The Coyote Tracker Page 8

  “No, sir,” Scrap said, the quaver gone from his voice, replaced by a calm tone, sure and resigned to getting a secret off his chest. “She never was. Aunt Callie has been beside herself in her letters to me from Fort Worth. Worried about the girl’s welfare and all, but she can’t go on a hunt for her. Besides, Myra Lynn is old enough to decide to live her life the way she wants to, I suppose. What good would it do to catch her and take her home? She’d just run away again. She’s been doin’ it all of her life. At least since Ma and Pa was killed, and I was supposed to look after her. It’s my fault.”

  “What else did you lie to me about, Scrap?” Josiah’s teeth were clenched. He was disappointed.

  “Nothin’, I swear.”

  Josiah let the answer settle to the ground just like the dust had, slowly and surely. As far as he knew, since everything about Scrap was starting to come into question, even the fact that the boy’s parents had been killed in a Comanche raid was under suspicion. According to Scrap in previous conversations, he and Myra Lynn had been spared only by the boy’s quick thinking, to hide under the house, hugging up next to the fireplace in the center.

  Myra Lynn was a year younger than Scrap, fifteen when the raid occurred, and Scrap, with nothing left to do, along with his aunt in Fort Worth, thought the convent for the Ursuline nuns would be the best place for the girl to finish growing up. Obviously they were wrong—or there was more to the story. Either way, Josiah was more than a little steamed about being lied to.

  He stiffened and tried to ignore the noise beyond the wall of the jail. He was accustomed to being in on a posse, and it was his inclination to offer his help, and gun, to find the men who’d busted out Abram Randalls. But he was sticking it out with Scrap, even though, at the moment, he wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “Tell me what happened as soon as you got to Austin,” Josiah said.

  Scrap stood up from the bunk and walked over to Josiah, so only the bars separated them. “I got a room, and . . .”

  “Where?”

  “Mrs. Bailey’s. Same place as always when I’m in town. I ain’t got a house like you to go to, Wolfe.” There was almost a sneer on Scrap’s face when he said it.

  “All right, what then?” Josiah asked, ignoring Scrap’s attitude. He was used to the sneers and anger that erupted from Scrap’s mouth on occasion. It was just the way he was—young and impetuous.

  “I went over to the Easy Nickel.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yes, by myself. Why?”

  “Just wondering why you didn’t wait to go with the other boys.”

  Scrap exhaled deeply and looked away. “I was thinkin’ Myra Lynn might be there, or at least in town, that’s what Callie said in her last letter, that she thought maybe Myra Lynn was heading to Austin. I didn’t want anybody to know that I was related to her, so I went alone.”

  “Related to a whore?”

  Scrap nodded, then began to walk in a small circle inside the cell. He looked trapped, as if he was ready to go off in a rage but couldn’t. “You gotta get me out of here, Wolfe.”

  “I think you’re stuck here for a while.” Josiah let a second of silence pass between them, as he heard a man, Milt he was pretty sure, call for the posse to move out. It was a muffled command but unmistakable, regardless.

  Once the noise calmed down and the horses had ridden out, heading south, Josiah turned his attention back to Scrap. “What happened once you got to the saloon?”

  “I got me a beer and started watchin’ the doors. They got a line of little shacks out back, as well as rooms upstairs, for the pleasure business. It was pretty busy. The drives are heavy on the trail now . . .”

  Josiah agreed silently. Spring was a busy time, getting cattle from the ranches in South Texas up to Abilene.

  “Anyways,” Scrap continued, “it was pretty dark, and there was this fella givin’ one of the girls a hard time. A little blond thing that looked like a fawn tryin’ to outrun a wolf—no offense to you, Wolfe. About the time I thought I’d help out, the bartender went after the fella with a three-foot-long club. More like a big oak branch with the bark whittled off, heavy. So I sat back down, and this fella, a cowboy, got chased out of the saloon. I thought that was it. The girl looked pretty shaken up. The fella was gettin’ rough with her, and she looked new to her duty, you know? Not sure what to make of all the noise and people in the saloon, and the gropin’ hands comin’ her way. She disappeared in the crowd then, not comforted by the other girls, but looked down on, mocked. She ran toward the back door, cryin’.

  “It was about that time I thought I saw Myra Lynn. That girl was headin’ out the door, too, like maybe she’s followin’ after the first one. So, of course, I go after her,” Scrap said, looking down at the ground. “I guess that was my mistake. Always has been. Goin’ after Myra Lynn, fightin’ her battles. It’s a bad habit that I would be glad to be rid of if the truth be told.”

  “Did anybody follow you or pay attention to you?”

  “No. I just got a beer and was sittin’ there all quiet-like, until I thought about helpin’ the girl. But I didn’t do anything. Why are you askin’ if somebody followed after me?”

  “Sheriff says somebody saw you kill the girl.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “I’m just saying there’s a witness, Scrap. If there’s a trial, you’ll need to know who that person was. Think about it. Are you sure there wasn’t anybody around?”

  “I don’t know, I swear, Wolfe.” Scrap stopped pacing the circle he was wearing down and stared straight at Josiah. “They’re gonna hang me, aren’t they?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it, you can trust that, Scrap. I guess I got reason not to believe a word you say, since you lied to me. But I can see your way of thinking, wanting to hide the truth about Myra Lynn. I know you’re prideful. It’s a curse you carry, but I can understand that, too. I’ve ridden with you long enough to know you’re no woman killer. At least, not on purpose,” Josiah said.

  “Thanks, Wolfe, that means a lot. It surely does. I couldn’t hurt no girl, ever.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well,” Scrap said, “I got outside, and that cowboy fella jumped the blond girl. I never got much of a look at him. He could be right in the next cell and I wouldn’t know it. Anyways, she screamed and fell to the ground almost right away. I yelled at the fella and started to pull my gun, but I flinched, lost my focus ’cause I saw Myra Lynn rush to the left, just out of the shadows. She saw me, too, about the same time I saw her. We ain’t seen each other since I took her to the convent, so it’s been some years, but I swear it was her. She didn’t say anything, just looked at me like I was the worst thing on the bottom of her shoe, then she ran off into the darkness. I wanted to go after her, more than anything I did. But I couldn’t.”

  “The girl needed your help.”

  Scrap nodded. “When I turned back to her, she had a knife stuck in her chest, and the cowboy ran off in between the shacks. Before I could pull my gun the rest of the way, he was gone. I thought the girl was still alive, so I went over to help her. I pulled the knife out, and she took her last gasp.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t get a good look at him?” Josiah asked.

  Scrap shook his head. “I told you, Wolfe, no. It was dark, and he was wearin’ dark clothes. I wasn’t real worried about what he looked like, but I guess I should’ve been.”

  “Probably so. But you did have blood on your hands, like they say?”

  Scrap nodded. “And a knife in my grip. The back door of the saloon busted open and the bartender rushed at me with that big stick. I ran, Wolfe. I knew how it looked. But I was running after Myra Lynn, too.”

  “She disappeared?”

  “Yes. Again. I didn’t kill that blond girl, I swear to you, Wolfe. I swear on my
parents’ graves and my sister’s soul. That cowboy did, I’m sure of it, but nobody believes my story.”

  “I’m sorry, Scrap. I really am.”

  “Can you help me, Wolfe?”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Josiah said. “I owe you that, and more.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The crowd was starting to break up as Josiah left the jail. There was no sign of the posse, Sheriff Farnsworth, or any of his men, outside of the two deputies standing guard at the new entryway created by the blast.

  The Black Hole of Calcutta nickname was now a literal reference to the jail’s structure. Josiah was surprised that there wasn’t any more apparent damage to the building. It was obviously a fortress, durable with its brick and stone facade, but the interior of the building must have been stronger than normal to have survived the explosion, too.

  In its entirety, the jailbreak had taken less than five minutes. It was a masterful undertaking, and from the look of the exterior, the crew behind it obviously had experience with detonations, which meant one of two things to Josiah: They were miners, or they had been in the military. Considering the note in his pocket and the cipher it had been written in, he suspected the latter. No matter the circumstance, everything always seemed to lead back to the war. Though the use of dynamite as a regular explosive was a more recent development, Josiah was betting the men who orchestrated the break were army men, through and through. He would have just about bet his life on it.

  It was amazing how quickly life got back to normal on the streets of Austin after such a dramatic event.

  A Butterfield stagecoach passed by. The boardwalks were full of people walking to and fro, chatting, laughing, not paying any attention to the world around them. The giddiness of a fine day was intoxicating, a tonic to wash away the worst events and darkest memories. If only it lasted.

  A smell from a nearby restaurant greeted Josiah’s nose. Simmering beans and a waft of fresh cooked beef made him realize that he had not eaten since breakfast.

  Regardless of Scrap’s dire circumstance, life for everyone else, including Josiah, was moving on.

  With a mind full of questions, and an empty belly, Josiah headed toward home, sure that he needed to think things through before doing anything else. Searching out Captain McNelly would have to wait until tomorrow.

  * * *

  “Wolfe, wait!” a man yelled out, pushing out of the door of a barbershop, about a block and a half from Josiah’s house.

  Josiah recognized the man immediately, and had had more than one run-in with Paul Hoagland, a reporter for the Austin Statesman, since he had moved to the city.

  Hoagland was a short bit of a man with a long, pointed rodent nose, bushy eyebrows, and a skittishness that was not immediately apparent but was always there nonetheless, whether in the tapping of his impatient foot or the darting of his eyes. It was like Hoagland was always on the lookout for a predator that was about to swoop down from the sky and eat him.

  The reporter wore a tattered bowler, wire-frame glasses, and usually had an unlit, thin cigar dangling from his pale lips. His skin was the color of the white, salty ground in and around the San Saba River, and he smelled like he was slowly rotting from the inside out, like a piece of meat left out in the sun too long to dry. Josiah was surprised there weren’t any maggots crawling all over the man. He was repulsed by him.

  Josiah acted like he didn’t hear the man, or see him for that matter, and kept on walking, picking up his pace just a bit, but knowing that unless he broke into a full run, the exercise of trying to escape the reporter was futile.

  Hoagland was as persistent as a hungry rat, and, as expected, he chased after Josiah, with shaving cream globbed to the right side of his face and a white barber sheet still fastened to his neck, flying behind him like a gentleman’s evening cape.

  “Wolfe, stop. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”

  Now people were staring at Josiah, perhaps recognizing him from his own recent troubles. His face reddened, and he clinched his fists as he came to a stop and turned to face the reporter.

  Of course, most people knew Paul Hoagland, too. He had plenty of his own legendary tales, which he promoted continually around town to boost his image, and his access to anyone he might need a story from.

  “What do you want, Hoagland?” Josiah asked.

  Paul Hoagland stopped a few feet from Josiah, ripped off the sheet, and wiped away the shaving cream from his face as best he could.

  “Another Ranger is in trouble for murder, care to comment?”

  “There hasn’t been a trial yet, Hoagland. Ranger Elliot is accused of murder, not guilty of committing a murder. I would hope that you would keep your facts straight before you go prematurely condemning a man and unnecessarily damaging his reputation.”

  Hoagland smiled, exposing a chipped front tooth. “Are you lecturing me on how to do my job, Wolfe?”

  “I’m asking you to be a professional, sir, and not parade a man’s guilt in front of the public until it has been determined. I’ve been a victim of your pen. I know its sting.” Josiah swept his hand out, motioning to the people passing by. “These fine folks think I, myself, have no respect for the law, that I am nothing more than a renegade Ranger—thanks to you.”

  “It’s just business, Wolfe. Nothing personal.”

  “Says you.”

  Hoagland scrunched his shoulders, signaling an end to the argument. “So you have no comment to make about the most recent string of murders of, how should we say this delicately, soiled doves?”

  “What would you say just between two men?” Josiah asked.

  “I doubt the topic would come up. The murders are of no consequence to most of the fine citizens in this town. One dead whore is one less scourge on society.”

  Josiah drew back a bit, having not expected Hoagland to reveal anything about himself, or how he felt about society as a whole.

  “I’m only aware of the murder Ranger Elliot is accused of, and that only recently. There’ve been more?”

  “Four in the last month, to be exact.”

  “Ranger Elliot has been riding with the Rangers in South Texas. He was nowhere near Austin, so he can’t be linked to the other three. Is that what you’re up to? Making this an issue because a Ranger’s involved and now people will pay attention to what’s happening in the back rooms of the saloons they wish didn’t exist in the first place?”

  “I’m just doing my job,” Hoagland said. “Murder is murder no matter the state of the victim’s social standing.”

  “Well, at least we can agree on that.”

  Hoagland didn’t miss a beat, didn’t seem interested in building a camaraderie with Josiah, and that was just fine by Josiah.

  “How do you know Elliot was where he said he was?” Hoagland asked.

  “I was riding with him, that’s how. We spent a good deal of time together in Corpus and beyond, on a mission issued by Captain McNelly.”

  “You were with Ranger Elliot the whole time you were away from Austin?”

  Josiah hesitated but had to answer truthfully, even if he was just talking to a newspaper reporter. “No.”

  “Then the question still remains open.”

  “What question?”

  “Whether this Ranger killed one whore, or four.”

  People pushed by Josiah and Hoagland, paying them little mind now. Josiah felt like he had been trapped, outwitted by a much smarter man. No matter what he said, he was just making things worse for Scrap.

  “We’re done here, Hoagland,” Josiah said. “Why don’t you just leave me and my friends alone?”

  The reporter smiled again, only this time it was just a feigned flash of cruddy teeth, a twisted sneer that was not hospitable or humorous. “I will leave you alone when you quit giving me so much to write about
, Wolfe. And not until. Or, perhaps, you should learn to pick your friends better. Maybe I’ll stop writing about you then.”

  * * *

  The smell of a simmering stew greeted Josiah’s nose as he walked into his house. He was so angry at Hoagland that he had forgotten he was hungry. It was a moment of comfort, a greeting that he longed for every minute of the day when he was away, whether it be on a trip into town, or on the trail with his company of Rangers. Scrap was right to be envious of his home, as far as Josiah was concerned. It was the one constant in his life: a safe place, where all pretenses and threats were left at the door. Or so he hoped.

  Ofelia was standing in the kitchen, her back to Josiah. Lyle was sitting at the table, waiting patiently, an empty bowl in front of him, a freshly baked loaf of uncut bread sitting on a platter just out of his reach.

  The boy grinned when he saw Josiah walk in the door, but he did not jump down or run to him like normal. Instead, Lyle looked away and dropped his head.

  There was no question that there was trouble in the air. Something was wrong.

  Josiah hung his hat on the hook on the wall, then unbuckled his gun belt and hung it next to his hat—it was high enough that Lyle couldn’t reach it.

  “I was waiting on you, señor,” Ofelia said, stirring a pot, still not turning around.

  There was a slight spicy smell to the stew, but it would be a pleasure on Josiah’s tongue. He had grown comfortable with Ofelia’s flavor of cooking.

  “I’m sorry I was longer than I planned. Is everything all right?”

  “Yo era malo,” Lyle said.

  Josiah frowned at the boy. “What?”

  “I was bad.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “He ran off, Señor Josiah. Right out into the street. Vamoose. I look up, and he was gone,” Ofelia said, turning around, a long wooden cooking spoon gripped tightly in her hand.

  A long scratch ran down the side of her face, a red streak surrounded by a bruise the size of an apple that was not fully ripe. “I fall down trying to catch him.”