a certain bank in El Paso.
Heretofore, such payments had been made to The Spider's representative
in that city--the president of the Stockmen's Security and Savings
Bank--who had but recently notified The Spider that he could no longer
act in the capacity of agent on account of local suspicion, already
voiced in the current newspapers. Hereafter The Spider would have to
deal directly with the Mexican agents. And The Spider unhesitatingly
chose Pete as his representative, realizing that Pete was shrewdly
capable, fearless, and to be trusted.

Toward evening of the third day out of Showdown, Pete came upon a most
unexpected barrier to his progress--a wire fence stretching east and
west; a seemingly endless succession of diminishing posts. He
estimated that there must he at least forty thousand acres under fence.
According to location, this was The Spider's ranch--the Olla--Pete
reined around and rode along the fence for a mile or so, searching for
a gateway; but the taut barbed wire ran on and on, toward a sun that
was rounding swiftly down to the western horizon. He dismounted and
pulled the staples from several lengths of wire until he had enough
slack to allow the top wire to touch the ground. He stood on the wires
and jockeyed Blue Smoke across, tied him to a post, and tacked the wire
back in place.

Headed south again, he had just passed a clump of chaparral when up
from the draw came a tall, muscular cowboy, riding a big horse--and a
fast one, thought Pete.

"Evenin'," drawled the cowboy--a slow-speaking Texan, who was evidently
waiting for Pete to explain his presence.

"How!--Is this here the Olla ranch?"

"One end of her."

"I'm lookin' for the foreman."

"What name did you say?"

"I didn't say."

"What's your business down this way?" queried the cowboy.

"It's mine. I dunno as it's any of yours."

"So? Now, that's mighty queer! Lookin' for the fo'man, eh? Well, go
ahead and look--they's plenty of room."

"Too much," laughed Pete. "Reckon I got to bush here and do my huntin'
in the mornin'--only"--and Pete eyed the other significantly--"I kind
of hate to bush on the ground. I was bit by a spider onct--"

"A spider, eh? Now that's right comical. What kind of a spider was it
that bit you?"

"Trap-door spider. Only this here one was always home."

"So?" drawled the Texan. "Now, that's right funny. I was bit by a
rattler once. Got the marks on my arm yet."

"Well, if it comes to