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THE COYOTE
THE COYOTE
A Western Story
By JAMES ROBERTS
CHELSEA HOUSE
79 SEVENTH AVENUE--NEW YORK CITY
The Coyote
Copyright, 1925, by CHELSEA HOUSE
(Printed in the United States of America)
All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Rewards Offered 11
II. A Boy and a Girl 17
III. The Law 24
IV. "I Knew He Lied!" 32
V. A Capture 38
VI. The Real Low-Down 45
VII. Where to Hide 52
VIII. Two Queer Moves 57
IX. Leave It to Me 65
X. Caught in the Cellar 71
XI. Freedom Behind Bars 77
XII. Against His Ethics 87
XIII. A Man and His Horse 93
XIV. The Witness 98
XV. The Welcome 106
XVI. The Dixie's Boss 114
XVII. A Commission 121
XVIII. In the Night 129
XIX. Quick Turns 136
XX. Appeal to the Law 145
XXI. A Capture 151
XXII. A Second Capture 160
XXIII. Quick Facts 165
XXIV. The Show-down 170
XXV. Filed! 175
XXVI. The Prodigal 179
XXVII. The Desert Code 185
XXVIII. A Night Summons 194
XXIX. Gunmen 201
XXX. The Sheriff's Plight 207
XXXI. A New Count 215
XXXII. The Compass Fails 220
XXXIII. Fast Work 224
XXXIV. The Compass Wavers 230
XXXV. Guns in the Night 235
XXXVI. The Loot 242
XXXVII. The Test of a Man 245
XXXVIII. Ten Miles' Start 250
THE COYOTE
CHAPTER I
REWARDS OFFERED
The sign on the tree attracted the man's attention while he was still
far down the slope. He could see the tall pine on the crest of the
ridge above a veritable landmark in that country of stunted timber,
and the square of paper, tacked to its trunk under the lowest
branches, gleamed white against the background of vivid green.
The air was clear, and every detail of the landscape--the red rocks,
the saffron-colored slopes, the green pines and firs and buck brush,
the white cliffs--everything within sight for miles stood out,
clean-cut in the brilliant sunshine which flooded the empty land under
a cloudless sky.
When the man, mounted on a lean, dun-colored horse, first looked up at
a turn of the narrow trail and saw the sign, he grunted. Then he
frowned and looked back along the way he had come with a glowing light
of reflection in his gray eyes. He was a tall man, slim and muscular,
clean-shaven, his face and hands bronzed by sun and wind, and his face
open and good-natured. A shock of blond hair showed where his gray,
wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat was pushed back from his high
forehead.
His dress, though typical of the country which he traversed, was
distinctive, or it might have been a certain natural grace that made
it seem so. He wore a light-gray, soft shirt made of French flannel, a
dark-blue silk scarf, leather chaps over olive-drab khaki trousers,
black, hand-sewed riding boots which displayed their polish despite a
coating of fine dust, silver spurs, and, strapped to his right thigh,
was a worn leather holster, natural color, from which protruded the
black butt of a six-gun.
On the back of his saddle was tied a black slicker, the raincoat of
the open country, which bulged with a medium-sized pack done up within
it.
One would have taken him to be thirty, perhaps a year or two more when
his face was serious; but when he smiled, that is, when he smiled
naturally, he looked little more in years than a youth who has just
attained his majority.
When he smiled the other smile--the smile he now expressed as he
looked up the slope toward the tall pine with the white square of
paper on its trunk--one would have forgotten the smile because of the
sinister, steel-blue look in his eyes, and the direct, piercing
quality of his gaze.
He walked his horse up the winding trail. His right foot was clear of
the stirrup, and he swung it idly. His left hand, in which he held the
reins, rested lightly on the horn of his saddle, and his right gripped
the cantle at his back. He hummed a ditty of the desert, but his gaze,
keen and alert, continually sought the open stretches of trail above
him, and at regular intervals flashed back along the way he had come.
In time he reached the top of the ridge and pulled up his horse near
the tree bearing the poster. He dismounted and walked slowly up a
little grade to where he could the better read the legend on the
paper.
It was printed in large letters, but recent rain had somewhat faded
it.
FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD
This will be paid for
THE COYOTE
dead or alive, by San Jacinto County.
JUDSON BROWN, J. P.,
Dry Lake.
This man is tall and light in complexion, gray or blue eyes, good
teeth, his horse said branded CC2, keeps himself neat, dangerous with
gun, squints when mad. Bring him in and get the money.
The man swore softly as he read the last sentence. "Bring him in an'
get the money," he said snortingly. "You'd think they was talkin'
about a locoed steer that just had to be roped an' drug, or shot an'
hauled. Bring him in an' get the money!"
There was genuine indignation in his tone as he repeated the offensive
sentence.
"Well, it can't be me," he said facetiously, aloud. "My name's
Rathburn--a right good name." His eyes clouded. "A right good name
till they began to tamper with it," he muttered with a frown as he lit
a cigarette he had built while perusing the placard.
He took the stub of a lead pencil from the pocket of his shirt. For
some moments he reflected, staring at the sign on the tree trunk. Then
he laboriously printed on its lower edge:
Five thousand dollars more from the State of Arizona if you can get
it.
Rathburn surveyed his work with a grin, replacing the pencil in his
shirt pocket. Then he stepped back and drew his gun. He seemed on the
point of sending a half dozen bullets through the paper when he
suddenly shook his head, glanced hurriedly about him, and shoved the
weapon back into its sheath.
He walked quickly to his horse, swung into the saddle, and started
down the trail on the western side of the ridge.
Below him he saw a far-flung vista of rounded, yellow hills, spotted
with the green of small pines and firs. The ground was hard, dry, and
gravelly. There were boulders a-plenty, and long, sharp-edged
outcroppings of hard rock of a reddish hue. There was no sign of
habitation to be glimpsed from the trail leading down from the high
ridge which he had crossed. He continually looked about him with the
interested air of a man who is venturing into a new locality with
which he is not familiar.
"Dry Lake!" he exclaimed, while his horse pricked up its ears at the
familiar voice. "Good name for it, if it's anywhere in _this_ country.
Hoss, I don't know when we're goin' to drink again. I didn't figure on
hittin' a desert up here."
He rode on at a brisk jog, down and down the winding trail. Then it
led across a number of the round, low hills, ever westward.
As the afternoon wore on, more green brightened the landscape and
patches of grass appeared. Then they came upon a small stream
trickling down from the higher slopes to northward where horse and
rider drank their fill and rested in a quiet, secluded meadow off the
trail.
The man's face was a study as he lay back upon the grass in the cool
shade of a clump of pines. Whimsical and wistful, it was occasionally
lit by a peculiar smile which carried a hint of sadness. His eyes
half closed, dreamily. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward in a
thin spiral in the still air of the altitudes. His horse, with reins
dangling and saddle cinch loosened, cropped the grass which carpeted
the meadow.
Finally the man arose, tightened the cinch in an absent manner,
mounted, and rode back to the trail to continue on his way. At the top
of the next ridge he halted, looking at a little ranch which lay in a
wide valley a mile or two north of the thread of trail which he could
see winding westward. The place looked poor, poverty-stricken, despite
the small field of living green south of the house and the few head of
cattle grazing along the banks of a little stream which wound through
the valley.
For some time the rider sat his horse motionless, frowning in
indecision. Then he touched the dun lightly with his spurs, left the
trail, and struck off to the north, following the ridge. He kept his
gaze focused on the little ranch. The only sign of life which he saw
was a heavily-burdened clothesline flapping in the idle breeze which
at this point was wafted down from the mountains.
When he was almost directly above the small house he turned his mount
down the slope and gaining the floor of the valley, rode at a gallop
for the house. His right hand now rested on his thigh near the
holstered gun.
As he brought his horse to a stop near the front of the house a girl
appeared in the doorway. He looked at her in pleased surprise. Then
his hat swept low in a gesture of courtesy.
"Ma'am, I've found this to be a country of scattered habitations," he
said in a musical bass. "So when I glimpsed your abode from yonder
hills I said to myself, 'Rathburn, you're most powerful hungry; maybe
you better pay a call.'"
His eyes were glowing with an amused light, and a pleasant smile
played upon his lips.
The girl, who had listened curiously, now laughed in welcome. "There
aren't many places between here and Dry Lake," she said; "and I guess
it would be a pretty hot ride to-day. You can water your horse--and
feed him at the barn, if you wish--and I'll get you something to eat,
if you're not particular." Her eyes danced merrily.
"Ma'am!" he exclaimed, with mock severity, "I quit bein' particular
when I was--when I was as young as that youngster."
A boy of ten or twelve had appeared beside the girl.
"Young man, what're those dirt-looking spots on your face?" asked the
stranger, frowning with his eyes but smiling with his lips.
"They _ain't_ dirt spots!" returned the boy with spirit, advancing a
step.
"No?" said the man, feigning intense astonishment. "What _are_ they?"
"They're freckles," answered the boy stoutly.
"Oh--oh, _that's_ what they are," said the stranger with a delighted
laugh. "Won't they wash off?"
"Naw. You can't fool me. You knew what they were!"
"Well, now, maybe so," observed the man as the girl laughingly turned
inside.
"Grub'll be ready by time you are," she called back to him.
"I'll show you where to put your horse," said the boy as the man
looked searchingly up and down the valley.