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

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

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

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

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

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

Rathburn noted her trim, slim figure and her wealth of chestnut hair. She was pretty and capable. 18 He surmised that her parents were dead, although he could not ascribe the reason for this deduction. Evidently the boy was a younger brother. He wondered if the older brother would return before he finished eating.

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

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

“No. I came from over to eastward.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t I look like one, miss?”

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

“My vocation, miss––you’re too young an’ pretty to be called ma’am, if you’ll excuse me for saying so––is a peculiar one. I’ve punched cows, yes; I’ve prospected an’ worked a bit in the mines. I’ve scared the wolf from the ‘Welcome’ mat by standing off the boys at green-topped tables, an’ once I––I––worked 19 on a sort of farm.” He appeared apologetic as he confessed this last. “I guess I wasn’t cut out for a farm hand, miss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rathburn looked at him closely, his brows wrinkling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, retreating a few paces.

“Then I’ll be going,” he said, stepping to the door.

“To––to Dry Lake?” she found the voice to ask.

“Yes. To Dry Lake.”

He left the house and in a few minutes reappeared from the direction of the barn, riding his dun-colored horse. He did not stop, but galloped down the valley, waving a hand in farewell which the boy answered.

The day was nearly spent. The sun was low in the west, sliding down like a ball of gold toward the rim of the blue mountains. A stiff breeze had sprung up, driving the heat before it. At the lower end of the valley Rathburn found the trail he had left when he detoured to the ranch. He turned westward upon it, put spurs to his horse, and sped toward town.

It was just as well that the girl could not see the look which came to his face as he rode into the sunset.