The Coyote Tracker

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “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.

  CHAPTER 23

  An empty noose dangled from a lone live oak, standing in a vacant field like a sentinel, or the last man standing in battle. It was an old tree, at least seventy feet tall, with limbs curving and jutting out in every direction, almost as big around as it was tall. Live oaks stayed green in winter, so there was no spring tenderness to its leaves.

  The tree reminded Josiah of a time not too long ago that he’d spent in a mott, what most Texans call a grove of live oaks, as he and Scrap ushered a whore, Maudie Mae Johnson, to a new life in Fort Worth. Mae, as she liked to be called, was a wildcat of a girl, who in the end took a shine to Josiah, but that shine could not be, and was not, fruitfully returned—Josiah had no interest in the girl, other than helping her get her life in order.

  Scrap, on the other hand, was jealous as jealous could be about Mae’s shine on Josiah. He later confessed to Josiah that he hadn’t been with a woman in a biblical way yet. Somewhere since, Josiah was almost certain Scrap’s predicament had corrected itself, but he wasn’t exactly sure when.

  Josiah remembered plenty about the time in the mott and didn’t care for the memory at all. It showed Scrap in a bad light—impetuous, angry, and apt to go off half-cocked at the smallest of matters, all traits that added up to a boy who was able to let his emotions get away from him and end up killing somebody for no other reason than emotional rage.

  Doubting Scrap made Josiah’s heart ache, and he had to push away the memory, along with the memory of Mae who, in the end, had left Scrap’s aunt Callie’s boardinghouse, disappearing, as it was, Josiah assumed, back to the life from where she had been rescued. Once a whore, always a whore, as the saying went. Though the thought saddened Josiah immensely.

  He stopped Clipper about twenty yards from the tree, taking in the view around him.

  Juan Carlos stopped alongside him on his roan mare that looked nearly as haggard and old as the Mexican himself. “We are too late, señor,” he said, staring at the empty noose, blowing to and fro in the breeze as if it were a child’s swing instead of a vehicle of death.

  “Looks that way,” Josiah said. “Or too early.”

  “How did you know of this place, señor?” Juan Carlos asked, with a nod. “Many men have lost their lives here instead of on the gallows. Los hombres buenos, hombres malos. Good men, bad men. No law but that of the vigilante. Many Mexicans have dangled here, but Anglos, too. It is called the Tree of Death, Árbol de la Muerte.”

  “You know about the jailbreak?”

  Juan Carlos nodded yes.

  “The man they busted out left a note behind. It was a cipher, a Vigenere cipher. I was able to identify it and solve it because I had experience in the war with messages being sent back and forth. It was a skill I’d long forgotten about, and didn’t want to think about, until the deputy in the jail brought the note to Farnsworth, who then handed it to me to see if I could read it.”

  “It all goes back to that, the war, aye, señor?”

  “It does. For good and bad. Anyway, this fella, Abram Randalls, said they would kill him under the oak tree. He must have served in the war, too, to know how to write a note like that. I’m not sure that means anything. Most men of a certain age fought in the war in one capacity or another. Nobody wears the uniform or signs on their sleeves. But we all know the minute we meet up. There’s a look, a language, for good or bad, that we all share. That much blood and battle has an effect on a man.”

  “The note said nothing about hanging him?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This note, this cipher, it said they would kill him, not hang him?”

  Josiah stared at Juan Carlos for a moment, then slid off Clipper’s saddle, his eyes glued to the ground, looking for any sign of disturbance: a gathering of hooves, or blood, anything that would validate what Juan Carlos had said.

  Juan Carlos dismounted, too, pulling his six-shooter, a sheriff’s model Colt, his eyes flittering around, scoping out the area with a renewed concern. Josiah had noticed a change in Juan Carlos since he had been shot and nearly died in the ambush in Brackett. He was more wary, nervous, not confident like Josiah remembered, always willing to lead—now the Mexican let Josiah lead and make all of the decisions . . . mostly.

  The ground under the towering tree was soft from the recent storm. They had ridden out of the rain as they headed southwest. The temperature of the air had dropped notice
ably and was cooler, less humid. A hard breeze, just short of a wind, still pushed at them, but the sky was starting to lighten over their heads and to the west. Clouds broke apart showing hints of blue, the promise of a better day. But the birds were silent, not set on rejoicing after a storm had passed like they usually did.

  “There’s no sign of anyone being here,” Josiah said. “Not recently anyway.”

  Juan Carlos didn’t respond right away. He had stopped and had his back turned to Josiah, looking out over the empty field, back toward Austin, the way they had come.

  “There is movement on the hill, señor.” Juan Carlos cocked his Colt, chambering a cartridge.

  Josiah followed the Mexican’s gaze but did not see anything. He didn’t doubt the man’s ability to see movement when none was apparent to anyone else. Juan Carlos had more skills than any man ought to rightly have, as far as Josiah was concerned.

  “Move the horses behind the tree,” Josiah said.

  Juan Carlos hurried to Clipper, took up the lead, all the while keeping his eyes on the distant hill, then grabbed his mare’s lead as well. “There is more than one of them, señor. At least two of them.”

  Josiah wanted to ask how he could know that but didn’t take the time. Again, there was no use questioning Juan Carlos’s talents; they simply existed, and had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  As he spun back, intent on taking cover behind the tree, Josiah saw what Juan Carlos had seen: the silhouette of two horses just over the rise, and the wave of weeds moving in the opposite direction, as a pair of shooters crawled down the hill to get a better position.

  Before Josiah could say another word, the first shot rang out. It pinged off the tree, peeling a bit of bark and sending it flying like a weapon itself.

  Juan Carlos hurried both horses behind the tree, and Josiah joined him there, firing blindly into the side of the hill. He couldn’t see the men, hiding in the saw grass as they were, but there was no way he wasn’t going to return fire. They had made him a target, and returning in kind was his only option. There was no need to ask questions or wonder at the intent of the shooters.