"Get the first man that moves," said The Spider in Mexican. And as he spoke his own hand flashed to his armpit, and out again like the stroke of a snake. Behind his gun gleamed a pair of black, beady eyes, as cold as the eyes of a rattler. The deputy read his own doom and the death of at least two of his men should he move a muscle. He had Young Pete covered and could have shot him down; Pete was unarmed. The deputy lowered his gun.
Pete blinked and drew a deep breath. "Give me a gun, Spider—and we'll shoot it out with 'em, right here."
The Spider laughed. "No. You're planted out there. These gents say so. I'm working this layout."
"Put up your gun, Ed," said the chief, addressing the deputy who had The Spider covered. "He's fooled us, proper."
"Let 'em out, one at a time," and The Spider gestured to the Mexican, Manuelo. "And tell your friends," he continued, addressing the chief deputy, "that Showdown is run peaceful and that I run her."
When they were gone The Spider turned to Pete. "Want to ride back to Concho?"
Pete, who had followed The Spider to the saloon, did not seem to hear the question. Manuelo was already sweeping out with a broom which he had dipped in a water-bucket—as casually busy as though he had never had a gun in his hand. Something in the Mexican's supreme indifference touched Pete's sense of humor. He shrugged his shoulders.
"Who's goin' to tell her father?" he queried, gesturing toward the inner room.
"He knows," said The Spider, who stood staring at the Mexican.
"You're drunk," said Pete.