riding like mad,
was certain to convince the pursuers that he was one of the gang
responsible for the stage job. This was obvious.

For good reasons, Rathburn did not want it generally known that he was
back in a country where he had spent most of his life, and where he
was branded as a desperate outlaw with a big price on his head.
Consequently, seeing that the sheriff's men were out to get him, he
abandoned all attempt at concealment, drove in his spurs, gave the dun
horse its head, and raced for the mountains.

Other members of the posse who were farther to the east caught the
signals of the two who were in hot pursuit of Rathburn, and they
dashed north to cut him off. The outlaws had disappeared, and Rathburn
shook his head savagely, as he realized they had sought cover when
they saw the chase was directed at one man. Without having had a hand
in the holdup of the stage, he had arrived on the spot just in time to
draw the fire of the authorities. And fire it was now; for the men
behind him had begun shooting in the hope of a chance hit at the
distance.

A scant mile separated him from his goal. He came to a level stretch
which was almost a mass of green because of the clumps of palo verde.
Here he urged the dun to its utmost, outdistanced the pair in his
rear, and gained on the men riding from the south, almost ahead of
him. He swerved a bit to the north and cut straight for a notch in the
mountains. He smiled, as he approached it, and saw a narrow defile
leading into the hills. He gained it in a final, heartbreaking burst
of speed on the part of his mount. As he dashed into the canyon,
bullets sang past him and over his head. Then a cry of amazement came
to his ears.

"It's The Coyote!" a man was yelling. "Rathburn's back!"

He dashed into the shelter of the defile, a grim smile playing on his
lips. He had been recognized. His face hardened. He rounded a huge
boulder, checked his horse, and dismounted. He could hear the pound of
hoofs in the entrance of the narrow canyon. A rider came into view
below.

Rathburn leaned out from the protection of the boulder. His lips were
pressed into a fine, white line, and there was a look of haunted worry
in his eyes. His gun flashed in his hand. The rider saw him and
yelled, spurring his horse. Then Rathburn's gun swung quickly upward.
A sharp report sounded, like a crash of thunder in the narrow confines
of the canyon, and its echoes reverberated through the hills.

T