The Coyote

by Roberts, James

  “No––no––no!” sobbed the girl.

  “All right; fine, little girl. No one knows anything about it but me, an’ I’m goin’ away. But, listen, girlie, just what was Carlisle to you?”

  A spasm of weeping shook the girl. “Nothing I could help,” she sobbed. “He––I had to do as he said––because––oh, I hate him. I hate him!”

  “There, there,” soothed Rathburn. “I suspected as much, girlie.”

  “He made my father a bad man,” sobbed the girl; “an’ made me go with him or my father would have to go––to––to go–––”

  “Never mind, girlie,” Rathburn interrupted softly. “I don’t want to hear the story. Just keep it to yourself an’ start all over. It ain’t a bad world, girlie, an’ there’s more good men in it than there’s bad. Now, you can begin to live and be happy like you ought. Carlisle won’t worry you no more.”

  She raised her head and looked at him out of startled eyes in which there was a ray of hope.

  “You say––he won’t––worry me–––”

  “Not at all, girlie. He walked into his own trap. I’m goin’, girlie. So long, an’ good luck.”

  He took her hand and pressed it, and under the spell of his smile the hope came into her welling eyes.

  “Good-by,” he called from the doorway.

  She was smiling faintly through her tears when he slipped out.

  * * *

  Deputy Sheriff Mannix was sitting in his little office alone. It was nearly sunset. A faint glow of crimson shot across the carpet.

  Mannix was scowling thoughtfully. On the desk before him were two pieces of paper. One of them was a reward notice publishing the fact that The Coyote was wanted and that five thousand dollars would be paid by the State of Arizona for his capture, dead or alive.

  Mannix picked up the second piece of paper and again read the words penciled upon it:

  I am taking out of this money belonging to the Dixie Queen the five hundred dollars Sautee promised me for carrying the money to the mine, and the two thousand dollars reward offered for the capture of those who had been robbing the Dixie Queen. I expect that shortly after this gets into the proper hands Sautee will be in jail, and he will be handy to tell you this is all O. K.

  Rathburn.

  Mannix took up the reward notice, put it with the note, and jammed the two pieces of paper into an obscure pigeonhole in his desk.

  “Filed!” he said aloud.

  Then he rose with a peculiar smile, went out upon the little porch, and stared toward the east where the reflection of the sunset cast a rosy glow over the foothills leading down to the desert.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXVI

  THE PRODIGAL

  With face upraised to the breath of air which stirred across the bare black lava hills, Rathburn leaned forward in the saddle eagerly, while his dun-colored horse stood patiently, seemingly in accord with his master’s mood. A merciless sun beat down from a hot, cloudless sky.

  Below, stretching in endless miles was the desert––a sinister, forbidding land of desolate distances, marked only by slender yucca palms, mesquite, dusty greasewood, an occasional clump of green palo verde, the slim fingers of the ocatilla, the high “forks” of the giant sahuara, and clumps of la cholla cactus, looking like apple orchards in full bloom.

  Yet the man’s gaze fell for a moment lovingly on each species of cactus and desert vegetation; his look was that which dwells in the homesick eyes of a traveler when he sees his native land from the deck of an inbound ship.

  “Hoss, we’re home!” he said aloud, while the animal pricked up its ears.

  Then he looked off to the left, where the blue outlines of a low range of mountains wavered in the heat like a mirage.

  “Imagination Range,” he said moodily.

  He tickled the dun with his spurs and trotted along the crest of the lava ridge. At its eastern terminus he swung down into the desert and struck straight east in the direction of Imagination Range. The desert’s surface between the lava ridge and the higher hills of the range to eastward was cut by dry washes and arroyos and miniature ridges studded with giant cactus.

  On the top of one of these high rises the horseman suddenly reined in his mount and stared into the south. “There’s trouble––an’ spelled with a capital T!” he ejaculated.

  The gaze in his keen gray eyes centered upon a number of riders speeding their horses over the tumbled section of desert below him to his right. He made out two divisions of horsemen. One group was some distance ahead of the other. Even as he stared down at them, its group separated, and some rode for Imagination Range, while others hastened toward the lava hills, or due north in his direction. The second group halted for a brief spell, evidently for a conference, and then its members also divided and started in swift pursuit of the men ahead.

  The watcher on the top of the rise frowned.

  “Out of here, hoss,” he said sharply. “This ain’t our day for visitors.”

  He pushed on eastward, increasing its pace, but losing time in skirting the frequent bits of high ground. As he rode down into a deep arroyo, a horseman came galloping into its lower end and raced almost upon him before seeing him. His hand darted like lightning to his gun, and the weapon snapped into aim at his hip. The horseman came to a rearing halt, reins dangling, his hands held high, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

  “Rathburn!” he exclaimed.

  “The same,” said the man with the gun. “What’s all the disturbance down there?”

  “Bob Long is chasing us,” the other answered with a nervous grin.

  “As I remember it,” drawled Rathburn, “Bob Long is the sheriff of Mesquite County. You boys sure ain’t been misbehaving?”

  “It’s worse than that,” said the fugitive, staring doubtfully at his questioner. “The stage driver’s dead. Had a notion the boss was foolin’ when he told him to reach up for the bugs in the air.”

  “Who does the boss happen to be in this case?”

  The man hesitated.

  “Take your time,” said Rathburn sarcastically; “there’s nobody after you but the sheriff, an’ he probably won’t be along for a minute or two.”

  “It won’t do you no good for him to find us here,” said the other boldly.

  Rathburn’s eyes blazed. “I reckon you’re forgettin’ that Bob Long knows I travel alone,” he said hotly. “He savvys I don’t travel with a crowd. I ain’t found it necessary so far, an’ I ain’t aiming to start. I counted eight in your gang––to hold up one stage, eh?” He concluded with a sneer, while the other shifted nervously in his saddle and cast a quick look back over his shoulder. There seemed no one there.

  “You needn’t be lookin’ around,” Rathburn said coldly. “You’re goin’ to stay here till you answer my question, if all the sheriffs in Arizona come ridin’ up meanwhile. Who’s headin’ your gang?”

  “That ain’t professional,” the fugitive grumbled. “You’re just the same as one of us.”

  Then, seeing the look that came into Rathburn’s eyes, he said hastily: “Mike Eagen planned the lay.”

  “I guessed it,” said Rathburn in a tone of contempt. “Well, you better slope while you’ve still got a chance.”

  He motioned to the man to go, and the latter rode at a gallop up the arroyo and out of sight. Rathburn’s face wore a worried scowl, as he slid his gun into its holster, whirled his horse, and speedily climbed the east side of the arroyo.

  From a vantage point he caught sight again of the horsemen racing up from the south. They were much nearer, and he could readily make out the members of the sheriff’s posse. He had had experience with posses before.

  Striking around the crest of the high ground which formed the east side of the arroyo, he again raced toward the range of mountains in the east, taking advantage of every bit of cover which offered concealment from the riders approaching at top speed from the south.

  Occasional glances made it plain that the s
heriff was sending, or personally bringing, most of his posse east in the direction of the mountains, presumably in the hope of cutting off the outlaws from seeking refuge in the hills. But the mountains were Rathburn’s goal as well as the goal of a majority of Mike Eagen’s band, though for totally different reasons. He refused to change his direction, although by going north, the stout, speedy dun could doubtless outdistance the posse before the afternoon was spent.

  Rathburn’s teeth snapped shut, his jaw squared, and his eyes narrowed, as he saw indubitable signs that he had been detected. Two of the posse were waving their arms and dashing in his direction. At that distance they could not identify him, but under the circumstances such identification was unnecessary. His presence there, riding like mad, was certain to convince the pursuers that he was one of the gang responsible for the stage job. This was obvious.

  For good reasons, Rathburn did not want it generally known that he was back in a country where he had spent most of his life, and where he was branded as a desperate outlaw with a big price on his head. Consequently, seeing that the sheriff’s men were out to get him, he abandoned all attempt at concealment, drove in his spurs, gave the dun horse its head, and raced for the mountains.

  Other members of the posse who were farther to the east caught the signals of the two who were in hot pursuit of Rathburn, and they dashed north to cut him off. The outlaws had disappeared, and Rathburn shook his head savagely, as he realized they had sought cover when they saw the chase was directed at one man. Without having had a hand in the holdup of the stage, he had arrived on the spot just in time to draw the fire of the authorities. And fire it was now; for the men behind him had begun shooting in the hope of a chance hit at the distance.

  A scant mile separated him from his goal. He came to a level stretch which was almost a mass of green because of the clumps of palo verde. Here he urged the dun to its utmost, outdistanced the pair in his rear, and gained on the men riding from the south, almost ahead of him. He swerved a bit to the north and cut straight for a notch in the mountains. He smiled, as he approached it, and saw a narrow defile leading into the hills. He gained it in a final, heartbreaking burst of speed on the part of his mount. As he dashed into the cañon, bullets sang past him and over his head. Then a cry of amazement came to his ears.

  “It’s The Coyote!” a man was yelling. “Rathburn’s back!”

  He dashed into the shelter of the defile, a grim smile playing on his lips. He had been recognized. His face hardened. He rounded a huge boulder, checked his horse, and dismounted. He could hear the pound of hoofs in the entrance of the narrow cañon. A rider came into view below.

  Rathburn leaned out from the protection of the boulder. His lips were pressed into a fine, white line, and there was a look of haunted worry in his eyes. His gun flashed in his hand. The rider saw him and yelled, spurring his horse. Then Rathburn’s gun swung quickly upward. A sharp report sounded, like a crash of thunder in the narrow confines of the cañon, and its echoes reverberated through the hills.

  The rider toppled in his saddle and fell to the floor of the cañon. His horse came to a snorting stop, reins dangling, all four legs braced. The hoof-beats instantly were stilled. A silence, complete and sinister, reigned in the defile.

  Rathburn slipped his smoking gun into his holster and mounted noiselessly. Then he walked his horse slowly up the cañon, sitting sidewise in the saddle to keep a vigil on the trail behind. A minute later he heard a volley of shots below, the signal to all the scattered members of the posse to race to the entrance of the cañon. He increased his pace, broke his gun, extracted the empty shell, and inserted a fresh cartridge in its place.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXVII

  THE DESERT CODE

  Keeping to the trail, Rathburn mounted higher and higher and spoke continually to his horse in a crooning tone of encouragement. His face was drawn in grim lines, his eyes were constantly alert, his very posture in the saddle showed that his nerves were at high tension.

  He ignored dim paths which occasionally led off to the left or right in rifts in the sheer, black walls of the narrow cañon. No sound came to him from below. He knew the posse would have to proceed with the utmost caution, for the sheriff and his men could not be sure that they would not encounter him at some bend in the trail. They would be expecting shots from every boulder; for Rathburn had let them know he had no intention of being taken easily or alive.

  The afternoon wore on, with Rathburn steadily penetrating the very heart of Imagination Range. Finally he swung out of the cañon trail and took a dim path to the right. He dismounted and walked back to rub off the scars left by his horse’s shoes on the rock floor of the side trail. Satisfied that he would leave the members of the posse confused as to which side trail he had taken, he returned to his horse, mounted, and proceeded up the narrow trail leading to the top of the range to the south of the deep cañon.

  In the western sky the sun was low when he rode down the crest of the range. The mountains were devoid of vegetation, bleak and bare and black. The lava rock seemed to absorb the heat of the sun and throw it in the rider’s face. But Rathburn didn’t appear to mind it.

  He crossed the backbone of the range and began the descent on the eastern side. But he descended only a short distance before he swung out of the saddle. From the slicker pack on the rear of his saddle he took a pair of heavy leather gloves. He cut these open in the palms with his pocketknife and then tied them about the shoes on his horse’s hind feet. The dun was only shod behind.

  Again he mounted, and this time he turned to the south and rode down a long slope of lava rock. He grunted with satisfaction, as he looked behind and saw that the leather prevented the shoes on his mount’s hind feet from leaving their mark. He was completely obliterating his trail––leaving nothing for the posse to follow, if they should trace him to the top of the range.

  He walked his horse slowly, for the dun did not like the idea of the leather tied to its hoofs. In less than two miles the leather was worn through upon the hard rock, and he got down and removed the remnants. He straightened up and looked out over the vista of the desert.

  The western sky was a sea of gold. Far to southward a curl of smoke rose upward, marking the course of a railroad and a town. Rathburn looked long in this direction, with a dreamy, wistful light in his eyes. Close at hand vegetation appeared upon the slopes of the hills. His gaze darted here and there along the ridges below him, and his parted lips and eager attitude showed unmistakably that he was familiar with every rod of the locality in which he found himself.

  Again he climbed into the saddle and turned off to the left, entering a cañon. For better than half a mile he proceeded down this way, then he rode eastward again, winding in and out in a network of cañons until he came to the rock-ribbed crest of a ridge which overlooked an oasis in the desert hills. There was green vegetation where the water from a spring seeped into the floor of the cañon below him. The spring was nothing more than a huge cup in the rock which had caught the water from the spring rains and filled. Above the spring was a small cabin, and Rathburn saw that the cabin door was open.

  Hurriedly he rode down a trail to the right which circled around into the cañon from its lower end. As he galloped toward the spring, a figure appeared in the doorway of the cabin. Rathburn waved an arm and dismounted at the spring. He led his horse to drink, as the man came walking toward him from the cabin. He compelled the dun to drink slowly; first a swallow, now two, then a few more; finally he drew the horse away from the water.

  “You can have some more a little later,” he said cheerfully. “Hello, Joe Price!”

  The man walked up to him without a great show of surprise and held out his hand. He was bareheaded, and the hair which hung down to his shoulders was snow-white. The face was seamed and lined, burned by the sun of three score Arizona summers, and the small, blue eyes twinkled.

  “Hang me with a busted shoe string if it ain’t Rathburn,” said the old man. “Why,
boy, you’re just in time for supper. Put your horse up behind the cabin an’ get in at the table. She’s a big country, all full of cactus; but the old man’s got grub left!”

  Rathburn laughed, rinsed his mouth out with water he dipped from the spring in a battered tin cup, and took a swallow before he replied.

  “Joe, there’s two things I want––grub an’ gaff. I know you’ve got grub, or you wouldn’t be here; but I don’t know if you’re any good at the gaff any more.”

  The old man scrutinized him. “You look some older,” he said finally. “Not much of the wild, galootin’ kid left in you, I ’spect. But don’t go gettin’ fresh with me, or I’ll clout you one with my prospectin’ pick. Go ’long now; put up your horse an’ hustle inside. If you want to wash up, I guess you can––bein’ a visitor.”

  Rathburn chuckled, as he led his horse around behind the cabin, where two burros were, and unsaddled him. Before he entered the cabin he stood for a moment looking up the ridge down which he had come. The old man watched him, but made no comment. As Rathburn sat down to the table, however, he spoke.

  “I kin hear anybody comin’ down that trail over the ridge, while they’re a mile away,” he said simply without looking up.

  Rathburn flashed a look of admiration at the old man.

  The glow of the sunset lit the hills with crimson fire, and a light breeze stirred with the advent of the long, colorful desert twilight. They ate in silence, washing down the hardy food with long drafts of strong coffee. The old man asked no questions of his friend. He knew that in time Rathburn would talk. A man’s business in that desolate land of dreadful distances was his own, save such of it as he wanted to tell. It was the desert code.

  Supper over, they went out to a little bench in front of the cabin. There Joe Price lit his pipe, and Rathburn rolled a cigarette.