The Coyote Tracker (14 page)

CHAPTER 25

Woodrell Cranston's office was not hard to find.
It was on the third floor of a building just off of Hickory Street and Congress Avenue. An alley cut through the center of the block, and entrance to the office was gained by climbing up a rickety set of steps that were precariously attached to the back of the building. A landing led into a thin hallway, capturing the humidity of the day and transforming it into mold and mildew, to be added to a well-established population of spores that smelled like they had been in the building since the beginning of time.

Josiah quickly found the door marked “Woodrell S. Cranston, Esq., Attorney at Law.” The paint was fresh, but the door looked like it had served a long line of tenants. There was no telling how old the building was, but lawyers and the like came and went from the capital city like flies to shit, always moving in and moving out, depending on the political climate and the state of daily affairs.

A distorted reflection of himself on the frosted glass-paned door caught Josiah's attention, but he was only momentarily conscious of his own physical being. He had ridden out of town hard, exchanged gunfire with two unknown shooters, then rode straight, albeit nervously, back to where he'd started from. Whether he was of proper dress or not, whether he smelled of horse lather and sweat should not and did not matter to him when it came to the reason he was there in the first place: Scrap's guilt or innocence. The boy's life was in his hands, and if this attorney was worth his salt, then that's all that would matter. Proper dress and manners were better left for the governor's mansion and highfalutin functions that he hoped never to have to attend again.

Josiah pushed the door open without knocking. It was still working hours, sometime after noon, and the door was unlocked. That seemed to be enough protocol to enter.

The room was small, about three times as big as a wash closet. A desk was jammed up against the back wall with just enough room on one side for a man to scoot around and sit down. A fan swirled overhead, powered by water and a small turbine. Even at a low speed, the wind from the fan threatened to blow all of the papers off the desk. There was no window, but a sconce on each wall burned brightly with a coal oil flame, providing more than enough light in the tiny room.

A very young man was sitting behind the desk.

Josiah's entrance startled the man, or boy, as he looked no older than Scrap. The man's face was free of whiskers and showed no hint that he could even get any to grow. His cheeks were permanently flushed pink, making his face look like a baby's bottom touched with a rash. He wore a pair of round spectacles that made him look studious and did nothing to make him look mature. The man had flinched noticeably, almost knocking over an inkwell he had been dipping out of, like he was afraid of something.

“I'm sorry,” Josiah said, “I'm looking for Woodrell Cranston.”

“Well, you've found him. And who, may I ask, are you?” Cranston said, his eyes searching up, then down, resting squarely on Josiah's Peacemaker. Beyond that, he didn't move. He looked wide-eyed, bordering on afraid.

“Josiah Wolfe.” It was almost a surprised stutter. The man before him barely looked old enough to be away from home, much less be a graduate of some university handing out law degrees. “You're Woodrell Cranston?”

“I take it you're not here to kill me?”

“Are you expecting someone?”

“Not necessarily, but in my line of work, one just never knows.”

“No, I'm not here to kill you. I hoped to hire you, but you're not exactly . . .”

Cranston exhaled heavily. “Let me guess, you were expecting someone older, more refined maybe? Perhaps a tall man with an expensive black suit, long white beard, and oh, maybe a cane, or a smoking pipe to add to the effect?”

“Something like that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. What's your business with me, Mr. Wolfe? I know we have never met. How is it that you've come to this office in search of help with the law?”

Josiah shook his head no. “We haven't met.” He stared at Cranston, who in return was staring at him expectantly. It was tempting to walk out, just leave the boy sitting there dumbfounded and fearful of who walked in next, but the fact was, Josiah didn't know where else to go, or who else to go to, for legal help. “Paul Hoagland sent me. He said you'd be my best bet with my problem.”

“Hoagland, you say? The newspaper reporter?”

“One and the same.”

“I should have guessed, actually. I have little reputation in Austin as it is, and Hoagland has been my champion in recent weeks. We're fraternity brothers, you see. Phi Beta Kappa.”

Josiah had never heard of Phi Beta Kappa and hardly knew what a college fraternity was, so he said nothing, tried not to move. He suddenly felt like he'd not only worn the wrong kind of clothes but was also less educated than the man-boy before him.

“Well, come on in, Mr. Wolfe, and close the door behind you. If Hoagland sent you, then I expect that you're on the up-and-up and, indeed, are in need of my help.”

“Up and up from what?”

“Just a manner of speech, good man. Just a manner of speech.” Cranston glared at him, then removed his spectacles, waiting for Josiah to do as he'd been asked.

Josiah hadn't realized that he hadn't closed the door. His mouth must have gaped open, just like the door, at the sight of Cranston. He did as he was asked, then removed his hat and sat down in a simple wood chair that sat squarely in front of the desk. His knees butted against the desk when he sat down.

“What do you know of freeing a man innocent of a murder charge?” Josiah asked.

“More than you might expect, Mr. Wolfe.”

“I'm sorry, I don't mean to doubt you so openly, it's just that . . .”

“. . . I appear so young. Yes, you've made your point already. I am twenty-nine years old, Mr. Wolfe, and I'm a recent graduate of Harvard University. Have you heard of Harvard?”

“From back East?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don't know much about universities, but yes, I've heard of Harvard. I'm surprised that Hoagland is from there, too. I would've never known it.”

“Perhaps that is not such a bad thing.”

“Maybe not.”

Silence settled between the two men. The building had its own set of noises rising up through the three floors: murmurs of other voices, groaning fans, the constant drip of water—all adding to Josiah's discomfort.

Cranston nodded. “I am cursed with my mother's fair skin and my father's brains. All of my family looks much younger than we are. It is a curse I bear. The diploma on the wall should appease any concerns you have.”

Josiah glanced to the wall on the right of Cranston. There were two frames there, one with the diploma in it, the letters so fancy and loopy that he could barely read it. The other frame a picture of Abraham Lincoln.

Josiah had seen the picture before. It was of Lincoln sitting in a high-backed chair, his elbow resting comfortably on a round table. If memory served Josiah correctly, the picture had been taken in February of 1864, just two months before John Wilkes Booth assassinated the Union president.

“Brave of you,” Josiah said.

“I'm sorry?” Cranston said, oblivious to Josiah's reference.

“Displaying the picture of Lincoln here, in Texas. Some folks won't take kindly to the presence of a Yankee in the midst of their troubles.”

“The war has been over for a long time, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Not for everyone.”

“That very well may be, but Mr. Lincoln was the president of these United States, and I shall exercise the right of freedom of speech no matter in what state I live. You do believe Texas is a state in the union now, don't you, Mr. Wolfe?”

“I do.”

“Then that should quell all of your concerns. My family supplied the Union with uniforms, Mr. Wolfe. Textiles are a common business in Massachusetts. But those days are long behind me. I have a new life. The factory wasn't for me. Books, and helping people, are my lifeblood.”

“I would be cautious of sharing your lineage with just anyone, sir.”

“I understand, but I refuse to dishonor our fallen president. He has been quite the inspiration to me, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Josiah. People usually call me Josiah, or Ranger Wolfe.”

Cranston sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together, making a steeple with his index fingers. “You're a Ranger? A Texas Ranger?”

“Yes. Does that matter?”

“It might. And then again, it might not.” Cranston relaxed his hands, put them on his desk, and leaned forward. “Tell me of this murder. Is it the young Ranger recently accused and arrested?”

“Yes. He's my friend. He claims he's innocent, and I believe him.”

“But you would.”

“I've questioned whether he's telling me the truth or not, but I really think he's incapable of what they are accusing him of. Besides, there have been four murders, and he was in South Texas at the time of three of them, so there's no way he was involved in all of them.”

“Ah, a scapegoat. Just what the sheriff needs!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The sheriff needs a scapegoat. Surely you must be aware of the pressure he is under at the moment?”

“I haven't been paying close attention to the newspapers.”

Cranston groaned and fought off a judging look. “Are you aware of the new railroad coming into town?”

“Yes, I'm aware of that.”

“Murder is bad for business, Mr. Wolfe, um, Josiah. Even murders of a population of women the rest of society wishes did not exist. Paul Hoagland has been at the forefront of telling these girls' stories, but even he is getting pressure from the owners of the
Statesman
to back off. There is a cabal of sorts, a collection of businessmen trying to end the notoriety that these murders have brought forth on the city. Your friend is the answer to their needs. I fear they will stop at nothing to render swift justice.”

Josiah was sitting on the edge of his chair. “I saw the sheriff's father . . .”

“Myron Farnsworth, president of the First Bank of Austin.”

“Yes, that very Myron Farnsworth, I saw him storm out of the sheriff's office, demanding that he ‘Take care of it.' I believe you're right. There's little time to waste to free Scrap of this mess he's gotten himself into.”

“Scrap?”

“Robert Earl Elliot. Everybody calls him Scrap. You will, too, after you meet him.”

Cranston exhaled loudly. “I'm not sure I'm the right man for this fight. I have little in the way of resources and even fewer connections in the city. I will be seen as an interloper. So you see, Josiah, I am very well aware of my place as a Yankee.”

“They have thrown Scrap into the hole. He's unable to communicate with anyone, and now a witness has come forth.”

“His fate is sealed then.”

“I fear it is, unless you help him,” Josiah said, studying the young lawyer's face for any sign that he was up to a fight that he would most likely lose.

CHAPTER 26

Josiah stood on the landing of the three-storey
building after leaving the cramped office, relieved as he caught a deep breath of air.

Cranston was going to see what he could do for Scrap and send word of any success or failure to the house on Sixth Street. The young lawyer had made no promises, and the mention of money never came up, but Josiah was certain that it would at some point. It always did. Besides, the lawyer had to make a living just like everyone else, whether he was a proud Yankee or not.

A chuckle came to Josiah then, unbridled, and a surprise to himself, considering the dire circumstances surrounding Scrap's fate. He couldn't help but think of the irony, and of Scrap's reaction to Woodrell Cranston if he got a chance to meet the lawyer any time soon and discover his origins. Of course, after hearing one or two words escape from Cranston's mouth, the Rs hard, and the As long, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out where the lawyer hailed from. Boston would be an obvious nickname for Cranston. The meeting between the two would be a priceless moment, but Josiah was certain he wouldn't be there to witness it. On the other hand, thinking about Scrap stuck in the hole was not amusing. It was downright disheartening and frightening.

Josiah had been in a lot of situations in his life that had seemed hopeless, but solitary confinement had never been one of them.

Hopefully, the boy wouldn't be so foolish as to anger and repel one of the few men who had the capability to help him—though Josiah had warned Cranston that Scrap might not be too receptive to his presence at first. Cranston had said he was accustomed to the rejection and felt certain he could handle Scrap. Josiah hoped so.

He squared his Stetson at the thought and made his way down the rickety stairs. He didn't feel overly hopeful, but there was a bounce in his step, a general feeling that he was on the right track, not alone now in his attempt to free Scrap, or at the worst, to discover the truth about Lola's murder, however it might fall. He still couldn't imagine Scrap Elliot as a cold-blooded killer, no matter that a witness was said to have come forward. The lawyer was certain there was a bigger plan afoot. He'd called Scrap a scapegoat—a term which Josiah was sure Scrap would take offense to if Cranston said it to him. All Scrap would hear would be “goat” and that would be that, he'd go off fully cocked like an angry tyrant. Josiah was sure of it.

Another thing came to mind. He would have never thought in a thousand years that Paul Hoagland would turn out to be an ally, a man with connections to turn to in a time of need. But that's exactly what had happened, or appeared to have happened. He was still leery of Hoagland, and of Cranston, too, for that matter. The two men seemed to have had a long history together, had attended Harvard, though most likely at very different times. Hoagland was notably older than Cranston. Still, fraternity brothers spanned the ages. It was not a family structure that Josiah fully understood, but he knew from his time out of Texas, his time back East, during the war, that it ran as deep as blood.

The late afternoon air was still humid and uncomfortable, and Josiah was glad to be free of the small office.

There were still times when he felt confined in the city, boxed in, and longed to be on the trail. But he was in no hurry to leave now. Not without Scrap. It would be the hour soon enough to depart, and even under normal circumstances, two days would be little time to prepare for the journey—even for a man with Josiah's experience. Leaving was an act he was well trained in.

A wafting smell of sizzling beef touched his nose, an enticing aroma coming from a café around the corner from Cranston's office. Josiah left Clipper hitched at the post and gave in to his hunger.

The café, noted as Grace's Fine Dinner Eats by a small, hand-painted sign in the window, was about five times larger than the office from which he had just come.

There were eight or nine white cloth–covered tables in the café, and only one was empty. It sat in the farthest corner, making it difficult to get to, but Josiah decided that he needed to eat and there was no use going anywhere else. He rarely ate in restaurants and knew little about their reputations or quality. All he cared about at the moment was gaining sustenance, filling a physical need so he could continue on with the day.

The noise inside the small café was loud, bouncing off the pressed tin ceiling overhead, confined as the sound was, with no place to go. Laughs, coughs, and booming voices made it nearly impossible to think.

Finally, Josiah pushed to the open table and took a seat, navigating through the crowd of men and women as gingerly and respectfully as possible.

The crowd was mostly workingmen, but there were a few bowlers and ties in the mix, too. This close to the capitol there was always a chance a decent establishment would draw professionals and cowboys alike. It was a good sign that the food would be good, at least edible.

To Josiah's great relief, there was no one in the room that he recognized, or that seemed to recognize him, and he hoped it would stay that way so he could eat in peace.

The waitress showed up, appearing almost as soon as Josiah had settled into the plain wood chair. Sweat beaded on the woman's forehead, and she sported a less than enthusiastic look on her pouty face. She was barely twenty, but droopy-eyed and tired-looking, and skinny enough that a good gust of wind would snap her in half.

In an odd way, the girl reminded Josiah of Pearl. It might have just been the blond hair, and the fact that Pearl was on his mind, too, since he had yet to tell her that he was leaving.

“Dinner, mister?”

Josiah nodded, trying not to think anymore about Pearl. “Steak and beans are fine,” he said, eyeing the menu just over the waitress's head on the wall that separated the dining room from the kitchen, written in the same handwriting as the sign he'd seen when he entered.

The choices for dinner were few: chicken, stew, or steak, all with the same side dishes of beans and boiled potatoes or stewed greens, and each meal served with a biscuit for a penny extra.

“Might be a little while, Cookie's backed up a bit,” the waitress said. Her lip curled unconsciously, exposing frustration and anger. Josiah hoped she wouldn't take her mood out on him, or his food.

“I'll wait.” Josiah wondered if the girl was Grace, the owner, since she hadn't offered her name when she took his order; then he decided she probably wasn't. She was too young to be a business owner. And in the end, it didn't matter anyway. He wasn't up for any pointless small talk. He just wanted his dinner.

It might have been just as easy to have gone home. Ofelia would have surely had something on the stove for him to eat. But Josiah knew that once he was home, it would be hard to leave again. He'd want every second he could steal with Lyle—and that would leave Scrap in the hole. Or dead.

“Suit yourself.” The waitress spun around and disappeared into the kitchen. He heard her shouting the order as the door swung open and closed so furiously that Josiah was certain it was going to come unhinged and fly unfettered through the café.

The smell of food inside the café made him even more hungry. The day had been long, and it was catching up with him. He felt tired and weak, but he knew he had to push on. He would need his strength for what he had planned for the rest of the day. Not going home was the right decision. Time was of the utmost importance since he seemed to have so little of it. The grains of sand were piling up, counting down to the moment he left with the company of Rangers . . . or the moment Scrap Elliot dangled from a hangman's noose. He shuddered at the thought, closed off his mind from Scrap's fate as best he could.

All of the banter and conversation around him melded into one loud voice, with words floating about in partial form, almost like waves crashing into the rocks at the seashore. There was nothing to concentrate on, nothing Josiah wanted to know or overhear; eavesdropping was of no interest to him.

He continued to close off his mind, shutting his eyes briefly, exhaling, trying his best to relax. It was hard, packed in the café like he was, but he managed to imagine he was the only man there—but only for a second. He felt a presence before him, like he was being stared at.

When he opened his eyes, there was a man standing at the opposite end of the table. “I thought that was you that came in, Wolfe.”

It was Milt, the desk sergeant from the jail. Josiah felt his heart sink. He'd really hoped to avoid seeing anyone he knew in the café and was surprised he'd overlooked the deputy.

Josiah stood up and offered his hand for a shake. “Milt, right?”

The man nodded. “Yup, Milt Fulsum.” He shook Josiah's hand with a limp, almost wet handshake.

“What can I do for you, Milt?” Josiah recoiled unconsciously, withdrawing his hand, dropping it to his side.

“Nothin'. Nothin'. Just saw you. Thought it'd be rude not to come over and say hello.”

Josiah sat down and waved out his hand with an offer for Milt to join him at the table. He didn't really want company, but he didn't want to be rude, either.

“No, no, thanks, I was just headin' out,” Milt said, glancing quickly to the right, then back to Josiah like he hoped not to be caught looking away. Milt seemed nervous about something.

But Josiah had seen the glance, and he followed it over to a table on the other side of the room. Three men sat at it, with one place empty. Nothing stuck out to him about the men. He didn't know them, assumed they were deputy friends of Milt's. One of them, though, wore a black canvas shirt, a black hat, and a black handkerchief. Nothing unusual about that, either . . . except that the men who had conducted the jailbreak were wearing black, just like the men who'd followed Josiah and Juan Carlos out to the Tree of Death and taken a few shots at them.

Josiah took a deep breath. Just like gray geldings, there were a lot of men in Austin who wore black. It was probably nothing, just a coincidence. So he sat there and stared at Milt expectantly. He was the one who'd approached Josiah in the first place.

“Well, that's all,” Milt finally said. “I just wanted to say hello, and say I was sorry about the fate of your friend.” The desk sergeant turned to leave then.

“Wait,” Josiah called out, bringing more attention to himself in the small café than he wanted to. A few people turned around, craned their necks, and stared at Josiah, annoyed that he'd distracted them from their food and conversation.

Milt stopped and faced Josiah. His face was pale white, like fear had struck him straight in the middle of his spine and worked its way up to his glassy blue eyes. “What?”

“What's happened to Scrap that you have to be sorry for?”

“Nothin'. Not yet anyway. But his fate don't look good with a witness comin' forward and all. Be a quick trial and a quicker hangin' from the way I hear it. Judge wants to see things through purty fast. Your Rangers, too. They want an end to all the notoriety. But I 'spect you know all about that.”

Josiah tried to keep his wits about him. Neither Milt nor the sheriff knew there was a lawyer involved. Not that Cranston had the power to stop the fast-moving train of vengeful justice, but he might help. Sad that innocence or guilt was a matter of money and influence, but that was the way it stood, whether a simple man liked it or not.

“You know who this witness is?” Josiah asked.

Milt shrugged. “Not for certain. Some whore, that's all I know. Sheriff Farnsworth's bein' pretty tight-lipped about all this. He's under a lot of pressure to clean up this mess, make a mark for himself, I guess, and he's taken the death of Emery Jones pretty hard, too. The old sergeant was a staple, a mainstay, who was in that chair long before Rory Farnsworth returned from school back East. Sheriff's blamin' himself purty hard.”

Something ticked inside Josiah's mind. A connection. Another piece of a pattern showing itself, just like it had with the Vigenere cipher.

Schools back East.

First Cranston, then Hoagland, both educated in universities outside of Texas, and now Farnsworth, too.

Josiah had known that Farnsworth was formally educated, but had somehow forgotten, or thought that it wasn't important enough to remember.

Rory Farnsworth hung on to his school education like it was a war medal that made him special, and rarely did he let the uneducated around him forget that he had something they did not. What being educated had to do with four dead whores, a jailbreak that ended up taking the life of Emery Jones, and Scrap's guilt or innocence was not clear, if it had anything to do with it at all. But there might be something there. Josiah sensed it. Just as with the cipher, he might just need the right letter in the right place to get him started on the solution.

“You know what school Farnsworth was at, Milt?”

“That's a funny question, Wolfe.”

“Just curious.”

“Nope, can't say that I do, then.” Milt shifted his weight nervously. He was about to say something else, but the waitress pushed in front of him with Josiah's plate of sizzling steak and beans.

The waitress slid the plate in front of Josiah, glanced up at Milt, and then said, “Everything all right here?”

“I was just leavin', ma'am,” Milt said.

“All right then,” she said, carefully eyeing Milt, who backed away then walked straight out of the café, instead of joining the three men.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world, the waitress rested her hand gently on Josiah's shoulder. “You need anything else, mister, you holler, ya hear now?” she said, eyeing Milt Fulsum's shadow like she'd just run off some kind of varmint.

Josiah nodded, not taking his eyes off Milt, or the muddy heels of his boots, as he disappeared out of the café door.