The chief deputy nodded. "He's planted—out there."
"I meant the horse," said The Spider.
Ordinarily, The Spider was a strange man. The posse thought him unusually queer just then. His eyes seemed dulled with a peculiar faint, bluish film. His manner was over-deliberate. There was something back of it all that they could not fathom. Moreover, the place was darkened. Some one had hung blankets over the windows. The deputies—four of them—followed The Spider into the saloon.
"I guess you boys want to eat," said The Spider.
"We sure do."
"All right. I'll have Manuelo get you something." And he called to the Mexican, telling him to place a table in the private room—The Spider's own room, back of the bar. While the Mexican prepared breakfast, the posse accepted their chief's invitation to have a drink, which they felt they needed. Presently The Spider led the way to his room. The deputies, somewhat suspicious, hesitated on the threshold as they peered in. A lamp was burning on the table. There were plates, knives and forks, a coffee-pot, a platter of bacon… Beyond the lamp stood Young Pete, his back toward the couch and facing them. His eyes were like the eyes of one who walks in his sleep.
The Spider held up his hand. "You're planted—out there. These gentlemen say so. So you ain't here!"
Pete's belt and gun lay on the floor. The Spider was in his shirt-sleeves and apparently unarmed.
The chief deputy sized up the situation in a flash and pulled his gun. "I guess we got you—this trip, Pete."
"No," said The Spider. "You're wrong. He's planted—out there. What you staring at, boys? Pete, stand over there. Come right in, boys! Come on in! I got something to show you."