"Gone loco, eh? Well, she ain't so bad off at that—seein' as you're livin' yet. No, I ain't comin' in. But you can sell me some tortillas, if you got any."
"It will be night soon. If the señor—"
"Go ask the Señora if she has got any tortillas to sell. I wouldn't bush in there on a bet. Don't you worry about my health."
"We are poor, señor! We have this place, and the things—but of the money I know nothing. My wife she has hidden it."
"She ain't so crazy as you think, if that's so. Do you run this place—or are you jest starvin' to death here?"
"There is still a little wine—and we buy what we may need of Mescalero. If you will come in—"
"So they missed old Mescalero! Well, he's lucky. No, I don't come in. I tried boardin' at your house onct."
"Then I will get the tortillas." And Flores shuffled into the saloon. Presently he returned with a half-dozen tortillas wrapped up in an old newspaper. Pete tossed him a dollar, and packing the tortillas in his saddle-pockets, gazed round at the town, the silent and deserted houses, the empty street, and finally at The Spider's place.
Old Flores stood in the doorway staring at Pete with drink-blurred eyes. Pete hesitated. He thought of dismounting and going in and speaking to Flores's wife. But no! It would do neither of them any good. Flores had intimated that she had gone crazy. And Pete did not want to talk of Boca—nor hear her name mentioned. "Boca's where she ain't worryin' about anybody," he reflected as he swung round and rode out of town.
Once before he had camped in the same draw, a few miles west of Showdown, and Blue Smoke seemed to know the place, for he had swung from the trail of his own accord, striding straight to the water-hole.