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What's that long dark streak over there on the right?" "Those are trees," answered Lamy sneeringly. "Let's make for 'em," ordered Rathburn. "Don't forget you're still under orders, Lamy. An' don't overlook the fact that I'm more or less in earnest about things in general," he added significantly. They rode at a tangent for the dark shadow of the trees.
Rathburn stepped after him, and Lamy pulled back the rug before the table and disclosed a trapdoor. He raised the door, held out the food to Rathburn, and whispered: "You better get down there. Take this grub an' " "What's the matter? Isn't there room for both of us?" Rathburn put the question in a voice which conveyed surprise.
Eugene Lamy, at the age of eighty-seven, exhibited in 1887 a charming water-color, of which the subject was "A Ball under Henry III." He has the same talent, the same brightness, the same freshness of coloring as when, fifty-eight years before, he painted the water colors of the Mary Stuart ball.
When the eastern skies were rosy red and fast changing to gold with the advent of the sun they saw two things; a small ranch house about a mile southeast of them, and two riders some distance north. Rathburn reined in his mount. He looked at Lamy who met his gaze in defiance. Then Rathburn reached into his coat pocket with his right hand and drew out a gun.
For Rathburn's gaze had narrowed; and it shot from his eyes steel blue with a flash of fire. His face had set in cold, grim lines. The whole nature of the man seemed to undergo a change. He radiated menace, contempt, cold resentment. The corners of his mouth twisted down sharply. His voice, as he spoke now, seemed edged like a knife. "Lamy, hand over that money!"
The sixteenth century, so elegant, so picturesque, lived anew. A painter, who was then but twenty-nine, and who had already a great vogue, M. Eugene Lamy, perpetuated its memory in a series of twenty-six watercolors, which have been lithographed, and form a curious album. At the left are the arms of the historic personages represented, and at the right those of the representative.
Anger, swift and uncontrollable, leaped into Rathburn's eyes. Then he laughed, softly and mirthlessly. "If I'd been minded to do for you, or had any such idea in my head, I'd have given it to you long before this," he said. "It's lucky for you, Lamy, that I'm pretty much the breed you thought I was." "Don't pose!" retorted Lamy hotly.
Rathburn saw Lamy put a hand to his face and make a grimace. "Listen, Frankie, did you see anybody around here this morning?" asked the sheriff. "Who who you looking for?" asked the boy. Rathburn started; his body suddenly tensed. "I'm looking for an outlaw they call The Coyote," returned the sheriff. "Ever hear of him?" "Y-e-s. Ed brought home a notice about a reward for him."
I wonder if the lady could spare me a cup of coffee an' a biscuit?" He glimpsed the boy in the kitchen doorway behind the sheriff. "Hello, sonny," he called cheerfully. "Did you catch those freckles from your brother?" The boy gazed at him abashed. There were actually tears in the youngster's eyes. Ed Lamy and his sister moved into the kitchen and took the boy with them.
Beside the persons who figure in the album of M. Eugene Lamy many others were to be noted.
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