Rathburn picked his way slowly through the timber around to the southeast and then directly down toward the town. It was slow going, and the man seemed to relish this fact. His face was thoughtful, wistful, a bit grave. He occasionally patted his horse’s neck.

“We’re on our way home, old hoss,” he said softly. “Seems like we just had to stop off here.”

He fingered two small objects in his coat pocket.

“I wonder,” he murmured. “I wonder if I could be mistaken.”

He turned west after a time and rode carefully until he gained a worn trail. This he followed down toward town, and in half an hour he dismounted in the timber behind a small cabin at the side of the road to the hogback.

Rathburn went to the rear door and knocked. He received no answer, but sounds came to him through an open window. He opened the door softly and stole inside. There was no one in the kitchen. The sounds came from another room. He passed on into a bedroom and turned into another bedroom where he saw a figure in overalls lying on the bed. A great mass of dark hair covered the pillow. The form shook with sobs.

Rathburn laid a gentle hand upon the shoulder, and the face, which was quickly turned to him, was the face of a girl––the girl he had first seen when coming into the town, the girl who had been sitting 176 the horse listening to Carlisle’s tirade, the girl the barn man had said was supposed to be Carlisle’s sister.

“They don’t know you were up there,” said Rathburn softly. “Your boy’s clothes fooled them, if they saw you at all. They probably thought I was carrying Sautee down the trail, for they found Sautee up there in the powder house with me.”

The girl sobbed again. Her eyes were red with weeping.

“Listen, ma’am,” said Rathburn gently. “I picked these up from the road the day the truck driver was held up.” He brought out two hairpins from his coat pocket.

“It set me to thinking, ma’am, an’ was one reason why I stayed over here to find out what was goin’ on. Maybe I’ve done wrong, ma’am, but I was hoping I’d be doin’ you a favor. I saw the look in your eyes the day Carlisle was talkin’ to you when you was on the hoss. I know you helped him in his holdups, dressed like a boy, but I figured you didn’t do it because you wanted to.”

“No––no––no!” sobbed the girl.

“All right; fine, little girl. No one knows anything about it but me, an’ I’m goin’ away. But, listen, girlie, just what was Carlisle to you?”

A spasm of weeping shook the girl. “Nothing I could help,” she sobbed. “He––I had to do as he said––because––oh, I hate him. I hate him!”

“There, there,” soothed Rathburn. “I suspected as much, girlie.”

“He made my father a bad man,” sobbed the girl; “an’ made me go with him or my father would have to go––to––to go–––”

“Never mind, girlie,” Rathburn interrupted softly. “I don’t want to hear the story. Just keep it to yourself 177 an’ start all over. It ain’t a bad world, girlie, an’ there’s more good men in it than there’s bad. Now, you can begin to live and be happy like you ought. Carlisle won’t worry you no more.”

She raised her head and looked at him out of startled eyes in which there was a ray of hope.

“You say––he won’t––worry me–––”

“Not at all, girlie. He walked into his own trap. I’m goin’, girlie. So long, an’ good luck.”

He took her hand and pressed it, and under the spell of his smile the hope came into her welling eyes.

“Good-by,” he called from the doorway.

She was smiling faintly through her tears when he slipped out.

Deputy Sheriff Mannix was sitting in his little office alone. It was nearly sunset. A faint glow of crimson shot across the carpet.

Mannix was scowling thoughtfully. On the desk before him were two pieces of paper. One of them was a reward notice publishing the fact that The Coyote was wanted and that five thousand dollars would be paid by the State of Arizona for his capture, dead or alive.

Mannix picked up the second piece of paper and again read the words penciled upon it:

I am taking out of this money belonging to the Dixie Queen the five hundred dollars Sautee promised me for carrying the money to the mine, and the two thousand dollars reward offered for the capture of those who had been robbing the Dixie Queen. I expect that shortly after this gets into the proper hands Sautee will be in jail, and he will be handy to tell you this is all O. K.

Rathburn.

Mannix took up the reward notice, put it with the note, and jammed the two pieces of paper into an obscure pigeonhole in his desk.

“Filed!” he said aloud.

Then he rose with a peculiar smile, went out upon the little porch, and stared toward the east where the reflection of the sunset cast a rosy glow over the foothills leading down to the desert.