"Well, Bob Long, the sheriff, has got all his deputies out except just the jailer--there ain't anybody much in jail now, anyway--an' all the other men he could pin a star on, lookin' for a gang that held up the stage from Sunshine yesterday mornin', shot the stage driver dead, an' made off with an express package full of money. There's a big reward out for the man that's leadin' the gang. He's called The Coyote. Used to live here. He's a bad one." "Sheriff out, too?" Rathburn asked, showing great interest. "Sure. Come back in early last night an' got more men. They're tryin' to surround Imagination Range, I guess. That's where this Coyote an' his gang are supposed to be hanging out. The sheriff don't care so much for the fellers that's with him, I guess, but he sure does want this Coyote person. He told everybody to let the gang go if they had to, but to get the leader." Rathburn looked through the front windows with a quizzical smile on his lips. The sun was shining in the deserted street. "How many men has the sheriff got?" he inquired casually. "Most two hundred, I guess. They're scattered all over the range, an' a lot of 'em has hit over on the other side. They think The Coyote crossed the range an' is makin' east." "Well, maybe he has, an' maybe he hasn't," Rathburn observed. "The best place to hide from a posse is in the middle of it." The porter looked at him, then burst into a loud laugh. "I guess you said something that time, pardner. In the middle of it, eh?" He went about his work, chuckling, while Rathburn walked to a front window and stood looking out. A few minutes later he stepped quickly back into a corner, as a small automobile raced up the street. He sauntered to the rear door, passed out with a pleasant word to the porter, and when he gained the open, hurried up behind the buildings the length of the block. There he turned to the left and walked rapidly to a large stone building. He went around on the east side and entered a door on the ground floor. He found himself in a hallway, and on his left was a door, on the glazed glass of the upper half of which was the gold lettering: "Sheriff's Office." After a moment's hesitation he opened the door quickly and went in. A man standing before an open roll-top desk turned and regarded the early-morning visitor. He was a small man, but of wiry build. His eyes were gray, and he wore a small, brown mustache. He had a firm chin, and his face was well tanned. He was holding a paper in his hands, and the paper remained as steady as a rock in his grasp. His eyes bored straight and unflinchingly into Rathburn's. He showed no surprise, no concern. He made no move toward the pair of guns in the holsters of the belt which reposed on top of his desk. He spoke first. "Have you come to give yourself up, Rathburn?"