He looked at the empty glass, then shrugged. “I haven’t got a clue what she looks like. I just know her kin. He’s kind of rangy, black hair, but not as thick as yours. I don’t suppose that helps much.”
“Don’t help at all. I only got six girls, and the one of them has black hair like you say, I’ve knowed her for a long time.” Caine poured them each a finger of whiskey. “On the house.”
“Thanks. What do I owe the pleasure?”
“Just call it a hunch that we’re on the same side of things.”
“You don’t have a grudge against Rangers like William?”
“That boy killed his favorite girl.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“So you say. People saw what they saw.”
“Sometimes people see what they want to see. What did you see?”
Caine shrugged. “I was in my office. We was pretty busy. Busier than I ’spect to be again for a while, if ever.”
Josiah stiffened. Caine knew more about what happened the night Scrap came in. “And that’s it, that’s all you know?”
“Why should I answer your questions? Give me one good reason.”
“If an innocent man hangs, it could be your turn next. Simple as that.”
Caine studied Josiah for a long second without a blink. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t believe your boy’s innocent, though.”
“I guess it’s my job to prove that.”
Caine nodded. “The way William tells it, the Ranger was goin’ around to the girls askin’ questions. He finally met up with Lola, and they headed out back, probably up the back stairs to the private quarters, not to the business rooms, I tell you. Anyways, William didn’t like the look of things, so he followed after Lola. He always kept a watchful eye on her. She was a real beauty. China doll face, happy eyes, and a body that didn’t show no age or wear, if you know what I mean. Pert and happy, with skills that kept ’em comin’ back.”
Josiah feigned a smile.
“William heard a scream when he was about halfway through the kitchen. When he rushed out, he saw the Ranger leaning over Lola, blood on his hands and an odd look on his face. The boy took off runnin’ and William tackled him, held him down till the sheriff’s men came and took him away. Simple as that. There was no one else around. He gutted Lola deep. She died right away.” Caine lowered his head.
“That’s some story, if you believe every word William says,” Josiah said.
“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve knowed the man for nigh on seven years and he ain’t never lied to me before. Least not that I know of.”
“Elliot said there was another man, a cowboy, but he couldn’t tell for sure. The man ran off. Maybe William didn’t see everything.”
“Maybe not. But I’d trust William long before I’d trust that Ranger. Or you for that matter. He never said nothin’ about another man. That might just be a figment of Elliot’s imagination. You ever think of that?”
“Nope. I got no reason to think Elliot’s lying.” That wasn’t entirely true, but Josiah wasn’t going to tell Caine that.
“Or you could be as much a liar as the boy. There’s some that think little of you as it is.”
Josiah knew he could do little to overcome his own reputation, and that of some of the Rangers. But it was a good outfit, with a higher purpose than any other he’d ever ridden with, including the State Police and the Rangers in their previous incarnation. Caine’s attitude rankled him, made him angry all over, but it wouldn’t be smart to show that anger, and Josiah knew it.
“However it went, it’s a sad story,” Josiah said.
Caine lifted the glass and downed the whiskey without a flinch. “I’ll give you that,” he said, settling his glass next to the bottle.
Josiah stared at the whiskey, then glanced to the half-full bottle. Without any further hesitation, he picked his glass up, let the sting of the aroma touch his nose, then followed suit and downed the whiskey in one gulp.
The burn felt good. Warmth and comfort came in a small dose quickly behind the burn. A few more fingers would be good, but it wasn’t that kind of day. He didn’t have time for comfort, or the hazy vision that drinking the day away tended to bring on.
“Good whiskey,” Josiah said.
“Glad you like it. Who’s this girl that you don’t know anything about, and why are you lookin’ for her here?”
“She’s supposed to be working in town, just in from Fort Worth.”
“I take it you mean she’s whorin’?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“I’m out of that business.”
“Really?”
“Girls don’t feel safe here. And I ain’t the kind to lock ’em down.”
It was the practice of some saloon owners to chain down new girls. Break them down, so to speak, overpower them with such fear that any thought of running away never entered their minds. Josiah was glad Caine was not the kind of man who chained his girls . . . or so he said.
“So there are no girls here?” Josiah asked.
“That’s what I said. Once Lola was killed, well that was that. Next mornin’ the girls were all gone. Done with me, regardless of all I done for them. I wasn’t no beater, either. Gave them a fair shake, a good bit of the money, food in their bellies, a roof over their heads. A doctor when they needed it, and as much laudanum as they wanted when the woman’s curse struck. William was a kind enforcer, too. Wouldn’t let no cowboy get a touch for free, or out of hand. I took good care of my girls, I tell you. And they left me for nothin’ I could control.”
“Four whores have been killed in the last month or so in this town. I can understand them being a bit nervous, can’t you?” Josiah said.
“I’m well aware of the killin’s goin’ on in this town. But they got the right man, didn’t they? That Ranger that you say didn’t kill anybody. He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
Josiah nodded. “Yes, he’s my friend. And the brother of Myra Lynn Elliot. He was looking for her here—that’s why he was questioning the girls. Says he saw her, too, but she ran off when the other girl was killed. He was trying to help the injured girl, not kill her. That’s why he had blood on his hands.”
Caine poured himself another finger of whiskey, then offered the bottle to Josiah.
He declined, waving his hand over the glass.
“You believe your friend.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement.
“I do.”
“So you want to clear his name?” Caine asked.
“I’d like to, but I’m short on time.” Josiah watched Caine down the second glass of whiskey. There was no comfort to be found on the man’s face. “What do you want, Caine? You’re obviously not a killer or I’d be a dead man right now.”
“I’m a businessman. Or I thought I was. I want my girls back. I want cowboys crowdin’ in the door so thick you can hardly breathe, but that doesn’t look to happen any time soon. And now, thanks to you, I don’t have the service of my barkeep. You’re gonna have that debt to settle, you know? With me and with William.”
“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 su
rprise 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.
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