The Coyote Tracker

by Larry D. Sweazy

  Somebody had followed them out to the Tree of Death, intent on contributing to its namesake.

  Josiah had no idea who the men were, but for some reason, considering what had happened at the Easy Nickel earlier in the day, he wasn’t surprised that he’d made a new set of enemies.

  The hidden shooters returned fire.

  It was a good thing that the trunk of the live oak tree was as broad as it was and that there was a bit of bramble to hide behind. Josiah and Juan Carlos could comfortably take up positions on either side of the tree. The horses were about ten feet beyond the bramble, hopefully hidden well enough so they wouldn’t be targets, too.

  Josiah grabbed his Winchester ’73 from the scabbard, and Juan Carlos had pulled a Henry rifle off the roan mare’s saddle. They both returned fire, shooting off enough rounds to drain a water tank.

  The shooters didn’t return fire.

  They must have realized that their gunsmoke was giving away their positions. There was nothing for them to hide behind—no trees, no rocks. The men were out in the open with nothing but grass to take cover in. Not a wise move as far as Josiah was concerned, but then most outlaws shot first and thought later . . . if they had the opportunity.

  Josiah waited, as did Juan Carlos, searching the hillside for any kind of movement at all. He saw nothing. “I wish I had my field glasses with me.”

  “I have none with me, either, señor. We may have killed them. Do you have any idea who they might be, or what they are after, señor?”

  Josiah shrugged. “I got into a scuffle at the Easy Nickel earlier today. Might be revenge from that. I broke a man’s arm. Brogdon Caine didn’t seem like he was that angry, or wanted me to pay a price for my actions, at least not right away, but that could’ve been a ruse.”

  Juan Carlos looked unmoved. “Who knows about this note, this cipher you solved for the sheriff?”

  “Just the sheriff, and the desk sergeant, Milt I think his name was. That’s it as far as I know. Why?”

  “We are here, Señor Josiah, and now we are being shot at.”

  “You think the cipher was a setup to draw us out here?”

  “No, no, I don’t think that at all. We were followed, that much is true, I suspect, but there’s more going on than your fight at the saloon.”

  They both watched the hillside for more movement, still nothing. For all Josiah knew, they had gotten lucky and killed the two shooters.

  Still, it was better to wait, better to hold tight, than do something stupid like showing themselves, breaking cover. If they were killed, Scrap would have no chance at all of having his innocence proven . . . or his guilt. Either way, there’d be no one left to help him.

  “Don’t you think that it is odd that a man who was broke out of jail feared for his life—obviously from his rescuers? The cipher was a plea for help. But only from a man who could read the note. It makes little sense to me.”

  “I do think it’s strange. But there’s no sign that Abram Randalls is dead.”

  “Or alive.”

  Josiah saw Juan Carlos’s deep brown eyes flinch. He focused on the hill then and saw the movement the Mexican had. He wrapped his finger around the trigger, taking a breath before he pulled on it, waiting to get a decent shot.

  “Wait,” Juan Carlos ordered. “They are retreating, moving back to their horses. Let them go. They will be easy to track now, just after the rain.”

  Josiah exhaled and flipped his finger off the trigger, agreeing with Juan Carlos. They would leave an easy trail in the mud, and Juan Carlos was an expert tracker.

  “I will shoot behind them, just so they think they are getting away,” the Mexican said.

  “Good idea.” Josiah stood back and watched.

  The grass swished and swayed up to the crest of the hill. It was hard to see, to decipher from the hard breeze that was continuing to blow even though the storm had passed. But the two men were climbing in the opposite direction, giving a clear clue of their position to any man who had experience watching an enemy from a distance. Once again, Josiah’s skills from the war proved beneficial.

  Finally, the men had to break free of the tall grass, and they scurried to their horses, shooting as they went, covering themselves in a rain of gunfire.

  Juan Carlos did as he’d said and fired behind the shooters, urging them on but not hurting them.

  The clouds broke overhead from the gray cover of the storm, pushing east, allowing a bright ray of sun to shine down on the top of the hill, making the sight of the shooters clearer, but not completely recognizable from a distance.

  Josiah could see that they were dressed all in black, from boot to duster to hat, and their facial features were covered by black kerchiefs, as well, but it was one of their horses that got Josiah’s attention as they rode away, under no cover and in the bright sunlight.

  The horse was a gray gelding, just like he had seen at the jailbreak, just like the one Captain Leander McNelly rode.

  CHAPTER 24

  Juan Carlos stared down at the ground, studying the hoofprints of the shooters’ horses like they were a sacred text.

  “Maybe it wasn’t wise, letting them go,” Josiah said.

  Juan Carlos looked up, squinted his eyes. “They didn’t have a well-thought-out plan. Somebody sent them after us, put them on our trail. They will be back.”

  “There’ll be more of them, too.”

  “Sí, there will be if what you say about the jailbreak is true.”

  “It is. They’re well organized, disciplined.”

  “Then they are off balance. You are onto something, señor. They fear you know something or will discover the truth of their actions. This is not about one man.”

  “You mean killing the whores?”

  “I don’t know about that. But the jailbreak. There are more men involved in that than what you saw. How, or if, the two are related, is another matter. You must simply watch your back, Señor Josiah. We are tracking coyotes, sneaking, mean beasts who are there one minute, then gone the next.”

  “It seems like I always am.”

  “The path you have chosen is not easy.”

  “I don’t feel like I chose anything.”

  “That is usually the way it is, señor,” Juan Carlos said. “‘La bondad no tiene lìmites.’ My mother used to say that. Goodness knows no bounds.”

  Josiah took a deep breath and looked down the hill, over the small valley with the Tree of Death situated almost squarely in the center—a lonely monument that had been used by man as something other than what it was intended for.

  “I don’t know that I’m in the business of goodness, but I sure feel the need to see to the truth about Scrap’s situation. He would do the same for me,” Josiah said.

  “I was not aware that you were so fond of Scrap Elliot,” Juan Carlos said wryly.

  “He grows on you.”

  A slight chuckle escaped the Mexican’s lips. “That he does. Like bindweed that cannot be killed.”

  Gray clouds struggled to hold their shape as the west wind pushed at them, broke them apart, ate at them like termites on a fresh piece of wood. They almost looked like smoke, but there was no smell in the air that indicated anything was on fire. Just the opposite. Spring was in full bloom. The hill was covered with a quilt of bluebonnets, the color so deep that it looked like the sky had fallen to the ground, instead of a long patch of flowers that had sprung up to celebrate the season. There seemed to be a flock of butterflies tracking north, stopping frequently on the tall, spired blooms, to refuel themselves for a journey that was obviously not complete.

  Josiah let the silence settle between him and Juan Carlos as his mind wandered away from Scrap, away from the present . . . just for a moment.

  He knew the names of quite a few of the plants he was staring at tha
nks to Lily, his long-deceased wife.

  Spring was her favorite time of the year, and there was always a moment of melancholy, of grief returned, when he thought about her, about their life that was gone forever. It all seemed so far away, like it was another person that the tragedy had happened to. But the hole in his heart told him that that was not the case. The grief belonged to him and no one else.

  He stood still on the hillside, taking in the sights and smells, willing away his heartache, trying to be encouraged by the promise of the day, now that the storm had passed.

  But in reality, Josiah knew there would be another storm. It was that season. Storms seemed to push through the hill country every other day. And no matter how much he wished against it, the troubles in Austin were growing deeper and darker as the clock ticked away, notching off seconds until he would have to leave with his company of Rangers, or leave the Rangers entirely and stay behind, trying on his own to see Scrap free of the murder charge. If that was even possible, now that there was a witness involved.

  “The horse looked familiar,” Josiah finally said.

  “Which horse?”

  “The gray gelding. McNelly rides one that looks just like it. The man in charge of the jailbreak rode one like it, too.”

  “Are you saying that they are the same horse, señor?”

  “I can’t be sure. But I keep seeing a gray gelding. It is a grand horse, hard to mistake, even from a distance.”

  “Why would Captain McNelly hide his face and break a whore’s bookkeeper and a banker’s embezzler out of jail? I do not believe he would do such a thing. Nor do I think he would track after you and shoot from a distance. If Leander McNelly wanted either of us dead, we would not be standing here, Señor Josiah. You must know that.”

  “I’m not saying any of it makes sense. All I’m saying is that I keep seeing the same horse.”

  “There is more than one gray gelding in Austin, señor.”

  “I don’t doubt that. It just seems odd, that’s all, a horse like that showing up in places connected to these incidents. I don’t know McNelly’s capabilities. But he is no Pete Feders, I am sure of that,” Josiah said.

  Juan Carlos looked away from Josiah then, studying the ground, eyeing the clear tracks in the mud. “They are heading back to town, back to report their failure. We must keep our wits about us on our return.”

  “Are you sure they meant to kill us?” Josiah asked.

  Juan Carlos drew in a deep breath. “You are right, señor, it may have been nothing more than a warning. We had little to cover ourselves, and if they were serious about killing us, just as McNelly would see us dead if he were behind it, so would any outlaw worth his spit. Especially a gang as disciplined as those that you speak of, those that conducted the jailbreak.”

  “Seems risky.”

  “There is obviously a lot at stake.”

  Josiah nodded. “We should split up. Why don’t you head back and let Ofelia know of the situation. I don’t think she’s in danger, Lyle either, but I can’t be sure. My enemies have gone after my family before. And tell her I plan on riding with the company when they leave in two days’ time. I will prepare her as much as possible. It may be late when I return this evening. The day is getting away from me, and there’s still a lot of ground to cover.”

  “I fear you may not be able to follow the trail. I will track them, but I suspect I will lose the trail at the river.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sí, you should go another way back to the city, the long way.”

  Josiah nodded. He found it nearly impossible to leave Juan Carlos on his own. He looked weak, old, incapable of taking care of himself. But that was hardly the case. Even in a diminished capacity, the effects of the gunshot wound to the gut still showing themselves, Juan Carlos was as lethal as a rattlesnake curled up under a rock. The snake just needed stirring to strike.

  “It is a good plan, Señor Josiah,” Juan Carlos said. “Where will you go now?”

  “I have a lawyer to see—if it’s not too late. And a witness to talk to—if I can find her.”

  “I think you know where to start looking.”

  “I do. But I’m not looking forward to knocking on Blanche Dumont’s door any time soon.”

  * * *

  The wetness had not left the air. It was humid, the air thick enough to make any man have trouble breathing, no less one with consumption, like Leander McNelly.

  Josiah could not get the captain out of his mind as he tried to reason out the sighting of the gray gelding and all that had happened since he’d learned of Scrap’s arrest. He still could not bring himself to believe the captain was involved in the jailbreak or the murders in any way, and there was no doubt that it would be heartbreaking if that were truly the case. McNelly was a legend, one of the most upright Texans Josiah had ever encountered.

  Still, there was something nagging him about McNelly and the entire situation, like a splinter under the skin that just goes in deeper when any attempt to remove it is applied.

  Josiah rode back toward Austin cautiously, keeping his eyes out for any sign of the shooters. Juan Carlos was on their trail, tracking them with the skill of the greatest of all hunters that Josiah knew. If anyone could find the two shooters, or their tracks, Juan Carlos could.

  The sun was hanging effortlessly in the cloudless sky as Josiah rode back toward Austin. The storm was just a memory, and those smoky-looking clouds that had been overhead not so long ago were only dots on the horizon, pushing past the city. They looked like a mountain range in the distance instead of a fleeing storm.

  Hints of the wind still existed but only in a softening breeze. It looked like it was going to turn out to be a pleasant day, after all. At least, weather wise.

  If there was any benefit to the change in the weather and the unbearable humidity that followed the storm, it was that the bright shining sun made it easier to see shadows on the rocky cliffs of the limestone outcroppings that lined the trail Josiah had chosen to take. Of course, it was the most difficult route back to Austin, but hopefully also the most unlikely when it came to encountering trouble. If the shooters had somehow circled back, then Juan Carlos would be wise to that, providing backup to Josiah. He was sure of it, confident that the Mexican could handle whatever he encountered.

  Clipper stepped cautiously forward, climbing to the top of the cliffs as carefully as possible.

  Josiah sat stiffly in the saddle, every inch of his being on alert, the Winchester situated across his lap, his hand not far from the trigger.

  He fully expected to be ambushed, and he was not about to ride full out—at least not until the city was completely in sight—and give the two shooters any undue opportunity to put an end to his journey, or his life.

  A bird fluttered off ahead of him, a blue jay shrieking from a pecan tree, grabbing his attention, causing him to take his Winchester fully in hand and train the barrel on the low shrubs at the base of the tree.

  He was at the tightest point of the trip up to the top of the outcropping, and if there was going to be an ambush, this would be the spot he would pick if he was the ambusher. It was too perfect to resist.

  But life went on normally. Nothing jumped out at him, no shots were fired. Any birds or creatures that laid claim to the spot as home remained quiet, hidden, as Josiah crested the outcropping, easing Clipper onto the flat land that swept outward, offering a wide vista that included the city of Austin.

  The answers to his search were right in front of him, but hidden from view, only because of the distance, Josiah was sure of it. Just as he was sure that the sun was hanging right over his head, beating down on the back of his neck like it was inches from his skin.

  CHAPTER 25

  Woodrell Cranston’s office was not hard to find. It was on the third floor of a building just off of Hickory Str
eet 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.