early evening. With the wine, old Flores's manner changed from surly indifference to a superficial politeness which in no way deceived Pete. And Malvey, whose intent was plainly to get drunk, boasted of his doings on either side of the line. He hinted that he had put more than one Mexican out of the way—and he slapped Flores on the back—and Flores laughed. He spoke of raids on the horse-herds of white men, and through some queer perversity inspired in his drink, openly asserted that he was the "slickest hoss-thief in Arizona," turning to Pete as he spoke.
"I'll take your word for it," said Pete.
"But what's the use of settin' out here like a couple of dam' buzzards when the ladies are waitin' for us in there?" queried Malvey, and be leered at Flores.
The old Mexican grunted and rose stiffly. They entered the 'dobe, Malvey insisting that Pete come in and hear Boca sing.
"I can listen out here." Pete was beginning to hate Malvey, with the cold, deliberate hatred born of instinct. As for old Flores, Pete despised him heartily. A man that could hear his countrymen called "a dirty bunch of Greasers," and have nothing to say, was a pretty poor sort of a man.