Rathburn heard him say something to some one in front. Then the sheriff went out of the building. The other man came in and looked at Rathburn curiously. He was of medium build, with white hair and a face seamed and lined and red. Rathburn instantly 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." "Maybe so," agreed Rathburn. "Ah--here's our friend, his nibs, the sheriff. He went out to rustle me some grub. He wants to keep me fat for hanging!" His laugh rang through the jail, empty save for himself and the two officers. But the temporary jailer hesitated, looking at Rathburn's eyes, before he turned to the sheriff. "Open the door and I'll take it in to him," ordered the sheriff. "Can't get this stuff through the bars. You might keep him covered." The jailer's hand flew to his hip for his gun as he also brought up a large key on a ring. He unlocked the door to the cage and held it open while he kept his gun trained upon Rathburn. The sheriff entered and placed the food on the stool and a large bowl of coffee on the floor beside it. Then he backed out, watching Rathburn keenly as the latter sat on his bench with his right foot in his hand. When the door clanged shut and the key rattled in the lock, Rathburn let down his right foot, took two steps, and pulled the stool to the bench. He stepped back and secured the coffee. Then he began to eat and drink, keeping his right foot tipped on its toes, while the two officials watched him attentively. "Sheriff," said Rathburn suddenly, between bites on a huge meat sandwich, "could you let me have a stub of a lead pencil an' a sheet of paper to write a letter on?" "Easy enough," answered Neal. "Course, you know all mail that goes out of the jail is read by us before it's delivered--if it's delivered at all." "I'll chance it," snapped out Rathburn.