Neal clutched his injured fingers and swore freely, although there was amazement in his eyes. He could have been killed like a rat in a trap if The Coyote had felt the whim.
The man from the desert stepped to the bench and read on the sheet of paper:
If anybody ever gets to read this they will know that what I said about learning to throw a knife is true. I can do it. I’ve carried that knife in a special case that would fit in my sock and boot for just such an emergency as came up to-night. But I never would have throwed it. It would be against my ethics.
The man from the desert swore softly. Then he hurriedly picked up his gun and fired five shots to attract attention.
CHAPTER XIII
A MAN AND HIS HORSE
When Rathburn closed the outer door after him he plunged down the steps and into the shadows by the wall of the jail. Few lights showed in the town, for it was past midnight. He could see yellow beams streaming from the windows of the resort up the street, however, as he hesitated.
He was mightily handicapped because he had no horse. A horse––his own horse, he felt––was necessary for his escape, but his horse was a long distance away.