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

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 12 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 15 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 16 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. 18 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 19 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 catches 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.

“Now, Frankie, we don’t care who the man is,” she reproved. “He was hungry and he’s welcome. What’s the matter with you?”

“I guess you’d be surprised if you knew as much as I do,” the boy boasted. “I guess you’d be surprised all right. I do.”

“I’ve been surprised more than once at things you knew,” the girl said with a laugh.

“Yes, but I guess you’d be surprised all right if you knew who he is,” cried the boy, pointing at Rathburn.

“Come, now, young fellow, don’t be getting all het up here,” said Rathburn slowly, drawing tobacco and papers from his shirt pocket. “What do you find to do with yourself around here?”

But the youngster was not to be diverted from his topic. “I was lookin’ at your horse,” he said, 21 his eyes shining. “That’s how I know for sure an’ certain who you are.”

Rathburn gazed at the boy sternly as he touched a match to his brown-paper cigarette. “My horse is all right, ain’t he?”

“Sure he is,” said the boy eagerly. “I bet he can go some, too. He’d have to go for you to have him, wouldn’t he? You’re The Coyote!”

Rathburn continued to smile with an amused tolerance. But the girl gave a start; her hands flew to her breast, and she stared at the man with wide-open eyes.

“Frankie! What are you saying?” she exclaimed.

The boy triumphantly brought his hands from behind his back. He held out a poster.

“His horse has got CC2 for a brand, just like it says in this bill Ed brought from town!” he cried. “He’s The Coyote, all right. But I won’t tell,” he added quickly, looking at Rathburn.

The man avoided the girl’s eyes. The boy laid the poster on the table where she could read it again, word for word.

“Tall––light in complexion––gray or blue eyes––good teeth––horse branded CC2––dangerous–––”

And this man was tall and blond, with gray eyes. Five hundred dollars reward!

“I won’t tell anybody you’ve been here,” the boy continued. “We won’t tell, will we, sis?” He looked at the girl imploringly.

“My brother Ed says what you want you take,” said the boy, gazing at the man in admiration. “An’ he says you don’t rob anybody that can’t afford it! He says the banks are insured an’ you’ve been a friend to more’n one that’s just gettin’ a start in the cattle. I won’t tell anybody you’ve been here, an’ I won’t let sis tell anybody, either!”

Rathburn was smiling wistfully. “Always tell 22 the truth, sonny,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t forget that. I wouldn’t want you to lie for me. Any man that would want you to lie for him wouldn’t be a man a-tall, son. See?”

“But old Brown, the judge, or the sheriff might come along an’ want to know if you’d been here!” said the boy in breathless excitement.

“Then tell ’em the truth,” said Rathburn smilingly. “Tell ’em a man with a horse branded CC2 was here an’ kidded you about your freckles, had something to eat, an’ rode away. Don’t lie, sonny, no matter what happens.”

The girl took a step toward the table. “You––are––The Coyote?” she asked in a whisper.

“My name is Rathburn, miss,” he replied cheerfully. “In some ways I’m a lot like the man described in that reward notice. An’ I’m riding a dun-colored horse branded CC2. I don’t like that monicker, Coyote, or I might ’fess up to it.”

“Then––if you’re him––you’re an outlaw!” she stammered.

Rathburn’s dreamy look shifted to the boy who was staring at him.

“You’ll grow up to be quite a man, son,” he said in a fatherly tone. “Those freckles mean a tough skin. A weak sort of skin tans quick an’ the toughest just sunburns. You’re halfway between. That’s all right for freckles; but it don’t go in life. It’s best to be on one side or the other, an’ the right side’s the best for most folks.”

He rose and went for his hat. Then he extracted a roll of bills from a hip pocket and laid a five-dollar note on the table.

“That meal was worth it,” he said to the girl with a smile.

She shook her head. “I––I couldn’t take it,” she said.

“That’s clean money, miss. I earned it circumventin’ three of the most ornery card sharps in Arizona.”

She continued to shake her head. “You do not understand,” she murmured. “It––it wouldn’t make any difference. We couldn’t take money from a stranger who came to us––hungry. It wouldn’t make any difference who you were.”

“Aw, we need it, sis!” blurted out the boy. “The Coyote’s all right. He wouldn’t lie to us.”

Rathburn laughed and, stepping to the boy, ran his fingers in his hair. “I guess I’ve made a friend,” he said in a wistful voice. Then he picked up the bill on the table and stuffed it into the boy’s pocket. His eyes encountered the poster again and they clouded. He turned away from it.

“Miss, you’ll let me thank you––sure.”