The Coyote Tracker (12 page)

“I was defending myself.”

“It's business, Wolfe. You owe me.”

Josiah nodded and silently agreed, but the debt to Brogdon Caine was the least of his worries at the moment.

“Your girls, where'd they go?” Josiah asked. “They didn't just disappear.”

“Hell no, they didn't just disappear. They're all under one roof, not too far from here.”

“And whose roof is that?”

“Whose do you think? Blanche Dumont's roof, that's whose . . .”

CHAPTER 21

The day had turned dark. A bank of angry black
storm clouds was rising high in the west, heading straight for Austin in a spring fury. The change of weather didn't surprise Josiah, not given the time of year, but it had made Clipper skittish, nervous. Though there was little time to waste, Josiah thought the best place to head next was the livery, to get the Appaloosa stabled before the storm hit.

He stared the horse in the eye, eased his hand out to its long neck, and touched Clipper as gently as possible. He trailed the palm of his hand up to the horn of the saddle, moving slowly, not saying a word, trying his best to relax Clipper and digest the whiskey and information he'd received inside the Easy Nickel.

Once he reached the saddle, Josiah climbed up and settled in on Clipper's back as gently as he could.

The first rumble of thunder broke over the horizon, causing Clipper to shake his head and snort heavily. It was unusual for the horse to react so dramatically to a coming storm.

Most of the time, Clipper was steady under the most extreme circumstances; lightning, thunder, rifle fire, even screaming Comanche didn't rile him or cause him to spook. Something was amiss, and Josiah wasn't going to ignore the horse's mood, all things considered.

He looked all about him, up and down the street, which was nearly vacant of any horse traffic, then up to the roof line, checking for shadows that didn't belong: gun barrels, men, anything out of the ordinary. Josiah had been ambushed from the rooftops before.

The air felt tense, full of energy, and the wind had suddenly picked up with so much force that it nearly flipped Josiah's hat completely off his head. He reached up and patted it down, catching the hat just in time. He cinched the drawstring up under his chin so he wouldn't have to worry about losing it again.

“Come on, fella, let's get you home.” Josiah clicked his tongue a couple of times, easing Clipper away from the saloon, toward the livery. He looked behind him to make sure he wasn't being followed, and got a good dose of sand shooting straight at him from the heavy push of wind, up off the dry street. The grains of sand stung his eyes, but didn't blind him. He pushed the horse a little quicker then, and Clipper was glad to oblige, breaking into a trot, just short of a full-out run.

Josiah came up along a streetcar, mostly empty and heading for cover itself. He easily pushed past the newfangled mode of transportation. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but that didn't really matter at the moment. Progress was progress. The city had changed tremendously in the short time Josiah had lived there. New buildings, homes, and now a new railroad coming straight down Cypress Avenue, though he had yet to see any of the actual transformation, the teardowns.

Thunder boomed again, closer this time, focusing Josiah's attention straight ahead. Clipper must have sensed their destination or held a desire of his own to outrun the impending storm and find refuge in the comfort of the livery—the horse picked up the pace and knew exactly where and when to turn.

The first spit of rain splashed off of Josiah's neck. It was cold, wakening his senses even further. The whiskey he'd had at the Easy Nickel had left him far from drunk, but he felt a little dazed by the events in the saloon.

He tried not to think about breaking the arm of the barkeep, William. Josiah knew he had reacted without thinking, that his body had taken over, skills and training erupting from somewhere deep in his soul, out of the darkness of the past, of the war, when every breath a man breathed could be his last. That fact still did not relieve him of a certain responsibility, and now, fleeing as he was, regret was starting to settle in. He hadn't meant to hurt the barkeep so severely. Josiah had been protecting himself, there was no doubt in that, but that last second, that last push might not have been necessary.

Questioning himself was always dangerous, especially when he realized he didn't have complete control over himself or his anger.

Maybe solving the Vigenere cipher had ignited something inside him, forcing the skills he'd learned in the war to come rushing back. Or maybe it was the frustration he felt, not being able to help Scrap. Or that time was running out, and there was so much to do—seeing to Lyle's needs, and saying good-bye to Pearl—all weighing heavily on his mind . . . and heart.

Caine had said Josiah owed him, and there was no denying that fact. He owed William the barkeep, too, even though neither of them had given him any new information that would be helpful to his cause: freeing Scrap from jail before he left with the Rangers. If Josiah had anything to do with it, Scrap would be with him, in his rightful place, doing what he did best, being a Ranger.

Clipper pushed harder toward the livery as the rain started to fall in buckets and the sky grew black and unpredictable. Thunder boomed. Lightning danced. The wind blew straight at Josiah's back, almost lifting him from the saddle. Both horse and man put their heads down and pushed forward. There was no place to take cover, and they were only a city block away from the livery.

Boom. Crack. Boom.

The storm and the suddenness of it were not lost on Josiah, but he could not help but think as much about what he had left as about what was before him.

The fact that Brogdon Caine hadn't really told him anything new frustrated him. Not about the night that Lola had been killed, anyway. The tale pretty much measured up with what Scrap had told him—with the exception of the sighting of the man. There had been no mention of that. Maybe he had run off before William had rushed out of the kitchen.

Josiah had been hoping that somebody had seen something, someone other than Scrap, but so far . . . there was nothing that would help him figure out what had happened.

He wasn't about to believe Scrap really was the killer. It would take far more evidence than what Brogdon Caine had told him to convince him of that.

It was strange to Josiah, however, that all of the whores under Caine's roof had sought refuge under Blanche Dumont's care after the killing.

Josiah wasn't sure what that meant, but considering the last time he'd seen Blanche Dumont, leading a funeral procession, then spitting on Rory Farnsworth's face, the information didn't surprise him.

Maybe she was the mother hen of all the whores in Austin, and her place was the only place they felt safe. He didn't know the inner workings of the flesh business well enough to know if that idea was true, or even possible, and he didn't want to know either.

If he was going to find Myra Lynn, and hopefully some answers to what happened the night Lola was killed, Josiah knew where he'd have to go looking sooner rather than later. If Myra Lynn Elliot was anywhere in Austin, it only made sense she was at Blanche Dumont's house. And if what Scrap had told him was true, that he had followed Myra Lynn outside, then maybe she'd seen something . . . seen the real killer, seen what really happened to Lola. Either way, she was as close to an eyewitness as he had, and no matter what, he had to find her. But if he never saw the inside of another whorehouse, it would be too soon as far as he was concerned.

The cold rain on the back of Josiah's neck turned colder and harder. It had turned to ice, to hail.

Josiah kneed Clipper, urging him to run full out to the livery, which was now in sight. The Appaloosa responded with a snort and a shake of his head, protesting the sting of the ice pellets as they pinged down from the angry sky.

A quick glance over his shoulder told Josiah that the storm had gone from angry to downright mean. The black sky had suddenly turned green, and the wind had suddenly screeched to a stop. The hail was coming straight down, its impact hard and hurtful.

Muddy streets suddenly turned white and treacherous. Boardwalks were unnavigable, if anyone was foolish enough or unlucky enough to be caught out of doors.

Josiah had seen skies and weather like this a few times before in his life. They usually meant tornadoes could, or would, appear soon. Damaging winds and sudden floods, too. Nowhere was safe, not even the livery, but with a great amount of luck and effort both on his part and Clipper's, they made it inside the open double doors, just as a loud clap of thunder exploded over their heads and the hail ceased, leaving a breath of silence behind it and then the rush of wind and more pelting rain.

The green sky faded to gray at last look, a quick glance over the shoulder, as Josiah reined in Clipper, bringing the horse to a stop in the center of the barn.

He jumped off the horse, and one of the stable boys, the towheaded one Jake Allred was shouting at the last time Josiah was in the livery, appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Clipper's lead, taking him to his stall to calm him down and dry him off.

Josiah rushed to the doors and looked up at the sky, concerned by the threat, and by the direction that the storm was heading. As it was, the darkest, blackest cloud hung over the site of Josiah's house. He could only hope that Ofelia and Lyle were safe inside and not caught outdoors, as he had been.

Someone walked up behind Josiah, whose senses were still intact, and his nerves still on full alert. He spun around, expecting to see Jake Allred, the livery master, but instead he came face-to-face with Juan Carlos.

The old Mexican had a forlorn look on his face, sadness that could not be mistaken.

“You startled me,” Josiah said, relaxing his hands, allowing the one to fall away from his six-shooter.

“I'm sorry, señor, I did not mean to frighten you.”

Josiah forced a half smile, keeping one eye on the sky. “I should be used to it by now. You coming and going. It is good to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same thing, señor.”

The tone of Juan Carlos's voice sent a shiver up Josiah's spine. “What's the matter?”

“I have some bad news for you, Señor Josiah.”

CHAPTER 22

Josiah reached out for the livery door to brace
himself. It had never been difficult to read Juan Carlos; his emotions and thoughts were usually apparent and forthright, and there was no mistaking that what he had just said was the truth. Bad news was coming, popped up like the spring storm that was now raging overhead.

“What is it?” Josiah asked.

“There is a woman who claims to have seen Señor Scrap kill that whore.”

“A witness?” It was a breathless question, almost too difficult to say out loud. That wasn't the news Josiah had been expecting.

“Sí.”

Hail battered the roof, and a straight wind pushed through from one end of the livery to the other. There was not a horse inside that wasn't pacing, nervous, or butting up against its stall. Whinnies and snorts mixed with the thundering downpour of ice pellets pinging above.

Josiah stood motionless, chilled, not sure he had heard Juan Carlos correctly. Maybe he didn't want to hear what the Mexican said. Maybe it was impossible for him to consider that Scrap had actually killed the girl at the Easy Nickel Saloon. But the boy had lied to him before. Recently. Still, being ashamed of your sister and how she made a living was one thing; killing a whore was another. No matter the witness, Josiah just couldn't see it, couldn't see Scrap as the kind of man who was thoughtless and heartless enough to just stab a girl for no better reason than rejection or that she was just a whore in the wrong place at the wrong time. Scrap Elliot was a lot of things, but he wasn't a woman killer.

Josiah had been sure of that . . . up until a few seconds ago. “You're sure? A witness?” he repeated. “She saw Scrap stab the girl, Lola, to death?” He didn't know if that was the girl's real name or not, but it was the name Brogdon Caine had used, and Josiah had no other to put in its place. A lot of whores assumed different names so no one from their past would recognize them—or so they wouldn't recognize themselves. Shame was a common malady found in that trade.

“That is the word I hear,” Juan Carlos said. “She is to appear before the judge and give her account of what happened.”

There was no one else near, or in sight of them, inside the livery. Josiah could barely hear Juan Carlos himself over the roar of the storm, so he wasn't worried about being overheard.

Moisture clung to Josiah's face, and he wiped it away, brushing across the stubble of his beard, reminding him of the length of the day. A lot had happened since that morning. His stomach growled with hunger, and he made a mental note to check the saddlebag on Clipper's back to see if to tide him over there was some errant jerky about, leftover from a trail ride that he couldn't remember.

“Who is this girl, this new witness, do you know?” Josiah asked.

“No, señor, I don't know who she is. I have only come upon this information and thought it best I bring it to you right away.”

“I'm glad you did. Thank you.” Truth be told, Josiah was always glad to see Juan Carlos. There had been a time, recently, that their friendship had been strained, but there was no sign of that strain or distrust now.

“So you don't know if she is telling the truth or not, if she is credible?”

Juan Carlos shrugged.

Josiah kicked at the dirt just inside the door, tossing hail pellets, each about the size of a lead ball, back outside.

Thunder boomed overhead, clouds roiling into a murky stew. The storm was moving east. It had passed over his house and now was on the outskirts of town, trailing northeast, in the direction he always looked when he thought of home, of Tyler, and Seerville, the little town just outside of it where his family ranch sat vacant, left to the vermin and weeds.

Lightning danced down from the sky, white-hot bolts trailing after the hail like a jealous little brother left behind, running to catch up and join in the fun.

Josiah was glad the storm was past, glad that the hail had stopped and was being replaced with a steady rain that didn't look like it was going to let up any time soon. The rain fell in sheets, and the entire world, outside of the livery, looked like it had been drained of any color other than black, white, and gray.

The hail melted quickly, barely a memory after a minute or two on the ground. The street beyond the livery was now a muddy mess, with thin streams cutting ruts into what was once dry and hard-packed dirt. There was no traffic, not even a dog out scrounging for a bone or free bit of food.

Juan Carlos stood staring at Josiah, looking worried himself, a wisp of a man with leathery brown skin and pure white hair that poked out from underneath a hat that looked a little too large for him but was clearly large enough to shield his face from the sun, or recognition.

Scrap and Juan Carlos had never been friends, but the concern the Mexican bore on his face was real, and not out of necessity of respect, but from a growth of it. Regardless of what a man thought of Scrap Elliot's boisterous ways, prejudices, and general hotheadedness, there was no mistaking that he was a fine shot, an outstanding horseman, and a friend in a time of need. At least, he had been up until now.

“I'm leaving in two days,” Josiah finally said. “McNelly is heading south again. I think he intends to put an end to Cortina and his cattle rustling operation once and for all.”

“I know.”

“I supposed you would. Are you riding along with us, in one capacity or another?”

“It is hard to say. I am old and tired these days.
Soy débil.
I am weak after the gut shot in Brackett, hardly myself on a good day. I cannot think about sitting on the porch of some
casa
for the rest of my life, but it is getting harder and harder to make the long journeys.”

“I understand.” Josiah turned away from the door, tired of worrying about the storm, relieved that it was passing without causing any damage, at least that he saw . . . or felt. “I have a lot to do before I leave. I fear if I don't muster with the company, my days as a Ranger are over. I've brought enough negative attention to myself, and to the organization, so I'm surprised that I am still welcome in the ranks.”

“Captain McNelly is a loyal man. Maybe one of the most loyal men I have ever met. It is not luck that finds you in his good graces, but your contribution. You must realize that.”

“I suppose I do. That doesn't stop the clock from ticking. I was hoping to be able to free Scrap so he could ride along with us, where he belongs, but that doesn't seem possible now.”

“There is more bad news,” Juan Carlos said. “This circuit court judge is not in favor of Rangers and does not see them in a good light. He is a relative of Captain Feders, an uncle. I fear he will
ser rencoroso
, um, hold a grudge against Señor Scrap.”

Josiah felt his heart sink even deeper into despair than it already was.

Just when Josiah thought the shadow of his previous action had passed, just like the threat of the storm, it reared up again—only this time threatening Scrap, who had been there, near Laredo, with him when Feders had given Josiah no choice but to protect himself.

Kill or be killed. It seemed to be the way of his life.

“That's not good news.” Josiah took a deep breath and looked up into the rafters of the livery, not focusing on anything, just feeling more and more frustrated and more than a little concerned about Scrap's welfare. Being in the hole in the jail might be the least of Scrap's worries at the moment.

“Do you think Scrap really killed that girl, Juan Carlos?” Josiah asked. “I can't bring myself to think of it, but I could be wrong, my judgment clouded by the good deeds Scrap has done in my presence. They surely outweigh the bad ones, even the lies that have circled around to bite him.”

“I do not know what Elliot is capable of, Señor Josiah. There were no other witnesses that I know of to disprove what this girl might say.”

“There is,” Josiah said. “Or there might be. Scrap was chasing after his sister, Myra Lynn. At least that's what he said, when he stumbled on a man attacking the girl, Lola. But Myra Lynn ran off, disappeared into the night. Scrap lost her when he stopped to help the girl.”

“What happened to the man?”

“He ran off, too, and Scrap didn't get a good look at him. At least that's what he said.”

“Then we need to find his
hermana
, his sister.”

“I was thinking the same thing. That and . . .”

“And what?”

“That maybe it's possible that I'm wrong. Maybe Scrap did kill Lola. I hate to think that, but it's possible, I guess, even though it doesn't settle right. Doesn't make sense. There've been four murders. Lola was the most recent of them. Scrap was nowhere near Austin when the others occurred.”

“Why do you think the murders are all connected, señor?”

“I don't know. I just think they are, and so does the reporter, Paul Hoagland. Doesn't it seem a little strange that there have been four similar murders and that they would have been committed by four different killers?”

“It is possible, señor. Stranger things have happened in this city. You are new to it. A killing is big news in the town where you came up. Here? Not so much. There are thousands of people who live here. More coming every day. And even more will come when the new railroad comes in. Two trains instead of one coming and going. Imagine what that will mean.”

“What does it mean now?”

Juan Carlos looked confused. “What are you saying?”

“The new railroad coming to town. Right down Cypress Avenue. Buildings are being torn down. Houses are being torn down. There's money being made and lost there, and surely anger, too, now that I think about it. I remember what happened in Tyler when the railroad came in. There were big winners and big losers. When the tracks turned the wrong way, Seerville up and died. Maybe there's more to these murders than we think. Maybe they aren't just happenstance.”

“You think the new railroad is connected to the murders? That makes no sense,” Juan Carlos said, twisting his face up in disbelief.

“Maybe it doesn't make sense. But when I was at the jail, Rory Farnsworth's father left in a huff, ordering him to ‘Take care of it.' Now, I don't know what he was talking about, but Myron Farnsworth is a banker. Murder can't be good for business. You said it yourself, more people are coming and going. There's going to be more at stake, more investments being made, more at risk for the bank.”

Juan Carlos nodded. “I can see that.”

“Now, figure in Abram Randalls to all of that.”

“Who is that?”

“Randalls is the man who was busted out of the Black Hole. He was an accountant and an embezzler.” Josiah raised his eyebrow and caught his breath as he put two and two together. “
And
he kept the books for none other than Blanche Dumont. Now get this. When I was at the Easy Nickel poking around, Brogdon Caine told me all of his girls left and sought refuge at Blanche Dumont's house.”

“That is interesting, but I see that it means very little.”

“I don't know what it means. But there's a kettle of vultures circling over Blanche Dumont's house, pointing to something there that needs to be looked at. Besides, I think we might just find Myra Lynn there, too. But there's something even more important than that.” Josiah's mind was running quickly now. “Do you know where there's a big oak tree that is used for hanging?”

Juan Carlos thought for a minute, then nodded yes. “
Sí
, I do. It's just on the other side of the river, just before you get to the Jensen Ranch off the cow trail.”

“Good. We need to get there before we go to Blanche Dumont's . . . if it's not already too late,” Josiah said, rushing to Clipper's stall.