Young Pete was not to know of this until long after the knowledge could have had any value in shaping his career. Bailey, with two of his men, traced Pete as far as Showdown, where the trail went blind, ending with The Spider's apparently sincere assertion that he knew nothing whatever of Peters whereabouts.
Paradoxically, those very qualities which won him friends now kept Pete from those friends. The last place toward which he would have chosen to ride would have been the Concho—and the last man he would have asked for help would have been Jim Bailey. Pete felt that he was doing pretty well at creating trouble for himself without entangling his best friends.
"Got to kill to live," he reiterated.
"Como 'sta, señor?" Old Flores had just stepped from behind the crumbling 'dobe wall of the stable.
"Well, it ain't your fault I ain't a-furnishin' a argument for the coyotes."
"The señor would insult Boca. He was drunk," said Flores.
"Hold on there! Don't you go cantelopin' off with any little ole idea like that sewed up in your hat. Which señor was drunk?"
Flores shrugged his shoulders. "Who may say?" he half-whined.
"Well, I can, for one," asserted Pete. "You was drunk and Malvey was drunk, and the two of you dam' near fixed me. But that don't count—now. Where's my hoss?"
"Quien sabe?"