"What's the matter? Isn't there room for both of us?" Rathburn put the question in a voice which conveyed surprise.

"I thought it might be better if we—if we didn't both hide in the same place," whispered Lamy. "Then they'd only get one of us, an' whichever it was they'd think he was the one they wanted, see?" He appeared excited.

Rathburn's eyes narrowed. His right hand darted to his gun in a flash, and the muzzle of the weapon was pressed into Lamy's ribs. "Get down there!" commanded Rathburn. "Get down."

Lamy hesitated with a wild look in his eyes. The muzzle of Rathburn's gun pressed harder against his midriff. He dropped lightly into the cellar. Rathburn pulled the rug against the trapdoor as he followed, then let down the door, certain that the rug would fall into place.

The pair sat upon some gunny sacks in the little cellar until their eyes became accustomed to the darkness; they could dimly see each other by the faint light which came to them through some cracks in the floor above.

They heard steps at the rear of the house; then the pound of hoofs from in front. Rathburn saw Lamy staring at him fixedly with a puzzled look. He frowned at him. Rathburn still held his gun in his hand. Both had forgotten the food which Lamy had in his lap.

"Say," whispered Lamy. "What was your idea in givin' me back my gun?"

He moved closer to get the reply.

"Shut up!" said Rathburn, cocking an ear toward the trapdoor.

The sound of footsteps now was in the kitchen. They heard horses snorting and men dismounting at the front door. After a brief space there were light footsteps in the room above followed by the tramp of heavy boots.

"Good morning, ma'am," came a deep voice.

"Good morning," was the hesitating reply. Rathburn recognized the voice of the girl who had fed him.

"Ma'am, I'm Sheriff Neal of San Jacinto County," continued the deep voice, as several feet shuffled slightly. "These men with me are members of my posse. Maybe you know Judge Brown?"

"I—I've seen him," answered the girl.

Rathburn could feel Lamy's knees shaking against him in excitement.

"I believe we've met some time," Brown put in. Rathburn thought the justice's voice sounded tired.

"Ma'am, we're looking for a man—or two men." It was the sheriff speaking again. "Have you seen any one around here this morning—any stranger, or strangers, I mean?"

"Why, no," replied the girl with a breathless catch in her voice. "I haven't seen any one."

"You're sure?"

Rathburn frowned at the sheriff's tone, although he kept his eyes on Lamy's white face.

He smiled as he remembered that the sheriff had mentioned two men. This doubtless was the cause of Lamy's agitation. Nor did he think Lamy had forgotten that he, Rathburn, had pointed out that he could prove he didn't rob the place in Dry Lake.

"You're sure?" the sheriff asked again.

"Why, yes," replied the girl. "I am sure."

"Maybe she can get us some breakfast," said Brown hopefully.

"Can you feed five men, ma'am?" asked the sheriff in a softer tone.

"Just sit down, and I'll get you some breakfast," said the girl.

The two men in the little cellar could hear some of the men taking chairs and one or two going out to look after the horses. The girl's light footsteps retreated into the kitchen.

Rathburn smiled mysteriously at Lamy who was shivering with a case of nerves.

"I can't understand who that was with him—or following him," came Brown's voice. "Somebody must have seen him getting away and set out on the trail while it was hot."

"Either that or saw him beating it somewheres on the trail east of town an' took after him on suspicion," drawled the sheriff. "'Spect everybody around here has seen those reward notices you put out."

"That's so," said Brown. "I had the right hunch when I got the tip he'd left his Arizona hangout, sheriff. I figured he'd head this way. Then he had the nerve—well, you know what happened in my office."

The sheriff chuckled. Then he spoke angrily. "He can't pull any of his stunts in my territory," he said growlingly. "I'll hunt him down if I have to put every man I've got on the trail an' keep 'em there. I figure, though," he added hopefully, "that we've got him cornered in or around this valley. We traced 'em here, and we got sight of 'em yesterday. We'll have 'em before night!"

"I hope so," said Brown grimly.

"I've given orders to shoot to kill and not to miss," thundered the sheriff. "But I guess the rewards offered for him would kind of steady the aim of the man that got a crack at him."

Rathburn's face went white, and his eyes shot fire as he listened to the sheriff's cruel laugh in which the others in the room above now joined.

Lamy signaled that he wished to whisper in his ear, and Rathburn bent his head, although he kept the gun handy.

"I'm not goin' to risk shootin' anybody if we should be found or cornered," Lamy whispered. "I thought you ought to know——"

"If we're cornered you leave it to me," Rathburn came back. "I have reasons for everything I'm doing. An' don't forget that I'd rather be grabbed for this simple trick of yours in Dry Lake than for one or two jobs over in Arizona. If things go wrong keep your mouth shut—don't talk! If you start talking any time I'll try to kill you!"

Lamy drew back from the ferocity in Rathburn's tone and manner. That menacing message was again in Rathburn's eyes.

"Who's that boy out there?" the sheriff called sharply.

"Go in and say how-do-you-do," came the girl's voice from the kitchen. "It's my brother, Frankie."

"Come here, Frankie," said the sheriff.

The pair below heard light footsteps on the floor above.

"That's a fine crop of freckles you've got," said the sheriff.

Rathburn saw Lamy put a hand to his face and make a grimace.

"Listen, Frankie, did you see anybody around here this morning?" asked the sheriff.

"Who—who you looking for?" asked the boy.

Rathburn started; his body suddenly tensed.

"I'm looking for an outlaw they call The Coyote," returned the sheriff. "Ever hear of him?"

"Y-e-s. Ed brought home a notice about a reward for him."

"That's the man we're after. Rides a dun-colored horse; tall, light-complexioned. Seen anybody like that around here?"

"He was here day before yesterday," said the boy truthfully. "Sis gave him something to eat, an' he went on into town. He didn't seem like such a bad man to me. Told me never to lie."

"He was here? Ate here?" The sheriff's voice was excited.

Rathburn saw Lamy's eyes widen.

"Frankie," the sheriff said soberly, "that Coyote went into town an' robbed a place. He's a bad, dangerous man no matter how he looks or what he says. Have you seen anybody that looked like him since?"

The question was followed by a deep silence.

Rathburn alert, his eyes gleaming, heard the sheriff rise.

"Answer me, boy. I'm the sheriff of this county!"

"'Tain't that—'tain't that," said the boy in a tremulous voice. "Only—I'd rather not tell, Mr. Sheriff."

"You must answer me!" said the official sternly. "Have you seen any one around here—yesterday or this morning?"

"Ye-e-s."

"When?" demanded the sheriff. "Don't lie!"

"This—this morning," stammered the boy.

"Where? Tell me about it, quick."

"Two men ran across from the timber to the house," replied the boy. "He—he said not to lie for him—but——"

The sheriff stepped quickly to the kitchen door. "I thought you said no one had been around here, ma'am."

"Why—I didn't see any one," came the girl's voice.

"I saw 'em from the pasture," the boy confessed.

"Then they're here!" cried the sheriff. "Search the house an' the barn!"

In the dim, narrow cellar Rathburn was holding his gun aimed at Lamy's heart.

"You remember what I said about keepin' your mouth shut?" he asked in a low voice, his steel-blue gaze boring into the other's eyes.

Lamy gasped. Then he slowly nodded his head.

"That's your bond!" said Rathburn, as tramping feet sounded overhead.



CHAPTER X

CAUGHT IN THE CELLAR

Rathburn rose and crouched under the trapdoor, gun in hand. Lamy watched him, breathless, perplexed, uncertain. They heard men running; then there were no sounds from above and a deathly stillness settled down.

Slowly and with infinite care Rathburn raised the trapdoor an inch or two and listened intently. Lamy scrambled to his knees on the pile of gunny sacks; but Rathburn swung quickly upon him. They stared at each other in the semidarkness.

"He said two," breathed Lamy, a curious look in his eyes.

"Are you afraid?" mocked Rathburn. "It's me they want—don't worry. I may make a break for it, an' if I do there's likely to be powder burned. You can stay here an' get out when they take after me, if I go," said Rathburn, and the sneer in his voice caused Lamy to flush uncomfortably.

Rathburn petted the gun in his hand. "But before I make a break I want to tell you something that I should have told you before this, when I had more time——"

He bit off his speech as there came a sudden recurrence of the sounds in the house. The trapdoor closed down.

"Where's the cellar?" came the sheriff's authoritative voice.

Many feet tramped upon the floor above them. Then they heard the rug stripped back. There was an exclamation from the sheriff and the sound of moving feet suddenly was stilled.

"Is there any one in the cellar?" the sheriff called.

Silence—with Lamy pressing Rathburn's knee with a hand, and Rathburn smiling that queer, grim smile which conveyed so much, yet nothing which was tangible.

"Get around here, you fellows," they heard the sheriff order.

The sound of boots and spurs attested to the quickness with which his order was obeyed.

Rathburn leaned down suddenly and with lightning swiftness jerked Lamy's gun from its holster near his side. He tossed the weapon to a corner of the dark cellar just as the sheriff's voice was heard again.

"Coyote, if you're down there I'm not going to take a chance fumbling with that door. If you ain't there, then there won't be any harm in what I'm going to do. If I don't hear anything when I finish talking I'm going to give the signal to my men to start shooting through the floor—and I mean it. If anybody's down there it'd be good sense to flip up that door and crawl out hands first, an' those hands empty."

"Sheriff, you're bluffing!" said Rathburn loudly.

Then the sheriff spoke again in an exultant tone. "I figured it was the best hidin' place you could find, Coyote. You're right; I was sort of bluffing, but I might have changed my mind an' gone on through with it. We've got you dead to rights, Coyote; you haven't got a chance. There's seven of us now an' every man is ready to open up if you come out of there a-shooting."

Rathburn slipped his gun back into his holster. He raised the trapdoor slowly until it tipped back on the floor leaving the opening into the cellar clear.

"Two of 'em!" he heard some one exclaim.

He looked up to accustom his eyes to the light and saw a dozen guns covering him.

"Gentlemen, the landscape fairly bristles with artillery," he said amiably. "Who's the sheriff? And—there's Jud Brown. Who let you loose, Jud?"

"I'm Sheriff Neal," interposed that individual, a slight, dark man with a bristly mustache. "Come out of there—hands free."

"For the time being, eh, sheriff? I expect you figure on fixing those hands so they won't be free, eh? Well, all I've got to say is that I hope you won't spend the money foolishly, sheriff."

Rathburn leaped lightly out of the cellar.

"Keep that other man down there covered, too," snapped out Neal. "It's principle more than reward money that invites me, Coyote. Hand over your gun belt an' be careful how you unbuckle it."

"Sheriff, it would be against my code of ethics to hand over my gun. It can't be done, sheriff; you'll have to come and get it."

Neal hesitated, notwithstanding the fact that he had Rathburn covered and that several other guns were covering him. Then he stepped forward, never taking his eyes from Rathburn's, and secured the other's weapon.

"That's better, sheriff," said Rathburn with a queer smile. "You can see how I have my pride an' little superstitions. No man has ever took a gun from me but what I've got it back! Thanks, sheriff."

Lamy had come out of the cellar. Several of the men seemed to recognize him, but kept their silence with dubious looks in their eyes.

"My guide, sheriff," said Rathburn, pointing gayly at Lamy. "He was very kind. He showed me around the country—me not being very well acquainted around here. I had to take his gun away from him an' sort of encourage him along with my own, but he did very nicely."

"Just what I thought, Neal," said Brown. "This fellow took after him an' he captured him and made him lead him. Isn't that so?" he asked of Lamy.

"Just a minute, Jud," Rathburn interrupted with a frown. "I can't let the importance of this momentous occasion be transferred to a subordinate. You must ask your questions of me, as I am the central figure in this affair."

The cry of a girl startled them. She came running from the kitchen where she had fled when the sheriff announced his intention to shoot through the floor.

"Ed!" she cried, running to Lamy and throwing her arms about him. "Oh—Ed!"

"Who is he, ma'am?" asked the sheriff. "Your husband?"

"He's my brother—Ed Lamy."

"I can recommend him if you need a guide who knows the country, sheriff," said Rathburn genially. "I guess he had an idea of making trouble for me at first, but I had the drop on him an' he soon saw reason. I had to knock him down last night when he got fresh, but he did very well. Of course I had an advantage on my side." He nodded toward his gun which the official still held in his hand.

"Did he make you guide him?" Neal asked Lamy, noting his empty holster.

Rathburn turned so that he could look at his former captive.

Lamy nodded. "Yes," he replied. "I didn't know what minute I was goin' to get shot in the back."

Rathburn's eyes glowed with an amused light. "I didn't have any idea of shootin' him, sheriff; he was too valuable as my escort on the tour. I wonder if the lady could spare me a cup of coffee an' a biscuit?"

He glimpsed the boy in the kitchen doorway behind the sheriff. "Hello, sonny," he called cheerfully. "Did you catch those freckles from your brother?"

The boy gazed at him abashed. There were actually tears in the youngster's eyes. Ed Lamy and his sister moved into the kitchen and took the boy with them. The girl had nodded to the sheriff.

"She'll get you something to eat," said Neal. "What have you got on you?" He stepped to Rathburn's side.

"Ah—the frisk. I see you are a regulation officer, sheriff." Rathburn's tone fairly radiated politeness and good cheer. "The silver was rather heavy. It ain't my usual style to pack much silver, sheriff. There's more of the bills in my hip pockets. Don't suppose there's more'n a thousand in the whole bundle."

The sheriff put the bills and silver on the table. He investigated all of Rathburn's pockets, returned him his tobacco, papers, and handkerchief, but kept a box of matches. Then he felt his prisoner's clothing to make sure that he had no weapons concealed; he also felt his boot tops.

He looked at Rathburn with a gloating expression when he had finished; there was also a glint of admiration in the gaze he directed at him.

"You size right up to the descriptions of you, Coyote," he reflected in a pleasant voice. "Too bad you couldn't have been in a better business. I'm glad I caught you, but I ain't any too—too—well, I might say any too proud of it. That may be pleasant for you to hear. But I ain't discounting your well-known ability, an' I want to warn you that I or any of my men will shoot you in your tracks if you start anything that looks suspiciouslike."

Rathburn yawned. "Sheriff, your courtesy is very greatly appreciated. I only hope we will arrive in jail or somewhere soon where I can get some sleep. I'm all in."



CHAPTER XI

FREEDOM BEHIND BARS

In the early afternoon the little cavalcade rode into Dry Lake. Rathburn was nodding in his saddle, nearly asleep.

"We'll keep him here to-night till I can get the facts straight," he heard Sheriff Neal say to Brown.

They dismounted at a small square stone building with bars on the windows. Then Rathburn was proudly led between a line of curious spectators into jail.

Three rooms comprised Dry Lake's jail. The front of the building, for a depth of a third of the distance from the front to the rear, was divided into two of these rooms; one, the larger, being the main office, and the other, much smaller, being the constable's private office. The balance of the building was one large room, divided into two old-fashioned cages with iron and steel bars. The doors to these cages were on either side of the door into the front office and there was an aisle between the cages and the wall separating them from the offices.

Rathburn was taken immediately to the cage on the left of the office door. Sheriff Neal hesitated as he stood in the cell with him, thought for a minute, then removed the handcuffs.

"That's right fine of you, sheriff," said Rathburn sleepily, but cheerfully, nevertheless.

"Oh, you'll be watched well enough," said Neal as he closed the barred door behind him and locked Rathburn in. "You'll find somebody around if you try to tear the place down."

"That wasn't just what I was getting at, sheriff," said the prisoner with a glitter in his eyes. "I meant it was right fine of you to give me freedom behind the bars."

Rathburn's taunting laugh rang in the official's ears as the latter pushed the men with him into the outer office. Rathburn listened, yawning, to the sheriff giving instructions that the prisoner be watched constantly.

He looked about the cage which was separated from the other cell by a wall of sheet iron. It contained nothing except a bench and a stool. He pushed the bench against the stone wall at the rear and reclined upon it, using his coat for a pillow. Then he turned his face toward the wall, shading his eyes from the light, which filtered through two windows high in the wall beyond the bars on the left side by tipping his hat over his face.

Immediately he fell asleep.

The news that The Coyote had been captured, spread rapidly through the town and many came to the jail hoping they might be able to see the prisoner. All of these were denied admittance, but Sheriff Neal told the few who stated that they had been among the number the bandit had lined up at the point of his guns, that they would be called to identify The Coyote on the following day. He asked each if they were sure the bandit had two guns, and the reply in each case was in the affirmative.

"That's funny," Neal muttered. "He only had one gun on him."

"More'n likely the other's on his horse with his saddle," Brown pointed out. "I believe he left his horse somewheres an' made that fellow Lamy take him to the house thinking he could get something to eat there, and that they wouldn't be so likely to be seen in the open on foot. You got to remember that man's more or less clever."

This explanation satisfied Neal, and in the minds of the men who had been in the resort when it was held up, there was no question as to the identity of the robber. Even if they had suspected otherwise it is doubtful if they would have acknowledged it because they considered it less of an ignominy to be held up by the notorious Coyote than by a bandit of lesser reputation.

Thus did the bonds of evidence tighten about Rathburn while he slept through the late afternoon and the twilight.

When he awoke a faint yellow light dimly illuminated his surroundings. He lay thinking for several minutes. He knew night had fallen and surmised that he had slept a full eight hours. He could tell this because he was fully awake and alert. He turned noiselessly on his bench and saw that the light came from a lamp burning near the door to the outer office.

Rathburn could hear the hum of voices, and by listening intently, ascertained that two men were talking, one of whom was the sheriff. He could not recognize the voice of the other speaker as a voice he had ever heard before, and he could not hear what they were saying.

He listened dully to the voices until he heard a horse's hoofs in front of the jail. He turned back with his face to the wall, and his hat tipped over his eyes, as a man entered the jail office with a stamp of boots and jingle of spurs.

"Hello, constable," he heard the sheriff say. "What luck?"

"Couldn't find the hoss," came a disgruntled voice. "Looked all afternoon an' till it got dark for him."

"Confound it!" exclaimed Neal. "The horse must have been somewhere aroun' close. He sure didn't walk down the valley."

"That's probably right," said the other. "I left a couple of your men out there to keep up searching when daylight comes. That feller Lamy showed us about where they left the hosses—his hoss an' The Coyote's—but they wasn't there. He said there was a bunch of wild hosses in the valley an' that they'd probably got away an' gone with 'em. We saw the wild hosses, but we couldn't get anywhere near 'em—couldn't get near enough to see if any of 'em was wearin' saddles or not. We had some chase while it lasted, I'll recite."

"Did Lamy say how they came to leave their horses?" asked the sheriff in an annoyed tone.

"It was The Coyote's orders. Thought they'd be safer in the middle of the posse or something like that. Made Lamy leave the hosses an' run for the house an' made him get down in the cellar with him. Don't know if he knew Lamy lived there or not, but reckon it wouldn't have made any difference."

The sheriff was pacing the floor of the office as his footfalls attested. "I've ordered that Lamy in to-morrow. I've a lot more questions to ask him. Well, you might as well get a few winks, constable; Brown and the rest of 'em have hit the hay. Even the prisoner is tired out, and that's sayin' something for as tough a bird as he is. But I wish I had his horse. I've got to have his horse!"

Rathburn was smiling at the wall. He heard Neal walk to the door and look in. Receding footsteps told him that the constable was leaving. For a time there was silence in the outer office.

Rathburn sat up quietly and began easing off his right boot. The boot came slowly, very slowly, as Rathburn worked at it, careful not to make any noise. Then, just as it came free, the sheriff again strode to the door and looked in.

He saw Rathburn yawning, as the boot dropped on the floor.

Rathburn looked at the sheriff sleepily as the official strode into the aisle and peered in between the bars. He tipped the bootless foot back on its toes as he lifted his other foot and tugged at the boot.

"That you, sheriff?" he asked with another yawn. "The lights are so bad I can't see good. Guess I'm a little groggy anyway. I was too danged tired when I went to sleep to take off my boots."

"You've got another ten hours to sleep," said Neal with a scowl. "An' you'll have plenty of time to get rid of your saddle soreness. You'll ride in automobiles and trains for a while an' keep in out of the hot sun an' the wet."

The sheriff laughed harshly at his own words.

Rathburn let the other boot drop. "I expect I'll get something to eat now an' then, too?"

"Feel hungry?" asked Neal.

"Might chaw on a biscuit before I take another nap," yawned the prisoner.

"I'll see if I can scare you up a bite," said the sheriff, leaving.

Rathburn heard him say something to some one in front. Then the sheriff went out of the building. The other man came in and looked at Rathburn curiously.

He was of medium build, with white hair and a face seamed and lined and red. Rathburn instantly recognized in his jailer a man of the desert—possibly of the border country.

"So you're The Coyote," said the jailer in a rather high-pitched voice.

Rathburn winked at him. "That's what they say," he replied.

"You size up to him, all right," observed the man of the desert. "An' I can tell quick enough when I get a good look at you an' inspect your left forearm. I've had your descriptions in front of my eyes on paper an' from a dozen persons that knowed you for three years!"

"You been trailing me?" asked Rathburn curiously.

"I have; an' it ain't no credit to this bunch here that they got you, for I was headed in this direction myself an' arrived 'most as soon as you did."

"You from Arizona?" asked Rathburn, grasping his right foot in his left hand.

"I'm from Arizony an' Mexico an' a few other places," was the answer. "I've helped catch men like you before, Coyote."

Rathburn frowned, still keeping his hand over his right foot. "I don't like that word, Coyote," he said softly, holding the other's gaze between the bars. "A coyote is a cowardly breed of animal, isn't it?"

"An' a tricky one," said the jailer. "I ain't sayin' you're a coward; but you're tricky, an' that's bad enough."

"Maybe so," agreed Rathburn. "Ah—here's our friend, his nibs, the sheriff. He went out to rustle me some grub. He wants to keep me fat for hanging!"

His laugh rang through the jail, empty save for himself and the two officers. But the temporary jailer hesitated, looking at Rathburn's eyes, before he turned to the sheriff.

"Open the door and I'll take it in to him," ordered the sheriff. "Can't get this stuff through the bars. You might keep him covered."

The jailer's hand flew to his hip for his gun as he also brought up a large key on a ring. He unlocked the door to the cage and held it open while he kept his gun trained upon Rathburn.

The sheriff entered and placed the food on the stool and a large bowl of coffee on the floor beside it. Then he backed out, watching Rathburn keenly as the latter sat on his bench with his right foot in his hand.

When the door clanged shut and the key rattled in the lock, Rathburn let down his right foot, took two steps, and pulled the stool to the bench. He stepped back and secured the coffee. Then he began to eat and drink, keeping his right foot tipped on its toes, while the two officials watched him attentively.

"Sheriff," said Rathburn suddenly, between bites on a huge meat sandwich, "could you let me have a stub of a lead pencil an' a sheet of paper to write a letter on?"

"Easy enough," answered Neal. "Course, you know all mail that goes out of the jail is read by us before it's delivered—if it's delivered at all."

"I'll chance it," snapped out Rathburn.

As the sheriff left to get the writing materials, with the jailer following him, doubtless for a whispered confab as to what Rathburn might be wanting to write and its possible bearing on his capture, the prisoner hastily ran his left hand down into his right sock and with some difficulty withdrew a peculiar-shaped leather case about ten inches long and nearly the width of his foot. This he put within his shirt.

When the officials returned he had finished his repast and was waiting for them near the bars with a smile of gratitude on his lips.

"This may be a confession I'm going to write," he said, grinning at Neal. "It's going to take me a long time, I reckon, but you said I had something like ten hours for sleep, so I guess I can spare two or three for this effort at literary composition. I figure, sheriff, that this'll be my masterpiece."

His look puzzled the sheriff as he took the pencil and paper through the bars and returned to his bunk. He drew up the stool and sat upon it. It was a little lower than the bench, so, putting his paper on the bench, he had a fairly good makeshift desk. He began to write steadily, and after a few minutes the sheriff and jailer retired to the office.

It did not take Rathburn a quarter of an hour to write what he wished on the first of the several pieces of paper. He tore off what he had written, doubled it again and again into a small square, took out his sack of tobacco which he had been allowed to retain, and put it therein with the loose tobacco.

Then he wrote for a few minutes on the second sheet of paper.

When the sheriff looked in later he evidently was slowly and laboriously achieving a composition.

Rathburn heard the sheriff go out of the front door a few minutes later. Instantly he was alert. He drew on his boots. He surmised that the sheriff had gone out for something to eat and, though he wasn't sure of this, it was true.

"Oh, jailer!" he called amiably.

The wrinkled face of the desert trailer appeared in the office doorway.

Rathburn looked about from his seat on the stool. "This job ain't none too easy, as it is," he complained. "As a writer I'm a first-rate cow hand. Lemme take your knife to sharpen this pencil with. When I asked the sheriff for a stub of a pencil he took me at my word."

"Sure I'll let you have my knife," said the jailer sarcastically. "How about my gun—want that, too?"

"Oh, come on, old-timer," pleaded Rathburn. "The lead in this pencil's worn clean down into the wood."

"Hand it over here an' I'll sharpen it," said the jailer, drawing his pocketknife.

Rathburn walked to the bars and held out the pencil. An amiable smile played on his lips. "You'll have to excuse me," he said contritely. "I forgot it wasn't jail etiquette to ask for a knife. But I ain't had much experience in jail. Now according to his nibs, the sheriff, I'm in to get pretty well acquainted with 'em, eh?"

He watched the jailer as he began sharpening the pencil.

"Speaking of knives, now," he continued in a confiding tone, "I got in a ruckus down near the border once an' some gents started after me. One of 'em got pretty close—close enough to take some skin off my shoulder with a bullet. He just sort of compelled me to shoot back."

"I suppose you killed him," observed the jailer, pausing in his work of sharpening the pencil.

"I ain't saying," replied Rathburn. "Anyways I had a hole-up down there for a few days, an' as luck would have it, I had to put up with a Mexican. All that Mex would do was argue that a knife was better than a gun. He claimed it was sure and made no noise—those were his hardest talking points, an' I'll be danged if there isn't something in it.

"But what I was gettin' at is that I didn't have nothing to do, an' that Mexican got me to practicing knife throwing. You know how slick those fellows are at throwing a blade. Well, in the couple of weeks that I hung aroun' there he coached me along till I could throw a knife as good as he could. He thought it was great sport, teaching me to throw a knife so good, that a way.

"Since I left down there I've sort of practiced that knife-throwing business now and then, just for fun. Anyways I thought it was just for fun. But now I see, jailer, that it was my luck protecting me. Anything you learn is liable to prove handy some time. Don't move an inch or I'll let you have it!"

Rathburn's hand snapped out of his shirt and up above his right shoulder.

The man from the desert shuddered involuntarily as he saw the yellow light from the lamp play fitfully upon a keen, white blade.



CHAPTER XII

AGAINST HIS ETHICS

Rathburn's eyes held the other's as completely as would have been the case if he were invested with a power to charm in some occult way. Moreover, every trace of his amiable, confiding smile was gone. His gaze was hard and cold and gleaming. His face was drawn into grim lines. When he spoke he talked smoothly, rapidly, and with an edge to his words which convinced his listener that he was in deadly earnest.

"I'm not used to jails, my friend, an' I don't aim to stay here. You're not very far away an' these bars are wide enough for me to miss 'em; but I don't think I could miss you."

The jailer looked in horror at the gleaming knife which Rathburn held by its hilt with the blade pointing backward. The jailer was from the border; he knew the awful possibilities of a quick motion of the wrist in that position, a half turn of the knife as it streaked toward its target. He shuddered again.

"Now just edge this way about two steps so your holster will be against the bars," Rathburn instructed. "I can drop you where you stand, reach through the bars an' drag you close if need be; but I'm banking on you having some good sense."

The jailer, without moving the hands which held the pencil and his pocketknife, sidled up against the bars.

Rathburn leaned forward. Keeping his right hand high and tipped back, ready for the throw, he reached out with his left, just through the bars, and secured the jailer's gun.

"Now it's all off," he said quietly. "If the sheriff or anybody else comes before I get out of here I'm just naturally going to have to live up to the reputation for shooting that they've fastened on me. Unlock the door."

The jailer wet his lips with his tongue. The pencil and pocketknife fell to the floor. Covered by his own gun, now in Rathburn's hand, he moved to the door, brought out his key, and opened it. Still keeping him covered, Rathburn backed to the bench, snatched up his coat, and walked out of the cage, motioning to the jailer to precede him into the office.

There he slipped the gun in his holster and put on his coat. The jailer reckoned better than to try to leap upon him while he was thus engaged; the prisoner's speed with a six-gun was well known.

Rathburn drew a peculiar leather case from within his shirt, put the knife in it, and stowed it away in a pocket. Then he turned on the jailer.

"Maybe you think that was a mean trick—resorting to a knife," he said pleasantly; "but all is fair in love and war and when a man's in jail. You better sort of stand in one place while I look around a bit."

He backed behind the desk in the big office, opened two or three drawers, and brought out a pair of handcuffs. He moved around in front of the jailer again.

"Hold out your hands," he commanded. "That's it." He snapped the handcuffs on with one hand while he kept the other on the butt of his gun.

"You don't seem to have much to say," he commented.

"What's the use?" said the jailer. "I know when a man's got me dead to rights. But I'll be on your trail again, an' if I ever get within shootin' distance of you an' see you first, you'll never get another chance to pull a knife."

"Well said," Rathburn admitted. "Now we understand each other. But I don't intend for you to ever get within shooting distance of me."

Rathburn glanced casually about. "Now it seems to me," he resumed, "that most of these fellows who gum up their jail breaks make a mistake by hurrying. Suppose you just walk natural-like through that door and into the cage I just had the foresight to leave. That's it—right on in."

He turned the key which the jailer had left in the lock. "Now you're all right unless you start hollering," said Rathburn.

He stood quietly in the doorway between the office and the cages. The man from the desert studied him. He saw a variety of expressions flit over Rathburn's face—anger, determination, scorn, resolve. He was deliberately ignoring his opportunity to make his escape while conditions were propitious; he was waiting!

Although the jailer felt the urge to cry out in an endeavor to make himself heard outside the jail and thus bring help, something in the bearing of the man standing in the doorway made him keenly curious to watch the drama which he knew must be enacted sooner or later before his eyes, for The Coyote was certainly waiting for the sheriff.

Rathburn now drew the jailer's gun from his own holster and toyed with it to get its "feel" and balance. He dropped it back into the holster and in a wink of an eyelid it was back in his hand. The man from the desert gasped at the lightning rapidity of the draw. Time and again the gun virtually leaped from the holster into The Coyote's hand at his hip, ready to spit forth leaden death. The jailer drew a long breath. The man was accustoming himself to the weapon which had come into his possession, making sure of it. Now he again stood motionless in the doorway, waiting—waiting——

Boots stamped upon the steps outside, and Rathburn drew back from the doorway in the aisle before the cages.

The front door opened and a man entered.

Both the man in the cage and the man in the aisle recognized the sheriff's step as Neal closed the door, paused for a look about the office, and then walked toward the door leading into the jail proper.

The jailer opened his mouth to sound a warning, but something in Rathburn's gaze and posture held him silent. Rathburn's body was tense; his gaze was glued to the doorway; his right hand with its slim, brown, tapered fingers, hung above the gun at his side.

The sheriff loomed in the doorway. Without a flicker of surprise in his eyes he took in the situation. His lids half closed as his lips tightened to a thin, white line. He met Rathburn's gaze and knew that he now faced The Coyote in the role which had won him his sinister reputation.

"Did I mention to you that I wasn't used to jails, sheriff?" said Rathburn evenly, his words carrying crisp and clear. "I don't fancy 'em. But I needed the sleep and the meal. Now I'm going. Do you recollect I said no one ever took my gun from me but what I got it back? I had to borrow this one from the gent in the cage. I'll take my gun, sheriff—now!"

Neal had watched him closely. He saw that while he was speaking The Coyote did not for an instant relax his vigilance. The merest resemblance of a move would precipitate gun play.

He turned abruptly, and with Rathburn following him closely, went into the private room off the jail office. He pointed to the other's gun which lay upon the flat desk where many had curiously inspected it.

Rathburn took it in his left hand and ascertained at a glance that it wasn't loaded. Therefore he elected to carry it in his left hand.

"I won't take a chance on feeding it right now, sheriff," he said. "Under the circumstances it would be right awkward. If you make up your mind to draw I'll have to depend on a strange gun."

Sheriff Neal's eyes glittered; his lips parted just a little.

"Now if you'll walk back toward the cage, sheriff," Rathburn prompted. "Correct—don't stumble."

Neal backed slowly out of the door, through the second door into the aisle before the cages, watching Rathburn like a cat.

Rathburn slipped his own weapon into his left hip pocket and with his left hand dug into his trousers pocket for the key to the cage. He didn't take his eyes from Neal's as he brought it out and inserted it in the lock. His right hand continued to hang above the gun he had taken from the jailer.

"Sheriff," he said with a cold ring in his voice, "this may seem like an insult, but I'm goin' to ask you to unlock that cage and go in. You can take your time if you want, but I warn you fair that if any one should start coming up the steps outside I'll try to smoke you up."

For answer Neal, with the glitter still in his eyes, stepped to the cage door, unlocked it, and swung it open.

He took a step, whirled like a flash—and the deafening report of guns crashed and reverberated within the jail's walls.

Neal staggered back within the cage, his gun clattering to the floor, his right hand dropping to his side.

"If I hadn't been up against a strange gun I wouldn't have hit your finger, sheriff," said Rathburn mockingly. "I was shootin' at your gun."

He shut the cage door quickly, locked it, and stuck the key in his pocket. Then he threw the jailer's gun in through the bars and thrust his own weapon in its holster.

"I want you gentlemen inside, an' armed," he said laughingly. "If the jailer will be so good as to read what's written on the paper on the bench, he'll learn something to his advantage. Sheriff, you an' Brown were wrong in this, but the devil of it is you'll never know why."

He left Neal pondering this cryptic sally, ran to the front door, opened it, and disappeared.

Neal clutched his injured fingers and swore freely, although there was amazement in his eyes. He could have been killed like a rat in a trap if The Coyote had felt the whim.

The man from the desert stepped to the bench and read on the sheet of paper:

If anybody ever gets to read this they will know that what I said about learning to throw a knife is true. I can do it. I've carried that knife in a special case that would fit in my sock and boot for just such an emergency as came up to-night. But I never would have throwed it. It would be against my ethics.

The man from the desert swore softly. Then he hurriedly picked up his gun and fired five shots to attract attention.



CHAPTER XIII

A MAN AND HIS HORSE

When Rathburn closed the outer door after him he plunged down the steps and into the shadows by the wall of the jail. Few lights showed in the town, for it was past midnight. He could see yellow beams streaming from the windows of the resort up the street, however, as he hesitated.

He was mightily handicapped because he had no horse. A horse—his own horse, he felt—was necessary for his escape, but his horse was a long distance away.

Rathburn stole across the street to the side on which the big resort was situated, and slipped behind a building just as the muffled reports came from within the jail. After a short interval, five more shots were heard, and Rathburn grinned as he realized that the jailer had fired the remaining bullets in his own and the sheriff's guns.

He heard men running down the street. So he hurried up street behind the buildings until he reached the rear of the large resort, which was the place Lamy had held up.

Peering through one of the rear windows he saw the room was deserted except for the man behind the bar. Even at that distance he could hear horses and men down the street. Doubtless they were crowding into the jail where the sheriff would insist upon being liberated at once so he could lead the chase and, as Rathburn had the key, this would result in a delay until another key could be found, or Brown, who probably had one, could be routed out.

Rathburn thought of this as he looked through the window at the lonely bartender who evidently could not decide whether to close up and see what it all was about or not. But the thing which impressed Rathburn most was the presence of a pile of sandwiches and several cans of corned beef and sardines—emergency quick lunches for patrons—on the back bar. Also, he saw several gunny sacks on a box in the rear of the place almost under the window through which he was looking.

Rathburn stepped to the door in sudden decision, threw it open, and walked in. His gun flashed into his hand. "Quiet!" was all he said to the stupefied bartender.

He scooped up one of the sacks, darted behind the bar, brushed the sandwiches and most of the cans of corned beef and sardines into it, and then slung it over his left shoulder with his left hand.

"The sheriff will return the money that was taken from here," he said coolly as he walked briskly to the front door. "Play the game safe; stay where you are!" he cautioned as he vanished through the door.

There were no horses at the hitching rail, but he saw several down the street in front of the jail. Men were running back and forth across the street—after Brown, he surmised.

Again he stole around to the rear of the resort; then he struck straight up into the timbered slope above the town, climbing rapidly afoot with the distant peaks and ridges as his guide.

Some two hours after dawn he sat on the crest of a high ridge watching a rider come up the winding trail from eastward. He had seen other riders going in both directions from his concealment behind a screen of cedar bushes. He had watched them with no interest other than that exhibited by a whimsical smile. But he did not smile as he watched this rider. His eyes became keenly alert; his face was grim. His mind was made up.

When the rider was nearing his ambush, Rathburn quickly scanned the empty stretch of trail to westward, then leaped down and confronted the horseman.

Ed Lamy drew rein with an exclamation of surprise.

"There's not much time, an' I don't hanker to be seen—afoot," said Rathburn quickly. "Where's my horse?"

"He's in a pocket on a shale slope this side of the timber on a line from the house where you left him," replied Lamy readily. "Or you can have mine."

"Don't want him," said Rathburn curtly. "You going in to see the sheriff?"

Lamy nodded. "His orders. Say, Coyote——"

"He'll probably meet you on the way," Rathburn interrupted with a sneer. "You can be figurin' out what to say to him. My saddle with the horse?"

"It's hanging from a tree where you go into the pocket. Big limestone cliffs there below the shale. Say, Coyote, my sister an' kid brother was tellin' me about your visit that morning, an' I guess I understand——"

"We can't stand here talkin'," Rathburn broke in, pulling the tobacco sack from his shirt pocket. He extracted a folded piece of paper. "Here's a note I wrote you in jail before I left. Read it on the way in when there's no one watching you. Maybe you'll learn something from it; maybe you won't. I expect you wanted money to fix that ranch up; but you'll get further by doing a little irrigating from up that stream than by trying to be a bandit. You just naturally ain't cut out for the part!"

With these words he handed Lamy the note and bounded back up the slope. The screen of cedar bushes closed behind him as Lamy pushed on, looking back, wondering and confused, with heightened color in his face.

It was late that night when Lamy returned to the little ranch house. Frankie had gone to bed, but his sister was waiting up for him with a meal and hot tea ready.

He talked to his sister in a low voice while he ate. When he had finished he read the note for the third time; read it aloud, so his sister could hear.

"LAMY: I meant to take you back and give you up, for I was pretty sore. Then I saw your resemblance to your small brother by the freckles and eyes and I remembered he had said something about you saying some decent things about me. I guess you thought they were nice things, anyway.

"Then I thought maybe you got your ideas about easy money from the stuff you'd heard about me, and I sort of felt kind of responsible. I thought I'd teach you a lesson by flirting with that posse and telling you that killing story to show you what a man is up against in this game. I guess I can't get away from it because they won't let me. But you don't have to start. I was going to give you a good talking to before I let you go, but I hadn't counted on the little kid in the house. I'm glad he told the truth. He'll remember that. I gave you back your gun because you hit the nail on the head when you said if I was square I'd give it to you and let you make a run for it.

"I took the money off you so if they got us I could take the blame and let you off. I can take the blame without hurting my reputation, so don't worry. I'm not doing this so much for your sake as for your kid brother and your sister. I figure you'd sort of caught on when I heard they hadn't located my horse. That was a good turn. Do me another by getting some sense. There's plenty of us fellows that's quite capable to furnish the bad examples.

"RATHBURN."

The girl was crying softly with an arm about her brother's neck when he finished reading.

"What—what are you going to do, Eddie?" she sobbed.

"I'm goin' to irrigate!" said Ed Lamy with a new note in his voice. "I'm goin' to build a sure-enough ranch for us with this piece of paper for a corner stone!"

Dawn was breaking over the mountains, strewing the gleaming peaks with warm rosettes of color. A clear sky, as deep and blue as any sea, arched its canopy above. Virgin stands of pine and fir marched up the steep slopes to fling their banners of green against the snow. Silver ribbons of streams laughed in the welcome sunlight.

In a rock-walled gulch, far above the head of Sunrise Canon, a fire was burning, its thin smoke streamer riding on a vagrant breeze. Near by lay a dun-colored horse on its side, tied fast. A man was squatting by the blaze.

"I hate to have to do this, old hoss," the man crooned; "but we've got to change the pattern of that CC2 brand if we want to stick together, an' I reckon we want to stick."

He thrust the running iron deeper into the glowing coals.



CHAPTER XIV

THE WITNESS

The morning was hardly two hours old, and the crisp air was stinging sweet with the tang of pine and fir, as Rathburn rode jauntily down the trail on the eastern slope of the divide and drew rein on the crest of a high ridge. As he looked below he whistled softly.

"Juniper, hoss, there's folks down there plying a nefarious trade, a plumb dangerous trade," he mused, digging for the tobacco and brown papers in the pocket of his shirt. "I reckon they're carrying on in direct defiance of the law, hoss."

The dun-colored mustang tossed his head impatiently, but his master ignored the animal's fretful desire to be off and dallied with tobacco and paper, fashioning a cigarette, lighting it, breathing thin smoke as his gray eyes squinted appraisingly at the scene below.

Winding down into the foothills, in striking contrast to the dim trails higher up, was a well-used road. It evidently led from the saffron-tinted dump and gray buildings of a mine which showed on the side of a big, bald mountain to southward. At a point almost directly below the ridge where the man and horse stood, it crossed a small hogback and descended a steep slope between lines of jack pines, disappearing in the timber farther down.

The gaze of the man on the ridge was concentrated on the bit of road which showed on the hogback and the slope beyond. A truck was laboriously climbing the ascent. But the watcher evidently was not so much concerned with the approach of the truck as with certain movements which were in progress on the hogback at the head of the grade.

Three persons had dismounted from their horses behind the screen of timber. One, a tall man, had donned a long, black slicker and was tying a handkerchief about his face.

"Juniper, hoss," said Rathburn, "what does that gent want that slicker on for? It ain't going to rain. An' how does he reckon to see onless maybe he's got holes cut in that there hanky?"

A second man had made his way down the slope a short distance. He took advantage of the timber which screened him from sight of the driver of the oncoming truck.

"I 'spect that's in case the truck driver should suddenly take it into his head to slide down backwards," said the observer, speaking his thoughts aloud in a musical, bass voice. "One in front, one behind; now how about the kid?"

As if in answer to his question the third member of the party, evidently a boy, led the horses a short way up the hogback where a good view could be obtained of the road in both directions.

The watcher grunted in approval. "One in front to do the stick-up, one behind to stop a retreat and get whatever it is they're after, and one on the lookout to see there ain't any unexpected guests. Couldn't have planned the lay any better ourselves, hoss."

He was too far distant to interfere, even if he had had any desire to do so, which was doubtful from his interested and tolerant manner. Anyway it could have done no good to shout a warning, for the driver of the truck could not have heard anything above the roar of his machine, and the trio had gone about the preparations with dispatch. Already the truck was climbing the last steep pitch to the top of the hogback.

The tall man in the black slicker and mask now quickly stepped forth from the edge of the timber. The watcher above saw his right hand and arm whip out level with his shoulders. There was a glint of morning sunlight and dull metal. The truck came to a jarring stop as the driver jammed on the brakes. Then the driver's hands went into the air.

Stepping from the timber at the roadside behind the truck, the second man leaped upon the machine. The watcher grunted again as he saw that this man was also masked. The driver was disarmed and searched, then forced to clamber down from the truck into the road, where the man in the slicker kept him covered while the other quickly searched about the seat and cab of the truck. Then the second man released the brakes and dropped nimbly from the machine which plunged backward down the steep slope, crashed into the tree growth on one side of the road, and overturned.

The boy mounted and led the other two horses down the hogback in the scanty timber to the head of the grade. There the man in the slicker and his companion joined him, mounted, and the trio rode quickly along the hogback in a southerly direction and disappeared on a blind rail into the forest.

Rathburn rolled himself another cigarette with a grin as he watched the truck driver stand for some moments uncertainly in the road and then start rapidly down the slope toward his disabled machine.

"C'mon, hoss," said the erstwhile spectator, turning his dun-colored mount again into the trail. "So far's I can make out, this is the only way down out of these tall mountains to the east, so we might as well get going. We ain't got no business south or west. We'll be just in time to get blamed for what's happened down there."

Whatever there might be in the prospect, the rider did not permit it to have any influence on his cheerful mood. He drew in long breaths of the stimulating air and sniffed joyously at the fragrance of the murmuring forests which clothed the higher hills. Far below the timber would dwindle, the ridges would flatten into round knolls and lose their verdure; then would come the dust and lava slopes, and beyond—the desert.

A wistful light came into the horseman's eyes. "Home, Juniper, hoss," he said softly. "We've just got to have cactus an' water holes an' danged blistering heat in ours; and I don't care so much as the faded label off an empty tomato can if it's in California, or Arizona, or Nevada, so long as it's desert!"

The trail he was following wound tortuously around ridges, through the timber, into ravines and canyons; now treading close upon the bank of a swift-running mountain stream in a narrow valley, and again seeking the higher places where there were rocks and fallen trees and other obstructions. An observer would have gleaned at once that the rider was not familiar with the trail or territory he traversed.

So it was past noon when he finally reached the hogback where the outstanding event of the morning had taken place. The rider looked back up toward the divide and grinned as he rested his horse just above the scene of the holdup.

"Don't reckon they'd have heard me if I'd hollered, or seen me if I'd waved," he mused. "They picked out a good spot for the dirty work," he concluded, looking about.

Shortly afterward, as he was staring down at the tracks in the road, he smothered an exclamation. Then he dismounted, picked up two small objects from the dust at the point where the trio had started on their get-away, examined them with a puzzled expression, and thrust them into a pocket.

"Queer," he ruminated; "mighty queer. If those silly things had been laying there in the road before the rumpus they'd have been tracked into the dust. But they was on top of a perfectly good hoss track. An' it don't look like there's been anybody along here since."

He continued down the road, descending the steep slope, and came to the overturned truck. At a glance he saw it had been used for hauling supplies, doubtless to the mine he had glimpsed on the slope of the high mountain to southward. Several kegs of nails, some hardware, and some sacks of cement were scattered in the road. He remembered that the man who had climbed on the truck had only searched the driver and the cab. Anything he might have taken must have been in a small package or it would have been discernible even at that long distance.

"That outfit wasn't after no mine supplies," Rathburn reflected as he finished his brief inspection and again mounted. "An' they wasn't taking any chances on smoking anybody up or being followed too quick. Pretty work all around. An' here's the committee, hoss!"

A touring car came careening around a turn in the road and raced toward him. He turned his horse to the side of the road and spoke to him as the animal, plainly unfamiliar with motor cars, snorted and shied.

The car drew to a stop with a screeching of brakes. The horseman raised his hands as he saw two rifles leveled at him from the rear seat. There were five men in the car besides the driver. One of the men, who had been sitting in the front with the driver, leaped from the machine and strode toward the rider.

"Calm that horse down an' climb out of that saddle," he commanded. "If you make any motions toward that gun you're packing, it'll make things simpler, in a way."

The rider slipped from the saddle with a broad grin. "Right up to form," he sang cheerfully, although he kept his hands elevated while the other took his gun. "My hoss'll be calm enough now that that danged thing is shut off. You must be a sheriff to be flirting with the speed limit that way an' forgetting you've got a horn."

"Where are you from an' where was you going?" demanded the other.

"I'm from up in the mountains, but I'd never got where I was going if I hadn't seen you first the way you busted around that curve," was the cool reply.

"Stranger," was the next comment in a tone of satisfaction. "Look here, friend, I'm Mannix, deputy from High Point. You'll sail smoother if you answer my questions straight."

The deputy motioned to two men in the car. "Search him," he ordered. Then he stood back, six-shooter in hand.

The stranger built a cigarette while the men were going through him. He lighted the weed and smiled quizzically while they examined the meager contents of the slicker pack on the rear of his saddle.

"See you're packing a black slicker," said Mannix, pointing to the rough raincoat in which the pack was wrapped.

"That's in case of rain," was the ready answer.

"What's your name?" asked the deputy with a frown.

"Rathburn."

"Where was you heading?"

"I was aiming in a general eastern direction," Rathburn replied in a drawl. "Is there any law against ridin' hosses in this here part of the country?"

"Not at all," replied the deputy heartily. "An' there's no law against drivin' automobiles or trucks. But there's a law against stoppin' 'em with a gun."

"So," said Rathburn. "You stopped because you saw my gun? An' I'm to blame, for it? If I'd known you were touchy about guns down here I'd have worn mine in my shirt."

One of the other men from the car had joined the deputy. He was looking at Rathburn keenly. Mannix turned to him.

"Look like him?" he asked.

The man nodded. "About the same size and height."

"This man was drivin' a truck up here that was stopped this morning," said the deputy sternly to Rathburn. "He says you size up to one of the men that turned the trick—one of them that wore a black slicker like yours."

Rathburn nodded pleasantly. "Exactly," he said with a smile. "I happen to be in the country an' I've got a black slicker. There you are; everything all proved up. An' yet there was somebody once told me it took brains to be a sheriff!"

There was a glint in Rathburn's eyes as he uttered the last sentence.

Instead of flying into a rage, Mannix laughed.

"Don't kid yourself," he said grimly. "You're not the man who held up this truck driver."

He gave Rathburn back his gun, to the latter's surprise. Then he waved toward Rathburn's horse.

"Go ahead," he said, smiling. "General eastern direction, wasn't it? This road will take you clean to the desert, if you want to go that far. So long."

He led the others back to the car which started off with a roar. It passed the truck and continued on up the road.

Rathburn sat his horse and watched the automobile out of sight. His expression was one of deep perplexity.

"By all the rules of the game that fellow should have held me as a suspect," he soliloquized. "Now he don't know me from a hoss thief—or does he?"

He frowned and rode thoughtfully down the road in the direction from which the automobile had come.



CHAPTER XV

THE WELCOME

The afternoon wore on as Rathburn followed the road at an easy jog. He quickened his pace somewhat when he passed through aisles in thick timber, and, despite his careless attitude in the saddle, he kept a sharp lookout at all times. For Rathburn was carrying some gold and bills in a belt under his shirt—which had been examined and returned to him at the order of the deputy—and he had no intention of being waylaid. Moreover, the man's natural bearing was one of constant alertness. He rode for more than two hours without seeing any one.

"Strange," he observed aloud. "This road is used a lot, too. Maybe the morning's ceremonies has scared all the travelers into the brush."

But, as he turned the next bend in the road, he saw a small cabin in a little clearing to the right.

Spurred by a desire to obtain some much-needed information, he turned from the road into the clearing and rode up to the cabin. He doffed his broad-brimmed hat in haste as he saw a girl.

"Ma'am, I'm a stranger in these woods an' I'm looking for an honest man or woman to guide me on my way," he said with a flashing smile.

Instead of returning his smile with a gracious word of greeting, the girl regarded him gravely out of glowing, dark eyes.

"Pretty!" he thought to himself. "Limping lizards, but she's pretty!"

"Where are you from?" the girl asked soberly.

"From yonder mountains, an' then some," he answered with a sweeping gesture.

"You rode down this morning?"

"I rode down this morning. Down from the toppermost top of the divide with the wind singing in my whiskers an' the birds warbling in my ears." He laughed gayly, for he appreciated her puzzled look. "I was wondering two things," he continued solemnly.

"What might they be?" she asked doubtfully.

"First: Why isn't there more travel on this good road?" he said. "I haven't seen a soul except yourself and a—a party in an automobile. Now on a road like this——"

"Where did you meet the automobile?" she asked in a voice which he interpreted as eager.

"Two hours an' some minutes back—and up. Near a truck which had had some trouble in the road. Perhaps you heard about it? Turned over on its side in collapse after some free-thinking gents turned their smoke wagons toward it."

It was plain she was interested.

"Did—is the automobile still there?" she inquired with a breathless catch in her voice.

"Oh, no. After some of the passengers had had a little disrespectful conversation with me, it went on up the road. Are they scarce around here, ma'am—automobiles?"

"Not exactly," she replied with a frown. "They truck ore and men and supplies to and from the mine every day. The reason you've seen so few people to-day is because it's Sunday."

"Thank you," he said gallantly. "That answers my first question. You remember, I was wondering two things?"

Her lips trembled with a smile, but her eyes flashed with suspicion.

"You will observe, ma'am, that I am not followed by any pack horses or heavily-laden burros," he went on gravely, although his eyes sparkled with good humor. "Nor is there anything much to speak of in this slicker pack on my saddle. I need some new smoking tobacco, some new shaving soap, some new hair cut, a bath, a dinner, and a bed—after I've put up my hoss."

This time the girl laughed, and Rathburn was rewarded by the flashing gleam of two rows of pearls and eyes merry with mirth. But her reciprocating mood of cheerfulness was quickly spent.

"You are only a mile and a half from High Point," she said hurriedly. "You can get what you want there."

She retreated into the doorway, and Rathburn saw that the chance interview was at an end.

"Gracias, as they say in the desert country," he said, saluting as he turned away. "It means thanks, ma'am."

He looked back as he touched the mustang with his steel and saw her looking after him with a strange look in her eyes.

"That gal looks half like she was scared, hoss," he reflected. "I wonder, now, if she got me wrong. Dang it! Maybe she thought I was trying to flirt with her. Well, maybe I was."

He thrust a hand in a pocket and fingered the two objects he had picked up in the road at the scene of the holdup. Then he pulled his hat a bit forward over his eyes and increased his pace. The town, as he had half expected, came suddenly into sight around a sharp bend in the road.

High Point consisted of some two-score structures, and only a cursory glance was needed to ascertain that it was the source of supplies and rendez-vous for entertainment of the several mines and all the miners and prospectors in the neighboring hills. Several fairly good roads and many trails led into it, and from it there was a main road of travel to the railroad on the edge of the desert in the east.

Before he entered the dusty, single street, lined with small buildings flaunting false fronts, Rathburn recognized the signs of a foothill town where the hand of authority rested but lightly.

He rode directly to the first hotel, the only two-story structure in town, and around to the rear where he put up his horse and left his saddle, chaps and slicker pack in the care of the barn man.

He received instructions as to the location of the best barber shop and speedily wended his way there. He found Sunday was not observed in the barber shop, nor in the resort which adjoined it.

"Any chance to get a bath here?" he asked one of the two barbers with a twinkle in his gray eyes.

He expected a snort of astonishment and a sarcastic reply.

"Sure. Want it first or after?"

Rathburn eyed the barber suspiciously. Was the man poking fun at him? Well, he was not a stranger to repartee.

"First or after what?" he asked, scowling.

"Your shave and hair cut."

Rathburn laughed. "I'll take it first—if you have it. An' if you have, I'll say this is a first-class barber shop."

The barber led the way to a room in the rear of the place with a pleased grin.

An hour or so later Rathburn, with the lower part of his face a shade paler than the upper half, his dark hair showing neatly under his broad-brimmed hat, his black riding boots glistening, and a satisfied smile on his face, sauntered out of the barber shop into the resort next door.

A man was lighting the hanging lamps, and Rathburn looked about through a haze of tobacco smoke at a cluster of crowded gaming tables, a short bar, cigar counter, and at the motley throng which jammed the small room.

He grinned as he read the sign over the cash register:

FREE DRINKS TO-MORROW

"Swiped in broad daylight from the grand old State of Texas," he murmured aloud to himself.

Then he noticed a small restaurant in the rear of the place, separated from the main room by a partition, the upper part of which was glass.

He made his way back, passed through the door, and took a seat at the counter which afforded him a view of the resort through the glass. He ordered a substantial meal and, while waiting for it to be served, studied with calculating eyes the scene in the next room.

The men were mostly of the hills—miners constituting the majority. Of professional gamblers there were many, and there was also a plentiful sprinkling of that despicable species known as "boosters" whose business it is to sit in at the games in the interest of "the house;" to fleece the victims who occupy the few remaining seats.

But now he saw a man who apparently was not a miner, or a prospector, nor yet a member of the professional gambling tribe. This was a tall man, very dark, sinewy. He wore a gun.

At first Rathburn thought he might be a cow-puncher, for he wore riding boots, and had something of the air and bearing of a cowman; but he finally decided that this classification was inaccurate. An officer at one of the mines, perhaps; a forest ranger—no, he didn't wear the regalia of a ranger—Rathburn gave it up as his dinner was put before him on the counter.

He fell to his meal eagerly, for he had had nothing to eat since early morning when he had broken camp high in the mountains to westward. Steak and French "fries" began quickly to disappear, along with many slices of bread and two cups of steaming coffee. Then Rathburn looked up, and to his surprise saw that the tall, dark man was standing near the glass, studying him intently out of scowling, black eyes.

Rathburn looked at him coolly and steadily for a few moments and resumed his meal. But the other was inquisitive and Rathburn sensed, without again looking up, that he was being watched. Was this man, then, an aide of Mannix, the deputy? He doubted it.

He finished his meal, paid his score with an added cheery word for the counter jumper, rose, entered the main room of the resort, and walked directly up to the dark man who still was observing him.

"Was you thinking I was an old acquaintance of yours?" he asked pleasantly.

The other's eyes narrowed, and Rathburn thought he detected a glow of recognition and satisfaction.

"Did you have your bath?" sneeringly inquired the man.

Rathburn's brows lifted. Then he smiled queerly. "I sure did. Why? Did I maybe keep you waiting? Was you next?"

The other's eyes blazed with wrath. "Let me give you a tip, my friend; you ain't right well acquainted in this here locality, are you?"

Rathburn now noted that they had attracted immediate attention. The tall, dark man, then, was a personage of importance. He noted another thing, too—rather, he realized it by instinct as well as by certain mannerisms. The man before him knew how to use the weapon which hung low on his right thigh.

"If you mean was I born here, or do I live here, I'd say no," Rathburn drawled; "but I happen to be here at this precise time so I'd say I'm right well acquainted with it."

A hush had come over the place. Interested faces were turned in their direction, and Rathburn sensed an ominous tremor of keen expectancy. The fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes tightened a bit.

"This is a poor time for strangers to be hanging around," said the dark man in a loud voice. "The Dixie Queen pay-roll has been taking wings too often."

The implication and the murmur from the spectators was not lost upon Rathburn. His lips tightened into a fine, white line.

"Whoever you are, you've got more mouth than brains!" he said crisply in a voice which carried over the room.

The effect of his words was electric. There was a sharp intaking of breath from the spectators. The dark man's face froze, and his eyes darted red. His right hand seemed to hang on the instant for the swoop to his gun. Rathburn appeared to be smiling queerly out of his eyes. Then came a sharp interruption.

"Just a minute, Carlisle!"

Rathburn recognized the voice of Mannix, and a moment later the deputy stepped between them.

"What's the idea?" he asked coolly.

"This gentleman you just called Carlisle seems to have appointed himself a reception committee to welcome me into the enterprising town of High Point," drawled Rathburn, with a laugh.

Mannix turned on Carlisle with a scowl, and Carlisle shrugged impatiently, his eyes still glaring balefully at Rathburn.

The deputy again confronted Rathburn. "Had your supper?" he asked.

"Best steak I've had in two months," Rathburn replied cheerfully.

"Horse taken care of?"

"First thing." There was a note of derision in Rathburn's tone. "Service at the hotel barn is high grade."

Mannix's eyes hardened before he spoke again. He hesitated, but when his words came they were clear-cut and stern.

"Then come with me an' I'll show you where to sleep."

"You mean in jail?" queried Rathburn.

Mannix nodded coldly.

"Sheriff," said Rathburn, in a peculiar tone, addressing the deputy but looking over his shoulder directly into Carlisle's eyes; "if there's one thing I'm noted for, it's for being a good guesser!"



CHAPTER XVI

THE DIXIE'S BOSS

If Mannix expected any resistance from Rathburn he soon found that none was to materialize. The deputy, a short, rather stout man of perhaps thirty-nine, with bronzed features, clear, brown eyes, and a protruding jaw covered with a stubble of reddish-brown beard, was nevertheless wary of his prisoner. He had not yet obtained Rathburn's gun, and he recognized the unmistakable signs of a seasoned gunman in the lounging but graceful postures of his prisoner, in the way he moved his right hand, in the alertness of his eye. He frowned, for Rathburn was smiling. There was a quality to that smile which was not lost upon the doughty officer.

"I take it you've got sense enough to come along easylike," he said, with just a hint of doubt in his voice.

"Yes, I've been known to show some sense, sheriff; now that's a fact."

"I'll have to ask you for your gun," said the deputy grimly.

"I've never been known to hand over my gun, sheriff," drawled Rathburn. "Now that's another fact."

Again the tension in the room was high. Others than Mannix, and probably Carlisle, had readily discerned in the gray-eyed stranger a certain menacing prowess which is much respected where weapons are the rule in unexpected emergencies. The crowd backed to the wall.

The deputy wet his lips, and his face grew a shade paler. Then suddenly he went for his gun, as Rathburn dropped, like a shot, to the floor. There came the crack of Carlisle's pistol and a laugh from Rathburn. The deputy, gun in hand, stared at Rathburn who rose quickly to his feet. Then he thought to cover him. Rathburn raised his hands while Carlisle returned his own smoking weapon to its holster. Mannix turned and glared at Carlisle in perplexity.

"I don't know what his game is, Mannix; but he could have drawn down on you in a wink and shot you in your tracks if he'd wanted to," said Carlisle.

"So you were taking the play in your own hands," Mannix accused.

The deputy looked at Rathburn angrily. Then he advanced and took the prisoner's six-shooter from him. He brought handcuffs out of his pockets.

Rathburn's face went white. "If what Carlisle says is true, it doesn't look as if I was trying to get away, does it, sheriff?" he asked coldly.

Mannix was thoughtful for a moment. "Well, come along," he ordered, thrusting the steel bracelets back into his pocket.

"I'll go with you," Carlisle volunteered.

"That's up to you," snapped out the deputy. "I ain't asking you to."

The trio left the place as the spectators gazed after them in wonder. There was a hum of excited conversation as the deputy and his prisoner and Carlisle passed through the door.

No word was spoken on the way to the small, two-room, one-story structure which served as a detention place for persons under arrest until they could be transferred to the county jail in the town where the railroad touched. Petty offenders served their sentences there, however.

In the little front office of the jail, Rathburn looked with interest at some posters on the walls. One in particular claimed his attention, and he read it twice while the deputy was getting some keys and calling to the jailer, who evidently was on the other side of the barred door where the few cells and the "tank" were.

This is what Rathburn read:

REWARD

Two thousand dollars will be paid for the capture of the bandits who are responsible for the robberies of Dixie Mine messengers in the last few months.

DIXIE MILLING & MINING CO., George Sautee, Manager.

Rathburn now knew exactly what Carlisle had meant when he had referred to the Dixie pay-roll taking wings. He had, however, suspected it. The holdup of the truck driver also was explained. Rathburn smiled. It was a peculiar ruse for the mines manager to resort to. Could not the pay-roll be sent to the mines under armed guard? Rathburn's eyes were dreamy when he looked at the deputy.

"All right, in you go," said Mannix, as the jailer unlocked the heavy, barred door from the inside.

He led Rathburn to one of the single cells, of which there were six on one side of the jail room proper.

"Maybe you'll be ready to talk in the morning," he said, as he locked his prisoner in.

"Morning might be too late," Rathburn observed, taking tobacco and papers from his shirt pocket.

"What do you mean by that?" Mannix asked sharply.

"I might change my mind."

"About talking, eh? Well, we'll find a way to make you change it back again."

"You're a grateful cuss," said Rathburn, grinning.

Mannix scowled. It was plain he was not sure of his man, although he was trying to convince himself that he was.

"I don't get you," he said growlingly.

"No? Didn't you hear that fellow Carlisle say I saved your life by not drawing?"

"He'd have got you if you'd tried to draw. That's what he thought you was going to do. You saved your skin by grabbing the floor."

Rathburn wet the paper of his cigarette and sealed the end. "I'm wondering," he mused, as he snapped a match into flame, with a thumb nail and lit the weed.

"It's about time," said the deputy grimly.

"I'm wondering," said Rathburn, in a soft voice, exhaling a thin streamer of smoke, "if he'd have got me."

Mannix grunted, looked at him curiously, and then turned abruptly on his heel and left. Rathburn could not see the door, but he heard the big key grate in the lock, and then the jail room echoed to the clang of hard metal and the door swung shut again.

Rathburn sat down on the bunk which was to serve as his bed. He smoked his brown-paper cigarette slowly and with great relish while he stared, not through the bars to where the dim light of a lamp showed, but straight at the opposite steel wall of his cell. His eyes were thoughtful, dreamy, his brow was puckered.

"An' there's that," he muttered as he threw away the stub of his smoke and began to roll another. "Somebody's been playing the Dixie Queen for a meal ticket. That sign said 'robberies.' That means more'n one. The truck driver was the last. Two thousand reward. An' me headed for the desert where I belong. What stopped me? I reckon I know."

He smiled grimly as he remembered the insolent challenge in Carlisle's eyes and the reference to the bath.

After a time Rathburn stretched out on the bunk, pulled his hat over his face, and dozed.

He sat up with a catlike movement as a persistent tapping on the bars of his cell reached his ears. Blinking in the half light he saw Carlisle's dark features.

"Well, now's your chance to smoke me up good an' plenty an' get away with it," said Rathburn cheerfully. "I'm shy my gun which the sheriff has borrowed."

"You figure he's just borrowed it?" sneeringly inquired Carlisle.

Rathburn rose and surveyed his visitor. "I reckon I've got to tolerate you," he drawled. "I can't pick my company in here."

"I've got your number," snarlingly replied Carlisle in a low voice.

Rathburn sauntered close to the bars, rolling a cigarette.

"If you have, Carlisle, you've got a winning number," he said evenly.

"Whatever your play is here, I dunno," said Carlisle; "but you won't get away with it as easy as you did over the range in Dry Lake."

Rathburn's eyes never flickered as he coolly lit his cigarette with a steady hand. "You're plumb full of information, eh, Carlisle?"

"I was over there an' heard about how you stuck up that joint an' tried to blame it on some kid by the name of Lamy," said Carlisle, watching Rathburn closely.

"You sure that was the way of it?" asked Rathburn casually.

"No," replied the other. "I know the kid stuck up the joint an' you took the blame to keep him under cover. I don't know your reasons, but I guess you don't want the facts known. You broke jail. They ain't forgot that over in Dry Lake. There's a reward out for you over there, an I wouldn't be surprised if there was some money on your head in Arizona, Coyote!"

Rathburn's eyes were points of red between narrowed lids.

"The Coyote!" said Carlisle in a hoarse voice of triumph. "An' the way it looks I'm the only one hereabouts that knows it."

"I told you you was plumb full of information," said Rathburn.

"The Coyote has a bit of a record, they tell me," Carlisle leered. "There's more'n one sheriff would pay a pretty price to get him safe, eh?"

"Just what's your idea in telling me all this, Carlisle; why don't you tell what you know to Mannix, say?"

"Maybe I'm just teasing you along."

"Not a chance, Carlisle. I know your breed."

The other's face darkened, and his eyes glittered as he peered in through the bars.

"What's your breed?" he asked sneeringly.

"I don't have to tell you that, Carlisle. You know!" said Rathburn with a taunting laugh.

Carlisle struggled with his anger for a brief spell. Then he shrugged his shoulders.

"I ain't going to poke at you in a cage," he said in a more civil tone; "an' I ain't going to tell anybody what I know. Remember that."

"I ain't the forgetting kind," Rathburn flung after him as he walked swiftly away.

Again Rathburn sat on the edge of the bunk and smoked and thought. After a time he went to sleep. The opening of his cell door woke him. It was Mannix.

"Come to let me out, sheriff?" inquired Rathburn sleepily.

The deputy looked at him keenly, opened the cage, and motioned to him to follow. Rathburn went with him out into the little office. It was broad day. Mannix picked up a pistol from his desk and extended it to Rathburn.

"Here's your gun, Rathburn. You can go," he said, pressing his lips close together.

"Well, now, sheriff, that's right kind of you," Rathburn drawled, concealing his astonishment.

"Don't thank me," snapped out Mannix. "This gentleman asked me to set you loose."

For the first time Rathburn looked squarely at the other man in the office—a thin man, with a cropped mustache, beady eyes, and a narrow face.

The man was regarding him intently, and there seemed to be an amused expression in his eyes. He turned away from Rathburn's gaze.

"I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of meeting the gentleman," said Rathburn agreeably.

"That's George Sautee, manager of the Dixie Queen," said the deputy with a shrug.



CHAPTER XVII

A COMMISSION

Sautee rose and extended his hand with an affable smile. "Will you come to breakfast with me, Mr. Rathburn?"

Rathburn took the hand with a curious side glance at Mannix. "I'm powerful hungry," he confessed; "an' I don't reckon I'd be showing the best of manners if I balked at havin' breakfast with the man that got me out of jail."

"Quite right," admitted Sautee, winking at the deputy. "Well, perhaps I have my reasons. All right, Rathburn, let's be going."

They walked out of the jail, and as they progressed up the street they were the cynosure of many wondering pairs of eyes; for the report had spread that the stranger who had been jailed was the bandit who had made away with the Dixie Queen pay-roll on several occasions, and that he was a gun fighter and a killer.

They entered a restaurant just below the hotel, and Sautee led the way to a booth where they were assured comparative privacy.

"Ham an' eggs," said Rathburn shortly when the waiter entered.

Sautee smiled again. He was covertly inspecting the man across the table from him and evidently what he saw caused him to arrive at a satisfactory conclusion.

He gave his order with a nod and a mild flourish of the hand, indicating that he would take the same.

"Oh—waiter," called Rathburn. "Four eggs with mine."

Sautee laughed. It was a peculiar laugh in that it seemed to convey little mirth. It was perfunctory.

He gazed at Rathburn quizzically. "They tell me you're a gunman," he said in a low voice.

Rathburn's brows shot up. "They? Who's they?"

Sautee waved a hand impatiently. "I am the manager of the Dixie Queen. I have been around a bit, and I have eyes. I can see. I know the signals. I witnessed the play in the Red Feather last night."

"That ain't a bad name for the place," Rathburn mused.

"Just what do you suppose was my object in getting you out of jail?" Sautee asked seriously, leaning over the table and looking at Rathburn searchingly. "You said last night you were a good guesser."

"But I didn't say I was good at riddles," drawled Rathburn.

Sautee leaned back. For a moment there was a gleam of admiration in his eyes. Then they narrowed slightly.

"The Dixie Queen has been robbed four times within the last year," he said soberly. "That represents considerable money. Yesterday I resorted to a ruse and sent the money up with a truck driver, but whoever is doing this thing must have got wise somehow, for the truck driver was held up, as you know, and the money taken."

"Why not put an armed guard on that truck?" asked Rathburn with a yawn.

"I had full confidence in that ruse, and I knew the man who drove the truck could be trusted. Besides, he didn't know what was inside the package."

"How much did they get?" asked Rathburn sharply.

"Twenty-two thousand eight hundred and seventy dollars in cash."

Rathburn stared at the mine manager and whistled softly. "What's the sense in sending it up there at all?" he asked suddenly. "Why not pay off down here in town?"

Sautee sighed with an air of resignation. "That's been argued several times," he complained. "The men demand their pay in cash. They want it at the mine, for more than half of them have refused to come down here for it. It is twenty-nine miles up there to the mine, and it would take all the trucks we've got and two days to bring them down here and take them back. Besides, if we got them down here it would be a week before we could get half of them back up there and at work again."

"But why won't they take checks?" Rathburn demanded.

"It would be the same proposition," Sautee explained. "There is a little village up there—pool room, soft-drink parlor, lunch room, store, and all that—and the men, or a large number of them, would want their checks cashed to make purchases and for spending money, and the cash would have to be transported so the business places could cash the checks. Then, there's another reason. All the mines over on this side of the mountains, clear down into the desert, have always paid in cash. This is an old district, and the matter of getting paid in cash has become a tradition. That's what the company is up against. We can refuse to do it, but all the other mines do it, and the Dixie Queen would soon have the reputation of being the only mine in the district that didn't pay in cash. The tradition is handed down from the old days when men were paid in gold. There was a time when a miner wouldn't take paper money in this country!"

The waiter entered with the breakfast dishes and they began to eat.

"Your mine owned by a stock company?" Rathburn inquired.

"Certainly," replied Sautee. "All the mines here are. What mine isn't?"

Rathburn ignored the question. "Stockholders live aroun' here?" he asked, between mouthfuls.

"Oh—no, that is, not many," replied Sautee with a quick glance at his questioner. "This district is pretty well worked out. Most of our stockholders live in the Middle West and the East." He winked at Rathburn.

"Any other mines been robbed?" Rathburn persisted.

"No, that's the funny part of it. Still—no, it isn't funny. We're working on the largest scale, and our pay-roll is, naturally, the largest. It furnishes the biggest incentive. In addition, the Dixie Queen is the farthest out from town, and there are many excellent spots for a holdup between town and the mine. Oh, don't look skeptical. I've tried trusted messengers by roundabout trails, and guards and all that. They even held up a convoy on one occasion. I've set traps. I've done everything. But now I've a new idea, and I believe it'll work."

He finished his breakfast and stared steadily at Rathburn who didn't look up, but leisurely drank a second cup of coffee. Sautee noted the slim, tapered right hand of the man across the table from him, the clear, gray eyes, the unmistakable poise of a man who is absolutely and utterly confident and sure of himself. The mine manager's eyes glowed eagerly.

"Yes?" asked Rathburn calmly.

"I'm going to hire, or, rather, I'm going to try to hire a man I believe is just as tough, just as clever, just as quick with his gun as the men who've been robbing the Dixie Queen. I'm going to hire him to carry the money to the mine!"

"So that's why you got me out of jail," said Rathburn, drawing the inevitable tobacco and papers from his shirt pocket.

"Yes!" whispered Sautee eagerly. "I want you for the job!"

"You ain't forgetting that I was suspected of that last job, are you? That's why I went to jail, I reckon."

"You didn't have to go to jail unless you wanted to. You didn't have to stop in this town and invite arrest. Mannix let you go up there yesterday because he felt sure he could get you when he wanted you again, and he figured you'd make some break that would give him a clew to your pals, if you had any. You went to jail because you knew he didn't have anything on you."