The Coyote

by Roberts, James

  “Just as you say,” Long said gravely. “Go over what I’ve told you carefully and don’t make any more false moves while you’re making up your mind. You wounded one of my men yesterday.”

  “I shot high on purpose,” Rathburn pointed out. “I didn’t aim to be corralled just then.”

  “I know you did,” was the sheriff’s rejoinder. “I know you could have killed him. I gave you credit for it.”

  “You give me credit for quite a few things, sheriff,” said Rathburn whimsically. “An’ now you’ll have to give me credit for bein’ plumb cautious. It ain’t my intention to have my thinking spell disturbed.”

  His gun flashed in his hand.

  “I’ll have to ask you to go inside an’ occupy one of your own cells, sheriff, while I’m wanderin’ around an’ debatin’ the subject.”

  “I know you too well, Rathburn,” said the sheriff with a grim smile. “I’m not armed, and I don’t intend to obey you. If you intend to shoot you might just as well start!”

  Rathburn gazed at him coolly for a moment; then he shoved his gun in its holster and leaped.

  Quick as he was, Long was quicker. The sheriff was out of his chair in a twinkling, and he made a flying tackle, grasping Rathburn about the legs. The two fell to the floor and rolled over and over in their struggles.

  Although Rathburn was the larger man, the sheriff seemed made of steel wire. He twisted out of Rathburn’s holds, one after another. In one great effort he freed himself and leaped to his feet. Rathburn was up instantly. Long drove a straight right that grazed Rathburn’s jaw and staggered him, but Rathburn blocked the next blow and succeeded in upper-cutting his left to the sheriff’s chin.

  They went into another clinch, and the sheriff got the better of the close fighting. Rathburn’s face was bleeding, where it had been cut on a leg of the chair, when they were struggling on the floor. The feel of trickling crimson drove him mad. He threw Long off in an amazing burst of strength and then sent his right to the sheriff’s jaw with all the force he could put into it.

  Long dropped to the floor, and Rathburn raised him and carried him to a door leading into the jail proper. As he drew open the door, he drew his gun and threw it down on the astonished jailer who was dozing in the little office outside the bars.

  “Open up!” Rathburn commanded.

  The jailer hastened to obey, as he saw the appearance of Rathburn’s face and the dangerous look in his eyes.

  Rathburn compelled him at the point of his gun to lead the way to a cell in the rear, unlock it, and go inside. Rathburn pushed Long, who was regaining his senses, in after him and took the jailer’s keys.

  “Tell Long I’m thinkin’ over what he told me,” he said to the jailer, as he locked them in.

  Then he hurried back to the entrance, locked it, and tossed the keys in through the bars.

  He wet his handkerchief with ice water from a tank in Long’s office, wiped his face clean, and left the building.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXI

  A NEW COUNT

  As Rathburn wended his way to an obscure restaurant on a side street of the little town which was the county seat of Mesquite County, his thoughts were busy with what he had learned from the sheriff. He knew the official had been right when he said that it would react in Rathburn’s favor if he gave himself up. Some of the counts on which he would be indicted undoubtedly would be quashed; others he might disprove. There was a chance that he might get off lightly; in any event he would have to spend a number of years in prison.

  Rathburn looked up at the bright sky. At the end of the street he could see the desert, and far beyond, the blue outlines of the mountains. It seemed to him that the sunshine was brighter on this deadly morning when he struggled with troubled thoughts. Having always lived in the open, liberty meant everything to him.

  But constantly his thoughts reverted to Laura Mallory. What did she expect of him? What would she think if he were to give himself up? Her talk of the compass––his conscience––bothered him. Why should she say such a thing if she didn’t feel more than a friendly interest in him? Did she care for him then?

  Rathburn laughed mirthlessly, as he entered the eating house. There was no doubt of it––he was a fool. He continued to think, as he ate; by the time he had finished he found himself in a bad mental state. He wiped some moisture from his forehead, as he left the restaurant. For a moment he felt panicky. He was wavering!

  The tenor of his thoughts caused him to abandon his caution. He turned the corner by the State Bank of Hope and walked boldly down the street. Few pedestrians were about. None took any special notice of him, and none recognized him. He turned in at the resort he had visited when he first arrived that morning.

  He started, as he entered the place. A deep frown gathered on his face. Gomez, Eagen’s Mexican henchman, was at the bar. At first Rathburn feigned ignorance of the Mexican’s presence; but Gomez smiled at him, his white teeth glistening against his swarthy skin.

  Rathburn marveled at the audacity of the Mexican, who undoubtedly was one of those who had held up the stage the day before, in coming boldly into town. Then he recollected that the sheriff had mentioned he had an idea of who was responsible for that job, but had been unable to get a line on his man. Eagen and his gang were evidently well covered up. If such were the case, Eagen himself might be in town.

  It was because he thought he might learn something from Gomez that he finally acknowledged the fellow’s greeting by a nod.

  The Mexican left the bar and walked up to him.

  “We are not afraid to come in town, Mr. Coyote,” he murmured.

  “Drop that name,” said Rathburn sharply in an undertone. “Is Eagen here?”

  “He is here,” replied Gomez with another display of his white teeth. “You want to see him? He is up talking with Mr. Doane.”

  Doane! Rathburn remembered the name instantly as being the same which had been spoken by Laura Mallory the night before. He remembered, too, the man who had been there and who had driven away to town in the little car. He surmised that this man had been Doane; and it had been he who had brought the information of Rathburn’s arrival and the posse’s pursuit to the girl.

  “You want to see him?” asked Gomez craftily.

  Rathburn had a consuming aversion for the wily Mexican. He hated the shifty look in his eyes and his oily tongue.

  “Not yet,” he answered shortly.

  “He will be here maybe,” said Gomez eagerly. “It is you change your mind?”

  Rathburn scowled. The Mexican then knew all about the proposition Eagen had made to him the night before. Perhaps he could get more information from him than he had suspected.

  “What job is it Eagen is planning?” he asked in a low voice.

  There were several men at the bar now, and both Rathburn and the Mexican were keeping an eye upon them.

  “Oh, that he will have to tell you himself when you are ready,” Gomez replied.

  Rathburn snorted in keen disgust. But Gomez sidled up to him.

  “You go to the Mallory rancho last night,” he whispered. “You are not the only one there last night.” His smile flashed again, as Rathburn looked at him quickly.

  “There was another there before,” he continued; “Mr. Doane. He goes there, too. You have been away a long time, and Mr. Doane take the advantage.”

  Rathburn’s eyes were narrowing, and the Mexican evidently took his face for an encouraging sign.

  “Mr. Doane––he is not lucky at cards,” continued Gomez. “He like to play, and he play lots; but not too well. Maybe he have more luck in love––while you are away.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Rathburn through his teeth.

  “Oh, you do not know?” The Mexican raised his black brows. “While you are away, Mr. Doane make hay while the sun shine bright. He was there much. He was there last night before you. He tries hard to steal your señorita before you come, and he will try to keep her now.” He winked slyly. />
  Rathburn suddenly grasped him by the throat. “What are you tryin’ to say?” he asked sternly, shaking the Mexican like a rat.

  Gomez broke away, his black eyes darting fire. “You are a fool!” he exclaimed. “You get nothing. Even your woman, she is stole right under your eyes. Doane, he goes there, and he gets her. She fall for him fast. Then she talks to you with sugar in her mouth, and you believe. Bah! You think the Señorita Mallory–––”

  Rathburn’s open palm crashed against the Mexican’s mouth.

  “Don’t speak her name, you greaser!”

  Gomez staggered back under the force of the slap. His eyes were pin points of fire. He raised his right hand to his mouth and then to the brim of his sombrero. His breath came in hissing gasps, as the hatred blazed in his glittering eyes.

  Rathburn’s face was white under its heavy coating of tan. He saw the few men at the bar turn and look in their direction, and he realized instinctively that these men were gamblers and shady characters who were probably friends of Eagen and his gang.

  “I give you my regards,” cried Gomez in a frenzy of rage. “You––gringo!”

  His right hand tipped his sombrero in a lightning move, and there was a flash in the sunlight filtering through the back windows, as Rathburn’s gun barked at his hip.

  Gomez crumpled backward to the floor, as the knife dropped from his grasp at the beginning of the throw.

  Rathburn, still holding his smoking gun ready, walked rapidly past the men at the bar and gained the open through the door at the rear.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE COMPASS FAILS

  In the alley behind the buildings fronting on the main street, Rathburn paused in indecision, while he shoved his gun into the holster on his thigh. He had known by the look in Gomez’s eyes that he was going to throw a knife. Instinct had caused him to watch the Mexican’s right hand, and, in the instant when Gomez had secured the knife from his hat and snapped back his hand for the throw, Rathburn had drawn and fired. He knew well the dexterity of a man of Gomez’s stamp with a knife. The gun route was the only chance to protect his life. But Rathburn realized, too, that he had shot to kill!

  He had been incensed by the Mexican’s subtle insinuations––maddened by the way he leered when he spoke Laura Mallory’s name. He had virtually been driven to it. Even now he could not see how he could have avoided it.

  Securing his horse, Rathburn rode swiftly around a back street to a small barn on the edge of the desert. He ordered his mount watered and fed. He had known the man who owned this barn, but the individual who attended to his horse was a new employee. He sat in the little front office which also served as the quarters of the night man, while his horse was being looked after. He had not removed his saddle.

  Rathburn’s thoughts dwelt on what Gomez had said. There was no question but that the Mexican had taken liberties in saying what he did, but there was more than a glimmer of truth in his statements. Rathburn had seen the man leaving Laura Mallory on the porch of the Mallory ranch house. She had mentioned a man named Doane as having brought word that he, Rathburn, was back in the country and in more trouble. Now Gomez had identified this visitor as Doane, the man who had been calling on Laura Mallory regularly. Rathburn’s brows wrinkled at the thought. But why not? What hold had he upon her? It certainly wasn’t within his rights to resent the fact that another man had found the girl attractive. But, to his increasing torment, he found that he did resent it; he couldn’t help it!

  Suddenly he remembered that Gomez had said Eagen was paying a call on Doane. What could Eagen have to do with Doane which would warrant his visiting him early in the morning? Rathburn recalled that Gomez had intimated that Doane liked to play cards. Was the man then a professional gambler? But no, Gomez had said he did not play well.

  Rathburn tried to recollect where he had seen this man Doane before. The blond face and mustache were vaguely familiar. Again he strove to place the man without result.

  He shrugged his shoulders, drew out his gun, and replaced the empty shell with a fresh cartridge. He dropped the weapon back into his holster and went outside to see about his horse. The dun still was feeding. Rathburn contented himself with looking over his saddle and readjusting the small slicker pack on its rear. Then he paced the length of the barn, frowning in a thoughtful mood.

  There was only one thing he was reasonably sure of; no one around the town knew that he was the outlaw known as The Coyote. He had not seen anybody he knew except the sheriff, and that official was safely out of the way for the present. Gomez had mentioned his name when they had first met, but he had not been heard save by Rathburn. Therefore, if they were looking for the man who had shot down Gomez, they were merely looking for a man measuring up to his description; and Rathburn doubted if anything would be done until the authorities had been notified. Visitors to the sheriff’s office would find Long out and would assume that he had not returned from the chase in the hills. It might be another hour before the sheriff’s predicament was discovered. And in that hour–––

  Rathburn caught himself up with another shrug. He was falling a prey to his former hopeless trend of thought. Resentment was swelling within him again, and he struggled to put it down. Perhaps it would be safer to yield to the inclination to take a chance on the courts.

  It was after nine o’clock when he rode out of the barn. He proceeded straight toward the main street of the town. He was struggling with a half-formed resolve; summoning courage by shutting out all recollections save that of Laura Mallory’s apparently earnest remark about the compass.

  Reaching the main street, he started to turn the corner at the bank building when he suddenly checked his horse and stared at two people walking up the opposite side of the street. Rathburn recognized the girl immediately. She was Laura Mallory. A moment later he caught a glimpse of the man’s face, as he half turned toward Rathburn, laughing. He had taken Laura’s arm. It was Doane!

  The realization that Laura had come to town and was in the company of Doane stunned Rathburn. More than anything else it had the effect of convincing him that Gomez had been right when he had hinted that Doane was successful in love. Hadn’t she told him to take his gun when Eagen had been waiting for him? Had she thought, perhaps, that there would be gun play, and that Eagen might emerge the victor, thus assuring her that he, Rathburn, would bother her no more?

  Rathburn’s eyes narrowed, and his face froze, as he watched Laura and Doane out of sight up the street. He knew now why he had had to come back. There was nothing left––nothing but his dreams, his sinister reputation, and his gun!

  He looked about in a different way from that in which he had first surveyed the street, now showing life. His gaze encountered the bank building. The door was open. The bank doubtless opened at nine o’clock. He remembered that this was so. A second of indecision, then he moved in front of the bank. He dismounted, flung the reins over the dun’s head, and entered briskly.

  Two men were behind the screens of the two cages. Rathburn approached a window and nodded to the man behind it. Then his gun leaped into his hand, and he covered the pair.

  “Reach high an’ hard!” he commanded. “An’ quick!”

  The men in the cages hesitated; but the look in Rathburn’s eyes convinced them, and they raised their hands over their heads. Rathburn leaped to the ledge outside the window and climbed nimbly over the wire network of the cage. Then he dropped to the floor inside.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  FAST WORK

  Quickly and methodically Rathburn went about his work. His face was drawn and pale, but his eyes glittered with a deadly earnestness which was not lost upon the two men who obeyed his orders without question. The very boldness of his intrepid undertaking must have convinced them that here was no common bandit. He herded them back toward the vault at the point of his gun. Then he ordered them into the vault.

  “Now then,” he said crisply, “you know what I’m af
ter. Trot it out!”

  One of the men, evidently an assistant cashier or head teller, who was in charge, opened a compartment of the inner safe and pulled out a drawer. Rathburn could see the packages of bills. He looked quickly about and saw a pile of empty coin sacks on a shelf.

  “Fill two of those large sacks,” he instructed the other man.

  The clerk hastened to carry out his orders and jammed package after package of bills into one of the largest of the coin sacks. Both men were white-faced and frightened. They did not try to delay the proceedings. Rathburn looked dangerous; and what was more sinister, he went about his nefarious business in a cool, calm, confident manner. He did not look like the Rathburn who had visited Laura Mallory the night before, nor the Rathburn who had talked with the sheriff. In this critical moment he was in look, mood, and gesture The Coyote at his worst––worthy of all the terrible things that had been whispered about him.

  It may be that the bank employees suspected as much. It may be that they didn’t believe it would be possible for the outlaw to make his get-away in broad daylight, and it was certain that they stood in mighty fear of him. They cowered back, pale and shaking, as he calmly took the sack, heavy with its weight of bank notes of healthy denomination, and stepped to the entrance to the big vault.

  “When they come an’ let you out,” said Rathburn, “you can tell them that the gent who helped himself to the berries in the cash box is just beginnin’ to cash in on the reputation that’s been wished on him!”

  He smiled grimly, as he swung the light, inner door of the vault shut and clamped down the lever. He slid his gun into its holster and, carrying the sack of loot, walked out of the door of the second cage toward the main entrance of the bank. As he reached the door, a man came up the steps. Rathburn recognized Doane, and his lips curled in a snarl. It was the first time Doane had come face to face with him, but the man started back in surprise.