“How do you know I ain’t The Coyote?” he asked shrewdly.
Rathburn stared at him––stunned. Then he leaped to his feet and his gun flashed into his hand in a movement too swift for the eye to follow.
“Go over there and look at the brand on my horse,” he commanded. “Remember how that printed bill read that put it in your fool head to try an’ masquerade as The Coyote, an’ then read the brand on that horse!”
The captive rose and without a look back walked to where Rathburn’s horse was cropping the grass. 49 The left side of the animal was toward him and for a few moments he stood looking with bulging eyes at the CC2 on the shoulder. Then he turned slowly.
Rathburn’s gaze burned into his, but a cool, deliberate light had come into his eyes.
“So you’re The Coyote!” Percy said quietly. “I should have recognized you.”
“Yes, I’m called The Coyote,” said Rathburn, walking slowly toward him. “I’m the man they think robbed that joint down in Dry Lake last night. I’m the man they’re looking for. I’m the man they want to make pay for your bungling work. That’s the way it’s gone for three years, Percy. I’ve been blamed for job after job that I didn’t even know was pulled off till I heard they were looking for me on account of it. But this is one job they’ll not be able to lay at my door; for I’ve got the man who’s responsible an’ I’ve got him red-handed!”
“What’re you going to do about it?” asked the other coolly.
Again Rathburn’s eyes blazed with rage. “Do? Why, I’m just naturally going to take you in all by my lonesome an’ turn you over to the sheriff with my compliments.”
Rathburn cooled down as he said this, drew tobacco and papers from his shirt pocket, and proceeded to build a cigarette. He looked at his man queerly.