T

CHAPTER III

THE Crescent O Ranch sprawled over an immense territory in the heart of the Rio Grande Valley. Captain Richard Carlton, ex-Texas ranger, could have boasted owning the largest ranch in Southwest Texas, but Carlton was not of a boastful nature. His popularity was State-wide. But to-night neither friends nor range afforded him the least comfort. He sat on his porch, He sat on his porch, endeavoring to entertain Ben Sidney, owner of the Galvan Ranch, an outfit bordering the Crescent O on the east.

There were times when the Captain felt a strong desire to reorganize his company of rangers for no other reason than to wipe the Sidney outfit off the face of the earth. For some time he had noticed a slow but steady decrease in the multiplication of his stock in the east pasture. But Carlton was growing old. Rheumatism had claimed him for its own, and his fighting spirit had long since faded into a dreamy. memory of bygone days. Moreover, there was no proof. Ben Sidney was a wolf in sheep's clothing. Through friends in Laredo, the county seat, he had gotten himself appointed deputy sheriff. Carlton even suspicioned that the man was on intimate terms and working in conjunction with Valtran, the Mexican bandit. On an average of every month the deputy paid Carlton a "friendly call," after which he would always lope down to see his

"dear ole friend, Dennis." Sidney's smile was irresistible, his hand-clasp hearty. He made friends easily, as a rule, and, in short, he was a two-sided man and a dangerous one.

Richard Carlton felt this more than ever to-night. He cleared his throat uneasily and stroked his long, gray beard.

"Now, I ain't a-sayin' as how I'm a-sproutin' wings," Sidney was drawling, "but I allers figgered hit out this a-way: If yuh be a-treatin' everybody far and squar, then yuh can expect to be treated thet a-way yerself. Thet's why I lent him the wagin and team. But guess what I got out o' hit, Carlton?"

"Nothing?" ventured the old man. "Nothin'!" echoed Sidney. "Swiped the hull blasted outfit and I didn't even git 'Thank yuh.' Har! Har! Har!" And the deputy laughed at his story as he laughed at everything. Still chuckling, he rose and held out his hand.

"Guess I'll be hitin' the trail, Carlton."

"Well-er-don't hurry"

"Nope. Gotta make Cactus a-fore sun-up. Oughter be on the trail now, but I'll drop by and see my dear ole friend Dennis, fust. Come 'round some time, Carlton. Adios."

"Adios."

Richard Carlton, standing on steps of his porch, heard Sidney's horse clatter off in the direction of his foreman's house.

Carlton loved Dennis McAll as a brother. Ever since the death of the foreman's young wife, fifteen years before, he had wanted Dennis and Coyote to live with him in the big house. But each time he had broached the subject to McAll, the range boss had only shook his head and said, sadly: "No; I've spent my happiest days in thet lil' three-room house. Thanks, Carlton, but I can't desert hit."

As the old cattleman turned to enter the Capitol, he was startled by the sound of three shots fired in quick succession. He halted, momentarily bewildered; then, running out to the gate, he listened intently. A terrible premonition seized him. "Ben Sidney!" he muttered, and hurried off down the trail.

There was a crowd of cow-punchers in front of his foreman't house when Carlton arrived.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, excitedly.

Spike Gallagher turned at sound of the Captain's voice.

"Gotch Lumsey shot Dennis McAll," he said.

"My God!" groaned the old man. "My God!"

"Hey!" he called, "somebody go fer Sadie. Coyote's fainted. Fellers, Dennis McAll is dead."

CHAPTER IV.

Out of the lurid darkness of her own tiny bedroom, Coyote, weakened and wearied by long hours of the keenest anguish she had ever before known in her happy, care-free life, and still attired in the dirty little calico dress. in which she had gathered patallos for "daddy," tiptoed softly into the semi-lighted room where lay the cold. and rigid form of her beloved father.

The dim light revealed Richard Carlton's white face and silvery hair, outlining less distinctly his sparse figure sitting motionless by the bed.

!

Sadie, Carlton's spinster-cook and housekeeper, rose and with a motherly sympathy surprising in one of her

blunt, matter-of-fact nature, folded Coyote in two long brawny arms. For all her eccentricities, Sadie was a good old soul. And now, more than ever since the first shock, Coyote felt the need of a loving confidant; some one to whom she could pour forth the burden of her sorrow. She loved Sadie. And she knew that Sadie loved her. She tried to ask the spinster if she loved her, but her quivering lips could not form the words; she could only cling tenaciously to Sadie's dress while her great tearless eyes sought familiar objects about the room-only trifles, but they meant more to her now than ever before. Why? Because this was "daddy's" room. But everything would be associated with her father now. The house, the furniture, Imp and Bob-they would all miss him. There would be no more patallo hunts, no more happy little suppers together, no more long walks. Dear old "daddy" was gone . . . gone forever! . . . Where? .. Where?"

...

At last that heavy, aching lump in her breast seemed to burst, and Coyote's small form trembled from the strain of violent sobbing. Sadie's strong arms gathered her up, and like a stricken creature she was carried back into the tiny room and laid upon her bed. Sadie lit the lamp on the quaint little sewing-machine which had been Dennis McAll's wedding. present to his bride, but which for years Coyote had used to make her own dresses. The spinster rubbed her blurred eyes, and picking up a small, leather-bound, gilt-edged Bible that lay upon a blue ribbon near the lamp, examined it critically.

"Gift from her daddy," she muttered, dashing a tear from her wrinkled cheek. "Poor lil' orphan." And carefully placing the book back on the ribbon, she left the room. Presently she returned and seating herself near the bed, began mopping Coyote's forehead with a damp towel.

"Thar, thar, now, darlin'. Don't yuh know yer daddy's up yonder. a-lookin' down at yuh, and yer cryin's a-makin' him mighty uncomf'table?"

The words had a magic effect. The torrent of tears ceased, and Coyote sat up, emitting little convulsive gasps.

"I'm a-gonna be brave," she said, holding the towel against her throbbing temples. "My head's . . about to bust. Gotch didn't do hit . . . did he, Sadie ?"

Fumbling in her apron pocket, the spinster produced a small bottle of smelling salts.

"Here yuh be, honey. Don't whiff hit too pert, 'cause hit's ramp strong stuff."

Coyote took the battle and held it to her nose.

and thinking the girl asleep, she slipped quietly from the room.

After cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen, the better to keep awake, Sadie returned to the front room. Richard Carlton still sat motionless and pale beside the earthly remains of his foreman.

"Hadn't yuh better go up to the house and git some rest, Mister Carlton?" suggested the spinster kindly. "It be a-goin' nigh onto two o'clock, and yuh'll be arful done up to-morrie. Coyote's a-sleepin' good now, and I can sit up the rest o' the night."

Receiving no answer, she surmised that the old man had dozed off to

gizzard!"

After inhaling the salts for a little while, Coyote corked the bottle and looked up at the spinster disapprovingly.

"Sadie, yuh didn't answer my question," she said sternly. "I wants to know if yuh believes Gotch killed killed daddy, and then I wants to know if thet cuss, Ben Sidney, has gone and took Gotch off to Laredo."

Sadie coughed nervously under Coyote's level gaze. Surely it was Dennis McAll's compelling eyes looking at her now from this baby face before her.

"I'm a-feared- she faltered. "Yuh know, honey, Spike Gallagher heerd 'em a-quarrelin'. Beany says he don't believe Gotch did hit. But Spike and Ben Sidney swars they saw him kill yer daddy, and Ben Sidney's took him to Laredo."

"Gotch didn't do hit!" And again Coyote's tousled head met the pillow, whilst such a despairing wail rent the air that Sadie threw up her hands, and crying, "Lordie! Lordie!' commenced. weeping hysterically.

"Gotch didn't do hit! Gotch didn't Gotch didn't do it!" moaned Coyote, and repeating this over and over, her voice trailed on off into a sort of sleepy crooning that finally faltered and stopped.

The spinster ceased her convulsions of grief long enough to catch the sound of Coyote's steady breathing,

A full moon rising in the east threw its amber light on Coyote and Imp loping along Huisache Trail. The trail was a dim path-untraceable to the stranger-that wound through mesquite and huisach from the Crescent Ō Ranch to Laredo, a distance of thirty miles.

The little mustang was breathing hard, and Coyote pulled him up with a jerk.

"Ten mile's 'nough fer any hoss to lope without stoppin'," she muttered, patting Imp's neck fondly. "Now yuh can just take hit easy, baby. This is Sandy Hill. Meg Ross's ain't more'n five miles from here, and I know thet lazy pelone, Ben Sidney, won't go through to-night. He's on this a-here trail somewhar. We've gotta be arful quiet, Impie-boy. Jimminy! Thar'd be blood to pay if we ran into 'em. Thar'd be—”

A sudden thought made her pull up short. She turned in her saddle. The great round moon still hung low on

the horizon, leaving the trail shadowy and indistinct.

"Jimminy!" she ejaculated, "we plum forgot the Bar L trail. They might've taken hit." She jumped from her horse and tossing the reins over his head, crouched down before him. Presently she was up again and into her saddle.

"Nope. We be right on to Ben Sidney's dirty heels," she said softly, urging the tired Imp into his accustomed fox-trot. "Never mind, Impieboy, Coyote's got some chops in her saddle-bags fer yuh. And when we gits home-aw, hell! We ain't got no home, Impie-boy. Daddy's gone, and we'll never see him ag'in. and yuh and Bob's all thet's left o' the McAll family now. I don't guess we'll all get turned out, though, as long as Mister Carlton's alive."

Me

Coyote ran one hand into the front of her blouse, and drawing out a small book, held it up in the moonlight.

"Yuh gave me this lil' Bible, daddy," she said under her breath, "and I'm a-gonna keep hit allers."

She replaced the book and lifted her sad little face up to the vast dome above. How many myriads of twinkling stars there were! And the big amber moon! She turned in her saddle again the better to look at it. She had always loved the night. The stars. were her silent companions.

"Be yuh up thar, too, daddy, a-looking down at me and Imp?" she whispered.

And, as she listened, the wind in the mesquites seemed to whisper back:

"I be here, lil' gal."

Coming suddenly out on the bald brow of a hill, Imp deliberately stopped and threw his ears forward. Coyote drew her reins sharply, and whirling the horse, loped back down the trail. About two hundred yards from the place she had turned she swerved off to the left, and covering approximately the same distance in this direction, she then brought Imp to a sudden standstill. She listened intently for a few moments.

"Yuh lil' chump!" she exclaimed at

PHOTO

S.F-LA

Photo by Hartsook

Mabel Carlson as Coyote, in "Coyote o' the Rio Grande."

last. "Yuh came thet nigh nickerin', didn't yuh ?'

CHAPTER V.

Coyote dismounted, and, removing Imps bridle, staked him to a mesquite. Untying a mirral, she poured into it some chops from her saddle-bags, and then slipped it over the animal's ears. Imp sighed contentedly, and began munching his meal. Taking her carbine from its holster, the girl set off for Huisache Trail.

A three minutes' walk brought her to the top of the hill. Here she left the open trail, and paralleling it at a

distance of some twenty feet, wound her way in and out mesquite and huisache, "wait-a-minute," tassajia and prickly pear. Once she all but cried out with pain when she stepped on a cactus "pin-cushion." Gradually, she descended into the valley, crossed a creek and climbed to the opposite hill. At last she came out into a small opening, where she paused, discouraged. A gust of wind blew sparks in her face. She gasped and sank out of the moonlight, her heart beating wildly.

When her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness near the ground, she was enabled to make out the forms of two men stretched on their blankets, scarcely six feet from her, their heads pillowed in their saddles. Fearful lest her presence had already been detected, she crept on her hands and knees back to the undergrowth, where, under cover of the darkness, she sat down to await the moonlight. Coyote had intended-Coyote wasn't sure just what her intentions were. Sadie believed Gotch had killed her daddy. Sadie was an old fool. And so was anybody who would believe Ben Sidney. Why, hadn't Gotch been her playmate years ago, along with John and Kit Carlton? Hadn't her daddy been almost like a father to him? No; he couldn't have done it. But she must know the truth from his own lips. If he denied it, then Ben Sidney-the pigheaded pup!-would never get him to Laredo-no, sir-ree!

Ten minutes later she was creeping cautiously toward one of the sleeping forms. The moonlight now showed up both of the men plainly, their ducking jackets, their leather chaps, their widebrimmed sombreros. It played brightly on the silvered Colt's revolver in Ben Sidney's holster, gleamed from the dented surface of a tin coffee-pot near a bed of ashes, and revealed Gotch's coarse red hair above his black bandanna.

Slipping the Colt from Ben Sidney's holster, Coyote emptied the cylinder of its six cartridges, and then carefully replaced the gun. Keeping her carbine. leveled at Sidney, she backed over to

where Gotch lay on his face, his hands tied fast behind him with a strand of cowhide from a lariat. Moving in a semi-circle, she stopped only when the prisoner was between her and the deputy, which enabled her to keep an eye on the latter, while going through the dangerous business of waking the cowboy. With her eyes still fixed on Sidney, she knelt down beside her friend.

"Gotch," she breathed, her lips close to his ear. "Gotch. Don't make a noise. Hit's Coyote."

The cowboy's head moved slightly. "Hit's Coyote, Gotch." Suddenly he half raised on one elbow and blinked up at her.

"Coyote!" he exclaimed. "What-" "Sh-h-h! Not so loud. Turn over and I'll free yer hands."

From a long pocket in the side of her skirt Coyote produced a small jackknife. The blade was dull, but she sawed on the rawhide around Gotch's wrists until it came in two.

The cow-puncher sat up and stretched his arms with infinite gusto. "Gotch, yuh didn't shoot daddy, did yuh ?"

As the man looked down at the girl, at her sweet, babyish face, her straight black hair blowing in the wind, her great blue eyes, wistful, and shining like twin sapphires in the moonlight, he thought he had never in all his life seen a more beautiful creature. His big heart went out to her now, not because he sympathized with her in her great loss, but because she was, and had always been, dearer to him than anything else in the world. His tone held a gentle reproof when he spoke.

"Lil' gal," he said, "be yuh a-thinking thet? Be yuh a-thinkin' Gotch Lumsey would ever shoot Dennis McAll?"

"Naw, Gotch."

"Yer'r right. He didn't."

"I knowed hit, Gotch. I knowed yuh didn't do hit. Come on, let's git now a-fore thet cuss wakes up. I took his cartridges, but he might be a-packing another gun somewhars. We can go-"

"Naw, lil' gal. Hit's best fer me to