At the top of the cañon trail Pete reined in and tried to get his bearings. But the horse, fighting the bit, seemed to have a clear idea of going somewhere and in the general direction of Showdown. "You ought to know the trail to Showdown," said Pete. "And you ain't tryin' to git back home, so go to it! I'll be right with you."
The heavy, hot wind seethed round him and he bent his head, tying his bandanna across his nose and mouth. The buckskin bored into the night, his unshod hoofs pattering softly on the desert trail. His first "fine frenzy" done, he settled to a swinging trot that ate into the miles ceaselessly. Twice during the ride Pete raised the canteen and moistened his burning throat. Slowly he grew numb to the heat and the bite of the whipping sand, and rode as one in a horrible dream. He had been a fool to ride from comparative safety into this blind furnace of burning wind. Why had he done so? And again and again he asked himself this question, wondering if he were going mad. It had been years and years since he had left the Flores rancho. There was a girl there—Boca Dulzura—or had he dreamed of such a girl? Pete felt the back of his head. "No, it wa'n't a dream," he told himself.
A ghastly dawn burned into Showdown, baring the town's ugliness as it crept from 'dobe to 'dobe as though in search of some living thing to torture with slow fire. The street was a wind-swept emptiness, smooth with fine sand. Pete rode to the hitching-rail. The Spider's place was dumb to his knocking. He staggered round to the western side of the saloon and squatted on his heels. "Water that pony after a while," he muttered. Strange flashes of light danced before his eyes. His head pained dully and he ached all over for lack of sleep. A sudden trampling brought him to his feet. He turned the corner of the saloon just in time to see the buckskin lunge back. The reins snapped like a thread. The pony shook its head and trotted away, circling. Pete followed, hoping that the tangle of dragging rein might stop him.
Half-dazed, Pete followed doggedly, but the horse started to run. Pete staggered back to the hitching-rail, untied the end of the broken rein and tossed it across the street. He did not know why he did this; he simply did it mechanically.
He was again afoot, weak and exhausted from his night's ride. "I reckon that ole Mexican woman—was right," he muttered. "But I got one pardner yet, anyhow," and his hand slid to his holster. "You and me ag'in' the whole dam' town! God, it's hot."
He slumped to the corner of the saloon and squatted, leaning against the wall. He thought of Boca. He could hear her speak his name distinctly. A shadow drifted across his blurred vision. He glanced up. The Spider, naked to the waist, stood looking down at him, leanly grotesque in the dawn light.
"You 're going strong!" said The Spider.
"I want Malvey," whispered Pete.
The Spider's lips twitched. "You'll get some coffee and beans first. Any man that's got enough sand to foot it from Flores here—can camp on me any time—coming or going."
"I'm workin' this case myself," stated Pete sullenly.