The Coyote Tracker (15 page)

CHAPTER 27

Josiah felt like he was being watched the entire
time he ate, but the three men at Milt's table seemed not to pay him any mind. More to the opposite. They huddled together, their faces out of sight, hidden by their hats, other patrons' faces, and, perhaps, by a direct and intentional attempt to shield themselves from Josiah's line of sight.

The feeling of scrutiny came from the other patrons around him, looking over at him slyly every once in a while, secretively, furtively, like he had done something wrong or was a wanted man. He wondered if they knew who he was, if it was his notoriety that was still following after him, instead of curiosity and suspicion.

He looked up from his meal every once in a while, in between bites, not making eye contact with anyone but keeping a watchful eye on the three men.

It was still just as loud in the café as it had been when he entered, and he was too far from the men to hear any of their conversation. Now he
was
interested in eavesdropping.

The steak melted in his mouth. It was cooked perfectly, pink in the center, just the way he liked it. The rest of the plate was just as tasty.

Everything that had happened throughout the day had left him famished. Still, the conversation with Milt Fulsum lingered in his mind. There had been an odd tone to the new desk sergeant's voice, a quaver that hadn't been there before . . . at least not that Josiah had noticed, or remembered noticing. It was just odd, the whole confrontation, the mention of Scrap causing the situation to seem even more dire.

There was no doubt that Josiah was desperate to help Scrap, to find out what had happened outside of the Easy Nickel Saloon, but even he knew he was grasping at the air, seeing things connect that actually might not be connected at all.

Doubt was not something he was entirely accustomed to, but right now it seemed like every turn led him to a dead end, and his intuition, which was usually strong and reliable, was less than functional, lost to him like a sense taken for granted.

The food was restoring his strength, and the noise around him seemed to have settled down, become more tolerable the longer he sat there. He continued to shovel food into his mouth, to take sustenance and restore much needed energy. At the rate the food was disappearing from the plate, Josiah wondered if there'd be enough to fill him up, if he needed to order another plate. That would be rare for him, but not unheard of.

Chairs scooted across the floor, drawing Josiah's attention away from the last bite of steak on the plate.

The three men in black stood in unison, their backs to him. One of the men was taller than the other two, and it was he who nodded toward the door. The other two obeyed, headed right for the door, pushing through the crowded café. The tall man lingered for a moment, then followed the other men. There was no indication that they had any interest in Josiah, and they made a restrained beeline for the front door, leaving without incident or indication that they had been there for anything but a meal, their business now done.

Their exit gave Josiah a chance to see two of the men's profiles clearly. There were no scars, nothing of note that stood out about their facial features, and they weren't men who looked familiar. He was almost certain that he'd never seen them before. Not that that was a surprise. Austin was a big city. Milt Fulsum probably had a lot of friends. For all Josiah knew, the men were deputies for Rory Farnsworth. It took a big company of men to keep the county peaceful, all things considered, and Josiah did not know them all. He hardly knew any of the deputies, as far as that went.

The last man walked out of the door, his shoulders squared, looking straight ahead.

There was, however, something in the pit of Josiah's stomach that gurgled with discomfort, and it wasn't a reaction to the cooking at Grace's Fine Dinner Eats. It was more than likely the same tried and true feeling that came along when something didn't add up, when something was wrong. Maybe his intuition wasn't as numb as he'd thought it was, or maybe he was just looking for something that wasn't there. Still, the three men were a notice he wouldn't forget too soon.

He was still staring at the door when the waitress appeared at his side. “You save yourself some room for dessert? Grace's berry pie is 'bout the best around.”

Josiah was reluctant to look away from the door. He'd hoped to see the men ride by the window on their horses. “You know those men?”

“The ones that just left?”

“Yes, ma'am, the three of them?”

“No, can't rightly say that I do. Never seen them before today that I can recall. But they's men in and out of here like that all of the time. I got my regulars, and they ain't none of them.”

“Men like what?” Josiah said, still staring out the window.

“Like they're on the other side of good, or at least lookin' for a dose of trouble. Most cowboys are. Don't ya think?”

“They're usually looking for something. Work, or a release, the way I see it.”

“Well, like I said, I never seen them fellas before, but I don't figure that means much,” the waitress said.

What it meant
, Josiah thought, but didn't say,
is that the men with Milt Fulsum probably weren't deputies
. If that was the case, then who were they? And why did it seem to matter?

“You want that pie?” the waitress demanded, looking about the room, scanning for her next duty.

Josiah looked down at his plate, then up at the waitress. He wished she didn't remind him of Pearl. He longed to see her, but he had other places to go. “No, thanks, not this time around. Maybe next time,” he said, forgetting about his less than sated feeling. It had been replaced by annoyance and frustration.

“I hear that a lot.”

“I bet you do.”

“You don't know what you're missin'.”

“I've heard that a time or two myself. But I best pay and get on out of here.”

“Suit yourself.”

Josiah looked up to offer the waitress a smile, but she was gone, pushing off to the next customer. He envied her journey. It seemed routine, known, even when she faced strangers. Unlike his route, always walking into the darkness . . . alone more times than not, unsure of what was next: life or death, a rescue or a hanging.

* * *

Josiah stood outside the café, looking up and
down the street. There was no sign of the three men, or of Milt Fulsum. He decided to let go of the discomfort and questioning, knowing full well what lay ahead as he made his way to his next destination.

He returned to Clipper, his senses engaged as much as possible. The meal had reinvigorated him, and for that Josiah was glad. He would need all of his capacities in complete working order if he was going to find, and hopefully face, the witness who had claimed to see Scrap kill Lola.

The day had worn on, and there was no sign of the earlier storm. Just the opposite. The sky was clear as the sun arced west, driving toward the horizon at a slow decline. The humidity had gotten worse. There was no breeze or wind now. Just thick air with no place to go. The hope and opportunity of the spring season seemed to have stalled, faltered after the storm.

Josiah's shirt stuck to his skin, and his wool Stetson itched at the sides as sweat began to bead at his hairline. The temperature had soared upward; it was as hot as it had been in recent memory. It suddenly felt like deep summer instead of early spring.

Clipper snorted at Josiah's arrival, and he unhitched the Appaloosa with gentle care. He was well aware that he'd asked a lot of the horse, but that was usually the case. Generally, Clipper didn't complain, just complied, so Josiah was a little curious about the noticeable outburst.

“Wolfe,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

Josiah turned around to face Paul Hoagland. “Do you ever just walk straight up on a man?” The man's sneaky arrival had obviously not gotten past Clipper.

“Not if I can help it.” Hoagland stopped a few feet in front of Josiah, chewing on his ever-present cigar, smiling slightly. “I have some news.”

“Good news, I hope?” Josiah rubbed Clipper's neck, and the horse flipped his tail in approval but never let Hoagland out of his sight.

“Depends. The judge postponed until tomorrow. Won't hear from the witness till then. That's what Cranston tells me anyway.”

“I didn't know the judge had arrived. That's good, right? Gives us more time to get things in order to help Scrap.”

“Maybe not. There's pressure to get on with this, so the judge is going to hear arguments in the morning. That happened after Woodrell showed up and tried to talk to Elliot. But he's in the hole, and they wouldn't allow that.”

“Happened to me, too,” Josiah said. “You think Farnsworth is keeping him away from everybody on purpose?”

“Looks that way, doesn't it?”

Josiah let his hand drop from Clipper's neck. “When you say ‘hear arguments,' you mean they're going to start the trial tomorrow?”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“So it's not good news.”

Hoagland shook his head no. “Woodrell and I think they're nervous now that he's poking around. I don't think they counted on any representation, except what they planned to provide.”

“They're set on hanging Scrap, aren't they?”

“Looks that way.”

“As a scapegoat,” Josiah said, echoing Cranston's take on the situation.

“It would silence the critics for a while. At least until it happened again.”

“Until what happened again?”

“Until another whore gets murdered.”

“Maybe . . .” Josiah thought it was an odd assumption that the killings would continue, but he supposed it made sense, as chilling as that was. “Do you know who this witness is?”

Hoagland shook his head no. “Wish I did.”

Josiah drew a deep breath. “What's your interest in this, anyway?”

“What do you mean? It's a story, it's what's going on in the city. Nothing more than that.”

“You're just doing your job?”

“I am. Why?”

“You seem personally invested in this, especially considering you're willing to help a Ranger, a group which, judging from the coverage in the paper, you have been less than favorable toward.”

“I just report the news the way I see it. Trust me, Wolfe, I have my journalistic ethics to uphold, just like you have your laws to uphold.”

“If you say so.”

“I do,” Hoagland said, backing away. “I'll be in touch, but I expect I'll see you at the courthouse tomorrow morning.”

“You can count on it.”

“I know I can.” And with that, Hoagland spun around and hurried along Congress Avenue, in the opposite direction of Cranston's office, disappearing quickly down an alley, into the thick gray heat, not relenting for a moment.

CHAPTER 28

Josiah hitched Clipper up in front of the elaborate,
three-storey house. It had been easy to find. The lots on both sides of the house were empty. The houses, or anything else, that had once stood there had recently been demolished. Spring weeds had taken advantage of the free soil and sprouted everywhere within sight.

Other signs of progress abounded on Cypress Avenue; piles of lumber and steel set to be constructed as soon as the road and the surrounding buildings were cleared. The coming of the Great Northern Railroad was evident everywhere. It looked like the scene of a great disaster to Josiah, like a tornado, a fierce storm, or even a fire had traveled down the street without reverence to anything man-made. But the destruction and apparent chaos hadn't been an act of the weather; what Josiah saw was certainly the work of man, of greed and commerce, of something he had no understanding of, or a desire to learn about. The price of progress was high, and though he hadn't known it until that very moment, Josiah quickly figured out that Blanche Dumont and her business were sitting directly in the middle of progress's path.

He would have to rethink his approach, reformulate his idea about what was going on in Austin with the murders, with Scrap's situation. He couldn't quite grasp the entirety of the situation before him, but something had changed, something important, even though he wasn't quite sure exactly what that was.

The house didn't look old enough to be condemned. It had a fresh coat of white paint on the clapboards and was as neat and clean as any pen Josiah had ever seen. Even in the gray light of the early evening, the windows sparkled like they were made of smoothed out diamonds.

There was a widow's walk above the third floor, and a pair of French doors was centered squarely in the middle of that floor, offering a view of the city that was unimaginable. The roof was curved at the top, a half circle, and the wrought iron railing around the widow's walk was ornately decorated. A blacksmith with the eye of an artisan had spent many hours pounding and molding the intricate leaves and flower petals that were distinguishable as finely detailed, even from the ground.

Josiah had passed the house several times but had never had the inclination, need, or desire to stop and pay a visit. He hesitated even now.

The last time Josiah had been in a whorehouse was a little over a year before. Crestfallen, grieving, not knowing where he was going, he'd allowed the deceased Captain Hiram Fikes's horse to take him wherever it wanted. And he ended up in the bad side of Austin, at least for an Anglo, in Little Mexico, at a place called the Paradise Hotel.

He was several blocks away from that hotel now, and as the wind wrapped around him, standing there, he was uncertain of whether to put one more foot in front of the other, as memories of that visit came rushing back to him.

He had tried to forget about Suzanne del Toro, or “Fat Susie,” as the captain called her, but he couldn't. She had rescued him from himself, showed him a night of kindness, and there was a promise of more, even though Josiah knew nothing could come of the relationship. She was Mexican. He was Anglo. She was a madam. He was a Texas Ranger. Her former lover was Captain Hiram Fikes, Pearl's father. These were more complications than any relationship could survive. But they had had something that was more than sex, if not quite love. Their grief met on a stormy night, easing their pain and allowing each of them to move on with life. Suzanne was the first woman Josiah allowed himself to be intimate with after the death of his wife, Lily. It was at that moment that he had realized that he had to leave Lily behind so he could move forward, live life again, maybe love again at the very least, feel alive.

Unfortunately, now Suzanne del Toro was dead, too. Murdered by her brother for nothing more than money and the desire for the full book of business at the Paradise Hotel, or
El Paradiso
as she called it, which in the end cost him his life, too. Scrap had fired the kill shot, saving Josiah from serious injury and maybe death. One of the many reasons Josiah couldn't turn his back on Scrap.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to stand in place, not to leave.

Pearl didn't know about his night with Suzanne, and he wasn't sure he would ever have the heart to tell her.

The incident had happened before they began courting, just after they met. It shouldn't mean anything to her . . . but he knew it would if she ever found out. Josiah had slept with her father's mistress. It was a sticking point, a grasp on his wrist that held him back from committing totally to Pearl, though he was working his way toward that now that they were courting formally and publicly.

There was nothing he could do about the past now. Just like on the morning he'd left Suzanne's bed, he needed to walk forward again, unsure of what lay ahead or how he would be received.

There were lamps burning in several of the windows, and there was no question that the house was open for business. From what Josiah understood, it was never closed; someone worked the door twenty-four hours a day. There was no stopping him now, and he knew that, just as he knew that he was not calling on the house for pleasure. He hoped to find the witness, and Myra Lynn, too, since the girls that had fled the Easy Nickel were said to be under Blanche Dumont's wing now.

He walked up to the door and pounded the brass knocker loudly three times.

There was a distant sound of music coming from inside the house. A piano playing low and mournful, not happy and inviting like in a saloon or dance hall. The sweet honey to draw customers into this house was found elsewhere; waiting in the parlors in sheer clothing, exposing hints of flesh and pleasure to be had for a price.

There was an air of proper business about the place, a sharp edge that noted any kind of rowdiness wouldn't be tolerated. That might have been an assumption on Josiah's part only because Blanche Dumont herself came across that way. Her reputation preceded her in every manner of the house. She was one of the most notorious women in Austin.

The door opened and Josiah found himself staring at an amazingly short Negro, four feet tall, if that, dressed in a bright red velvet frock coat and a black top hat. The Negro smiled, exposing a mouthful of white teeth that were so perfect they looked like they belonged on a piano instead of inside a human head. A .41 rimfire over-and-under derringer dangled from the little Negro's belt. The gun looked too big for the man's hands but perfect for a woman's.

“What's your pleasure, mister man? I got a golden-haired girl, a redheaded girl, and a dark one, too, if that be to your taste, but tell no one about that, though she sure has special skills for a man like you. Five dollars mo' for the whole night, and you never be same, I swear. So what is it? What's your pleasure, mister man? Gold? Red? Or black?”

Josiah stood on the stoop, the door open, his view unobstructed into the house, ignoring the Negro's offer the best he could.

The interior of the Dumont house was as perfect as he'd expected it to be: Long curtains, nearly the color of the Negro's coat, hid a doorway that he assumed led upstairs to the pleasure rooms. Several plush, high-backed sofas lined the wall, all covered in fancy upholstery, and the rugs on the floor looked too pretty to walk on. A couple of girls sat together on one of the sofas, a golden-haired one and a red-haired one, neither of them looking like they could be Scrap's sister, or what Josiah expected Myra Lynn would look like. The black one was nowhere to be seen. He assumed she was hidden, or didn't really exist.

“I need to speak to Blanche Dumont,” Josiah said, staring down at the Negro.

The smile faded quickly from the little man's face, and his right hand automatically slipped down to the over-and-under, coming to rest on the grip. “She don't take customers or visitors with no reasons or appointments, mister man.”

“I'm not a customer.”

“Then what is you then?”

“I'm a Ranger. My name's Josiah Wolfe, and I'm looking for a girl that came in from the Easy Nickel.”

The Negro's eyes grew wide, the whites of them shining like beacons in the graying twilight. He started to slam the door shut, but Josiah had anticipated that. He slid his boot in between the door and the wall, stopping the action.

“Tell Miss Dumont I'm an old friend of Suzanne del Toro's, Fat Susie's. I'm not here for trouble. I'm here to help her if she'll have it.”

“She don't need no help from a Ranger.”

Josiah cocked his head to the street. “Looks like she needs all the help she can get.”

The little Negro studied Josiah for a second, looking him up and down more than once, checking behind him to see if he was alone.

“I mean you, or her, no harm. Go on now, you go tell her a friend of Fat Susie's is here to see her.”

“You be lyin' to me, mister man, and I'll shoot you through and through for causin' me to bother the miss. Trouble be comin' my way 'cause of it. And I got a bad place in my mind for peoples that bring troubles on me.”

“Tell her what I said. I'll wait.”

The Negro shoved the door, trying to close it, pressuring Josiah's boot, but he shook his head no. “I'll wait right here,” Josiah said.

“Suit yourself then.” The Negro glared at Josiah then hurried away, disappearing behind the red velvet curtains. He walked like one leg was shorter than the other, teetering back and forth like each step took a great amount of effort to cover any ground at all.

Josiah stood there with the door cracked open far enough so he could still see the two girls. He had got their attention, but they looked a little fearful, concerned about his presence, not like they were anticipating a customer. Neither of the girls made eye contact with Josiah, and he was glad of that.

The piano played on in the back of the house. The air smelled like every hint of it had been sprayed with a flowery perfume, but it wasn't overwhelming. It was sweet and intoxicating, like honeysuckle on a breeze, inviting on a spring day—after a long and odorless winter.

Behind him, the street was silent, void of any traffic, and there were no horses hitched out front other than Clipper.

In other words, Blanche Dumont didn't look like she was making any money at the moment, and Josiah thought that was odd since Congress Avenue, and the café he'd left earlier, were bustling and filled with cowboys and businessmen.

The minutes ticked away. Josiah could hear voices, but couldn't decide whether the tone was tension-filled or pleasure-filled—it was just a murmur, too low and too far away to be understood.

After a few more minutes, the Negro appeared from behind the curtains and returned to the door, which he opened fully, sweeping his arms to the floor in a great, if physically small, welcoming gesture. “Miss Dumont will see you now, mister man. But I needs your weapon.”

Josiah hesitated. The last time he'd given up his Peacemaker, he'd found himself in the midst of a jailbreak with no way to protect himself. He shook his head no. “I don't think so. I don't mean anyone any harm.”

“Rules is rules, mister man.”

Determined to see Blanche Dumont and hold on to his gun, Josiah stepped confidently inside the house, right past the Negro. It was a mistake, of course, not taking the little man seriously. He worked the door for a reason, and the little Negro was surely talented with the skills of crowd control and taking down men three times his size, or that job would've belonged to a boulder-sized man.

Josiah felt the first bit of pain explode in his side as the Negro punched him directly in the kidney.

The force of the punch took his breath away. But it was only a distraction.

The little man swept out his stubby leg, pushing Josiah in the opposite direction, sweeping him backward, knocking him completely off his feet. There was no time, no clarity, that allowed Josiah to reach for his gun—the pain was tremendous and the surprise of the sweep total.

In the blink of an eye, the negro was standing in front of Josiah with the derringer trained between his eyes. “Now, gives me the gun, mister man, and any other weapon you might be hidin', or you're not gonna see Miss Dumont. Do I make myself clear? Or would ya like to go another round wit me? I got somethin' special I be savin' just for you.”

Stunned, Josiah thought for a second about lunging forward, tackling the little man, and taking the derringer away from him. But something warned him off that idea. His attacker was probably aware of what he was thinking, had fooled men even more skilled than Josiah in the art of hand-to-hand combat. He had underestimated his opponent, and now he was not fully in control of the situation. It was just a matter of luck, timing, and lack of a serious threat from him that he wasn't dead, or at least badly injured.

The curtains swept open and Blanche Dumont pushed through, her skin pure white and her pink eyes, void of any glasses, almost glowing red in the dim, flickering light from the lamps in the windows.

“That'll be enough, Rufous. Mr. Wolfe is our guest and he is to be treated as such.”

The Negro, Rufous, nodded, and a look of disappointment crossed his face as he stepped away from Josiah, tucking the over-and-under back into his belt. “You heard the miss, stand up, mister man. She saved you a sweet ass kickin' from a little man.” He laughed then. But only for a second. Blanche Dumont looked at Rufous scornfully, and he cowered away, stopping a few steps from the door.

Josiah groaned and sighed in relief. He stared up at Blanche Dumont. Never having been this close to her, he hadn't realized how small and fragile she looked. Rufous was most likely protective of her for more reasons than Josiah knew.

He stood then, weakly, clutching his side. “That was a fine punch, Rufous.”

“It be Mr. Rufous to you, thank you.”

“Rufous!” Blanche Dumont said, continuing to admonish the little man. “That is impolite.”