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  Title: The Coyote

  A Western Story

  Author: James Roberts

  Release Date: August 3, 2009 [EBook #29602]

  Language: English

  *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COYOTE ***

  Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed

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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.

  * * *

  CHAPTER II

  A BOY AND A GIRL

  When Rathburn had put up his horse, after giving him a light feed of grain in the barn, he followed the boy to the rear of the house where he found water, soap, and a towel on a bench, above which hung a small mirror.

  The boy left him there, and he soon washed and combed his hair. The girl opened the rear door for him and he walked through the little kitchen into a small front room where a table was set for him.

  “Sure, ma’am, I didn’t figure on causing you so much trouble,” he said with a smile. “I didn’t expect anything but a snack, an’ here you’ve gone an’ fixed a regular dinner––this time of day, too.”

  “My experience with men in this country has taught me that when they’re hungry, they’re hungry,” replied the girl. “And it wasn’t much trouble. Those beans were in the oven and already warm. I just had to make the coffee. I was expecting my brother.”

  “I didn’t see any men around the place,” he said, beginning to eat. “If I had I’d have made myself known to them before coming to the house. Where is he––out with the cattle?”

  He saw her gaze was troubled. “I don’t know just where he is––to-day,” she confessed. “He goes away and sometimes doesn’t come back for a day or two.” She stood in the doorway.

  Rathburn noted her trim, slim figure and her wealth of chestnut hair. She was pretty and capable. He surmised that her parents were dead, although he could not ascribe the reason for this deduction. Evidently the boy was a younger brother. He wondered if the older brother would return before he finished eating.

  “How far is it to Dry Lake?” he asked casually.

  “Oh––why, didn’t you come from there?” She seemed surprised.

  “No. I came from over to eastward.”

  “But it’s miles and miles to any place east of here, isn’t it?” she asked, puzzled. “You must have had a long ride.”

  A ghost of a frown played on his brows. Then he laughed. “Yes, miss, I’ve been ridin’ some,” he confessed. “I didn’t know how far it was to anywhere or I mightn’t have come in this direction.”

  She looked at him wonderingly, and again he thought he saw a troubled look in her eyes.

  “You’re going to Dry Lake?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said shortly, and a grim note crept into his voice. “It’s west of here, ain’t it?”

  “About fifteen or eighteen miles,” she answered. “The trail leads there from the lower end of this valley––the same trail you came on, I guess. Are you a cow-puncher?”

  “Don’t I look like one, miss?”

  “Yes, you do and––you don’t.” She was confused by the quality of his smile. But his eyes seemed to glow at her kindly, with a cheerful, amused light––altogether honest and friendly. She lowered her gaze and flushed despite herself.

  “My vocation, miss––you’re too young an’ pretty to be called ma’am, if you’ll excuse me for saying so––is a peculiar one. I’ve punched cows, yes; I’ve prospected an’ worked a bit in the mines. I’ve scared the wolf from the ‘Welcome’ mat by standing off the boys at green-topped tables, an’ once I––I––worked on a sort of farm.” He appeared apologetic as he confessed this last. “I guess I wasn’t cut out for a farm hand, miss.”

  She laughed at this. “Are you going to work in Dry Lake?” she asked, sobering.

  “Well, now, that is a question,” he returned, draining his cup of the last of the coffee.

  “I’ll get you some more,” she said quickly, taking his cup. “Dry Lake isn’t a very big place, you know.”

  “Just how big is Dry Lake?” he asked when she returned from the kitchen with more coffee for him.

  “Only a hundred or two. But the men from miles and miles go there because––because there are places there where they can stand the wolf off at the green-topped tables and––drink.” The troubled look was in her eyes again. “Sometimes the wolf cat
ches up with them before they get home,” she added, smiling faintly.

  “It’s not a safe system,” he said thoughtfully.

  “But you might get work in Dry Lake,” she said hopefully. “You––you look capable. The cattlemen from back in the hills go there and they’re nearly always looking for men, I’ve heard. You might meet some of them and get a job.”

  He beamed upon her. “I’ve always heard that a woman gave a man encouragement an’ ambition, if she was a good one,” he mused. “You’ve almost got me thinking I’d better go straight to work.”

  “Why––didn’t––wasn’t that your intention?” she asked wonderingly.

  His face clouded. “It ain’t always so easy for me to do what I want to do, miss,” he said. “I––you see–––” He broke off his speech with a frown. “This is a queer country, miss,” he said earnestly.

  “Oh, I know,” she said eagerly. “I’ll bet you’re an––an officer!”

  Then he laughed. It was the spontaneous laugh of youth, vibrant, compelling, mirth-inspiring.

  “Say, miss, if there’s one thing I ain’t tackled yet, it’s being an officer,” he chuckled as he finished his repast.

  She smiled vaguely, studying him under her long, dark lashes. The boy came into the room, holding his hands behind him, and stood with his sturdy legs braced apart, staring at Rathburn.

  “There he is now!” Rathburn exclaimed. “Did you try to wash the freckles off?” he queried with a wink.

  “I know who you are!” said the boy. There was admiration and awe in his wide eyes.

  Rathburn looked at him closely, his brows wrinkling.

  “Yes, I do,” said the boy, nodding. “Did he tell you who he is, sis?” he asked, looking at the girl.