"Again you jest—but I will speak. You will not kill Malvey, yet you shall find your own horse. You will be hunted by men, but you will not always be as you are now. Some day you will have wealth, and then it is that you will remember this night. You will come again at night, and alone—but Boca will not be here. You will grow weary of life from much suffering, even as I. Then it is that you will think of these days and many days to come—and these days shall be as wine in your old age—" Boca's mother paused as though listening. "But like wine—" and again she paused.
"Headache?" queried Pete. "Well, I know how that feels, without the wine. That fortune sounds good to me—all except that about Boca. Now, mebby you could tell me which way Malvey was headed?"
"He has ridden to Showdown."
"So that red-headed hoss-thief fanned it right back to his boss, eh? He must 'a' thought I was fixed for good."
"It is his way. Men spake truly when they called him the bull. He is big—but he is as a child."
"Well, there's goin' to be one mighty sick child for somebody to nurse, right soon," stated Pete.
"I have said that it is bad that you ride to Showdown. But you will go there—and he whom men call The Spider—he shall be your friend—even with his life."
As quietly as she came the Mexican woman departed, leaving Boca and Pete gazing at each other in the dusk. "She makes me afraid sometimes," whispered Boca.
"Sounds like she could jest plumb see what she was talkin' about. Kind of second-sight, I reckon. Wonder why she didn't put me wise to Malvey when I lit in here with him? It would 'a' saved a heap of trouble."
"It is the dream," said Boca. "These things she has seen in a dream."