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Updated: May 31, 2025
When Frank and I started out as soon as it was light enough to see to try and trace the string and maybe get onto the trail of the scoundrels, we both feel certain that we were watched and that somebody was warned of our coming, because, before we'd gone a dozen rods, we heard a coyotelike bark, coming from way up the mountain-side and ending in a howl that we are sure never came from a coyote's throat; and, when we got to the clump of trees, we found signs of someone having been there only a few minutes before, and followed the trail to a rocky gulch a dozen rods beyond the trees, where we lost the trail on the hard rocks.
Blacky the Crow wasted no time with Old Man Coyote after he heard Old Man Coyote laugh. There was a note in that crazy laugh of Old Man Coyote's that told Blacky he might just as well talk to the rocks or the trees about helping Bowser the Hound.
Rathburn now drew the jailer's gun from his own holster and toyed with it to get its "feel" and balance. He dropped it back into the holster and in a wink of an eyelid it was back in his hand. The man from the desert gasped at the lightning rapidity of the draw. Time and again the gun virtually leaped from the holster into The Coyote's hand at his hip, ready to spit forth leaden death.
"I told 'em that scar was made by a bullet from The Coyote's gun," Rathburn went on, pulling down his sleeve and drawing his right hand back to the gun he had replaced in its holster. "That scar was made by The Coyote's gun. I shot myself in the arm by accident some few years ago. Now, here's the point: Those men will remember me an' remember that scar.
Accordingly he paused upon the highest point of the ridge and uttered a cry to which the hungry cry of a real wolf would have seemed but a coyote's yelp in comparison! Then it was that the rest of the buffalo hunters knew that their game scout was returning with welcome news; for the unsuccessful scout enters the camp silently.
The coyote's larger cousin, the wolf, ranged the continent over while the coyote himself was strictly a prairie dweller. For twenty years Collins had predicted that wolves would disappear in settled districts while the coyote would survive; not only survive but increase his range to include the hills and spread over the continent from the Arctic to the Gulf.
Old Man Coyote's thoughts seemed very pleasant to himself, though really they were very dreadful thoughts. You see, he was thinking how easy it was going to be to catch Paddy the Beaver, and what a splendid meal he would make. He licked his chops at the thought. "He doesn't know I know he's here," thought Old Man Coyote. "In fact, I don't believe heaven knows that I am anywhere around.
So he says good night to the Coyote and crawls right down into his house quick as the Coyote's body is out, and when he sees all that big tail rolling out he just holds the end of it over the fireplace and gets it burning. "But the Coyote is very pleased with himself and he don't look back but just goes right along.
A perfect imitation of a coyote's yapping, hyena-like cry rang out. "Great. Maybe we can use that sometime." How soon that cry was to be used, and to what disastrous effect on our little party of adventurers, we shall see as our story progresses.
On another occasion, after the preliminaries, he became keenly interested and studied a coyote's track that came and went, saying to himself, as I afterward learned: "A coyote track coming from the north, smelling of dead cow. Indeed? Pollworth's old Brindle must be dead at last. This is worth looking into."
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