TEE VOICE OF THE COYOTE
When Sanderson regained consciousness he was lying on his back on a
board floor. His head seemed to have been smashed, he was dizzy and
weak, but he sat up and looked around him.
Then he grinned wanly.
He was in jail. A heavy, barred door was in front of him; turning his
head he saw an iron-grated window behind him. Door and window were set
in heavy stone walls; two other stone walls, with a narrow iron cot set
against one of them, rose blankly on either side.
Sanderson got up, reeling, and went to the window. Darkness had come;
he could see Okar's lights flickering and winking at him from the
buildings that skirted the street. Various sounds reached his
ears--Okar's citizens were enjoying themselves.
Sanderson did not watch the lights long. He walked to the cot, seated
himself on its edge, rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in the
upturned palms of his hands and reflected on what had occurred to him.
Remembering the four thousand dollars in bills of large denomination
that Burroughs had paid him when leaving the Pig-Pen, his hand went to
the money belt around his waist.
Belt and money were gone!
Sanderson got up again, walked to the door and called.
A heavy-featured man slouched down the corridor and halted near the
door.
"Awake, eh?" he grinned. "Dale sure did hand it to you--now, didn't
he? Well," he added as Sanderson's lips straightened at his words,
"what's eatin' you?"
"I had a belt with some money in it--four thousand. What's become of
it?"
"Four thousand!" the man jeered. "That bump on the head is still
affectin' you, I reckon. Four thousand--shucks!" He laughed. "Well,
I ain't seen it--if that's any consolation to you. If you'd had it
when you come here I'd sure seen it."
"Who brought me here?"
"Dale and his first deputy--the guy you poked in the stummick, over in
the Okar Hotel. They tell me you fi't like hell! What's Dale got
ag'in' you? Be sure was some het up about you."
Sanderson did not answer. He turned his back to the jailer and walked
to the cot, again sitting on its edge. He heard the jailer sniff
contemptuously, but he paid no attention to him.
Prominent in Sanderson's thoughts was the realization that Dale had
taken his money. He knew that was the last of it--Dale would not admit
taking it. Sanderson had intended to use the four thousand on the
Double A irrigation project. The sum, together with the three thousand
he meant to draw from the Okar bank, would have been enough to make a
decent start.
Sanderson had some bitter thoughts as he sat on the edge of the cot,
all of them centering around Dale, Silverthorn, Maison, Owen, Mary
Bransford, and himself. He realized that he had been defeated in the
first clash with the forces opposed to him, that Owen had turned
traitor, that Mary Bransford's position now was more precarious than it
had been before his coming, and that he had to deal with resourceful,
desperate, and unscrupulous men.
And yet, sitting there at the edge of the cot, Sanderson grinned. The
grin did not make his face attractive, for it reflected something of
the cold, bitter humor and savage passion that had gripped his soul.
At noon the next day Sanderson, looking out of the window of his cell;
heard a sound at the door. He turned, to see Silverthorn standing in
the corridor.
Silverthorn smiled blandly at him.
"Over it, I see," he said. "They used you rather roughly, eh? Well,
they tell me you made them step some."
Sanderson deliberately turned his back and continued to look out of the
window.
"On your dignity, eh?" sneered Silverthorn. "Well, let me tell you
something. We've heard a lot about you--from Dal Colton and Barney
Owen. Morley--one of our men--got Owen soused last night, as per
orders, and Owen spilled his knowledge of you all over the town. It's
pretty well known, now, that you are Deal Sanderson, from down
Tombstone way.
"I don't know what your game was, but I think it's pretty well queered
by now. I suppose you had some idea of impersonating Bransford, hoping
to get a slice of the property. I don't blame you for trying. It was
up to us to see that you didn't get away with it.
"But we don't want to play hog. If you'll admit before a notary that
you are not Will Bransford we'll hand you back the four thousand Dale
took from you, give you ten thousand in addition and safe conduct out
of the county. That strike you?"
Sanderson did not answer.
Silverthorn's face reddened. "You're a damned fool!" he sneered,
venomously. "We'll keep you in jail here for a thousand years, if
necessary. We'll do worse!
"Look here!" he suddenly said. But Sanderson did not turn.
Silverthorn rattled a paper.
"Here's a withdrawal slip on the Okar bank, calling for three thousand
two hundred dollars, signed by Will Bransford. Barney Owen drew the
money last night and blew it in gambling and drinking. He says he's
been signing Bransford's name--forging it--at your orders. The
signature he put on this paper is a dead ringer for the one on the
registry blank you gave Dale.
"Dale saw Owen sign that. That's why he knew you are not Will
Bransford. Understand? Maison will swear you signed the withdrawal
slip and got the money. We'll prove that you are not Bransford, and
you'll go to the Las Vegas pen for twenty years! Now, let's talk
business!"
Sanderson turned. There was a mirthless grin on his face. He spoke
loudly, calling the jailer.
When the latter appeared in the corridor beside Silverthorn, Sanderson
addressed him without looking at the other:
"You ain't on your job a heap, are you? There's a locoed coyote
barkin' at me through the door, there. Run him out, will you--he's
disturbin' me plenty."
He turned from the door, stretched himself on the cot, and with his
face to the wall listened while Silverthorn cursed.