He was of medium build, with white hair and a face seamed and lined and red. Rathburn instantly 82 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.”