The sign on the tree attracted the man’s attention while he was still far down the slope. He could see the tall pine on the crest of the ridge above a veritable landmark in that country of stunted timber, and the square of paper, tacked to its trunk under the lowest branches, gleamed white against the background of vivid green.

The air was clear, and every detail of the landscape––the red rocks, the saffron-colored slopes, the green pines and firs and buck brush, the white cliffs––everything within sight for miles stood out, clean-cut in the brilliant sunshine which flooded the empty land under a cloudless sky.

When the man, mounted on a lean, dun-colored horse, first looked up at a turn of the narrow trail and saw the sign, he grunted. Then he frowned and looked back along the way he had come with a glowing light of reflection in his gray eyes. He was a tall man, slim and muscular, clean-shaven, his face and hands bronzed by sun and wind, and his face open and good-natured. A shock of blond hair showed where his gray, wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat was pushed back from his high forehead.

His dress, though typical of the country which he traversed, was distinctive, or it might have been 12 a certain natural grace that made it seem so. He wore a light-gray, soft shirt made of French flannel, a dark-blue silk scarf, leather chaps over olive-drab khaki trousers, black, hand-sewed riding boots which displayed their polish despite a coating of fine dust, silver spurs, and, strapped to his right thigh, was a worn leather holster, natural color, from which protruded the black butt of a six-gun.

On the back of his saddle was tied a black slicker, the raincoat of the open country, which bulged with a medium-sized pack done up within it.

One would have taken him to be thirty, perhaps a year or two more when his face was serious; but when he smiled, that is, when he smiled naturally, he looked little more in years than a youth who has just attained his majority.

When he smiled the other smile––the smile he now expressed as he looked up the slope toward the tall pine with the white square of paper on its trunk––one would have forgotten the smile because of the sinister, steel-blue look in his eyes, and the direct, piercing quality of his gaze.

He walked his horse up the winding trail. His right foot was clear of the stirrup, and he swung it idly. His left hand, in which he held the reins, rested lightly on the horn of his saddle, and his right gripped the cantle at his back. He hummed a ditty of the desert, but his gaze, keen and alert, continually sought the open stretches of trail above him, and at regular intervals flashed back along the way he had come.

In time he reached the top of the ridge and pulled up his horse near the tree bearing the poster. He dismounted and walked slowly up a little grade to where he could the better read the legend on the paper.

It was printed in large letters, but recent rain had somewhat faded it.

FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS REWARD
This will be paid for
THE COYOTE
dead or alive, by San Jacinto County.
JUDSON BROWN, J. P.,
Dry Lake.

This man is tall and light in complexion, gray or blue eyes, good teeth, his horse said branded CC2 keeps himself neat, dangerous with gun, squints when mad. Bring him in and get the money.

The man swore softly as he read the last sentence. “Bring him in an’ get the money,” he said snortingly. “You’d think they was talkin’ about a locoed steer that just had to be roped an’ drug, or shot an’ hauled. Bring him in an’ get the money!”

There was genuine indignation in his tone as he repeated the offensive sentence.

“Well, it can’t be me,” he said facetiously, aloud. “My name’s Rathburn––a right good name.” His eyes clouded. “A right good name till they began to tamper with it,” he muttered with a frown as he lit a cigarette he had built while perusing the placard.

He took the stub of a lead pencil from the pocket of his shirt. For some moments he reflected, staring at the sign on the tree trunk. Then he laboriously printed on its lower edge:

Five thousand dollars more from the State of Arizona if you can get it.

Rathburn surveyed his work with a grin, replacing the pencil in his shirt pocket. Then he stepped back and drew his gun. He seemed on the point of sending a half dozen bullets through the paper when he suddenly shook his head, glanced hurriedly about him, and shoved the weapon back into its sheath.

He walked quickly to his horse, swung into the saddle, and started down the trail on the western side of the ridge.

Below him he saw a far-flung vista of rounded, yellow hills, spotted with the green of small pines and firs. The ground was hard, dry, and gravelly. There were boulders a-plenty, and long, sharp-edged outcroppings of hard rock of a reddish hue. There was no sign of habitation to be glimpsed from the trail leading down from the high ridge which he had crossed. He continually looked about him with the interested air of a man who is venturing into a new locality with which he is not familiar.

“Dry Lake!” he exclaimed, while his horse pricked up its ears at the familiar voice. “Good name for it, if it’s anywhere in this country. Hoss, I don’t know when we’re goin’ to drink again. I didn’t figure on hittin’ a desert up here.”

He rode on at a brisk jog, down and down the winding trail. Then it led across a number of the round, low hills, ever westward.

As the afternoon wore on, more green brightened the landscape and patches of grass appeared. Then they came upon a small stream trickling down from the higher slopes to northward where horse and rider drank their fill and rested in a quiet, secluded meadow off the trail.

The man’s face was a study as he lay back upon the grass in the cool shade of a clump of pines. Whimsical and wistful, it was occasionally lit by 15 a peculiar smile which carried a hint of sadness. His eyes half closed, dreamily. The smoke from his cigarette curled upward in a thin spiral in the still air of the altitudes. His horse, with reins dangling and saddle cinch loosened, cropped the grass which carpeted the meadow.

Finally the man arose, tightened the cinch in an absent manner, mounted, and rode back to the trail to continue on his way. At the top of the next ridge he halted, looking at a little ranch which lay in a wide valley a mile or two north of the thread of trail which he could see winding westward. The place looked poor, poverty-stricken, despite the small field of living green south of the house and the few head of cattle grazing along the banks of a little stream which wound through the valley.

For some time the rider sat his horse motionless, frowning in indecision. Then he touched the dun lightly with his spurs, left the trail, and struck off to the north, following the ridge. He kept his gaze focused on the little ranch. The only sign of life which he saw was a heavily-burdened clothesline flapping in the idle breeze which at this point was wafted down from the mountains.

When he was almost directly above the small house he turned his mount down the slope and gaining the floor of the valley, rode at a gallop for the house. His right hand now rested on his thigh near the holstered gun.

As he brought his horse to a stop near the front of the house a girl appeared in the doorway. He looked at her in pleased surprise. Then his hat swept low in a gesture of courtesy.

“Ma’am, I’ve found this to be a country of scattered habitations,” he said in a musical bass. “So when I glimpsed your abode from yonder hills I 16 said to myself, ‘Rathburn, you’re most powerful hungry; maybe you better pay a call.’”

His eyes were glowing with an amused light, and a pleasant smile played upon his lips.

The girl, who had listened curiously, now laughed in welcome. “There aren’t many places between here and Dry Lake,” she said; “and I guess it would be a pretty hot ride to-day. You can water your horse––and feed him at the barn, if you wish––and I’ll get you something to eat, if you’re not particular.” Her eyes danced merrily.

“Ma’am!” he exclaimed, with mock severity, “I quit bein’ particular when I was––when I was as young as that youngster.”

A boy of ten or twelve had appeared beside the girl.

“Young man, what’re those dirt-looking spots on your face?” asked the stranger, frowning with his eyes but smiling with his lips.

“They ain’t dirt spots!” returned the boy with spirit, advancing a step.

“No?” said the man, feigning intense astonishment. “What are they?”

“They’re freckles,” answered the boy stoutly.

“Oh––oh, that’s what they are,” said the stranger with a delighted laugh. “Won’t they wash off?”

“Naw. You can’t fool me. You knew what they were!”

“Well, now, maybe so,” observed the man as the girl laughingly turned inside.

“Grub’ll be ready by time you are,” she called back to him.

“I’ll show you where to put your horse,” said the boy as the man looked searchingly up and down the valley.