The man nodded. “Yup, Milt Fulsum.” He shook Josiah’s hand with a limp, almost wet handshake.
“What can I do for you, Milt?” Josiah recoiled unconsciously, withdrawing his hand, dropping it to his side.
“Nothin’. Nothin’. Just saw you. Thought it’d be rude not to come over and say hello.”
Josiah sat down and waved out his hand with an offer for Milt to join him at the table. He didn’t really want company, but he didn’t want to be rude, either.
“No, no, thanks, I was just headin’ out,” Milt said, glancing quickly to the right, then back to Josiah like he hoped not to be caught looking away. Milt seemed nervous about something.
But Josiah had seen the glance, and he followed it over to a table on the other side of the room. Three men sat at it, with one place empty. Nothing stuck out to him about the men. He didn’t know them, assumed they were deputy friends of Milt’s. One of them, though, wore a black canvas shirt, a black hat, and a black handkerchief. Nothing unusual about that, either . . . except that the men who had conducted the jailbreak were wearing black, just like the men who’d followed Josiah and Juan Carlos out to the Tree of Death and taken a few shots at them.
Josiah took a deep breath. Just like gray geldings, there were a lot of men in Austin who wore black. It was probably nothing, just a coincidence. So he sat there and stared at Milt expectantly. He was the one who’d approached Josiah in the first place.
“Well, that’s all,” Milt finally said. “I just wanted to say hello, and say I was sorry about the fate of your friend.” The desk sergeant turned to leave then.
“Wait,” Josiah called out, bringing more attention to himself in the small café than he wanted to. A few people turned around, craned their necks, and stared at Josiah, annoyed that he’d distracted them from their food and conversation.
Milt stopped and faced Josiah. His face was pale white, like fear had struck him straight in the middle of his spine and worked its way up to his glassy blue eyes. “What?”
“What’s happened to Scrap that you have to be sorry for?”
“Nothin’. Not yet anyway. But his fate don’t look good with a witness comin’ forward and all. Be a quick trial and a quicker hangin’ from the way I hear it. Judge wants to see things through purty fast. Your Rangers, too. They want an end to all the notoriety. But I ’spect you know all about that.”
Josiah tried to keep his wits about him. Neither Milt nor the sheriff knew there was a lawyer involved. Not that Cranston had the power to stop the fast-moving train of vengeful justice, but he might help. Sad that innocence or guilt was a matter of money and influence, but that was the way it stood, whether a simple man liked it or not.
“You know who this witness is?” Josiah asked.
Milt shrugged. “Not for certain. Some whore, that’s all I know. Sheriff Farnsworth’s bein’ pretty tight-lipped about all this. He’s under a lot of pressure to clean up this mess, make a mark for himself, I guess, and he’s taken the death of Emery Jones pretty hard, too. The old sergeant was a staple, a mainstay, who was in that chair long before Rory Farnsworth returned from school back East. Sheriff’s blamin’ himself purty hard.”
Something ticked inside Josiah’s mind. A connection. Another piece of a pattern showing itself, just like it had with the Vigenere cipher.
Schools back East.
First Cranston, then Hoagland, both educated in universities outside of Texas, and now Farnsworth, too.
Josiah had known that Farnsworth was formally educated, but had somehow forgotten, or thought that it wasn’t important enough to remember.
Rory Farnsworth hung on to his school education like it was a war medal that made him special, and rarely did he let the uneducated around him forget that he had something they did not. What being educated had to do with four dead whores, a jailbreak that ended up taking the life of Emery Jones, and Scrap’s guilt or innocence was not clear, if it had anything to do with it at all. But there might be something there. Josiah sensed it. Just as with the cipher, he might just need the right letter in the right place to get him started on the solution.
“You know what school Farnsworth was at, Milt?”
“That’s a funny question, Wolfe.”
“Just curious.”
“Nope, can’t say that I do, then.” Milt shifted his weight nervously. He was about to say something else, but the waitress pushed in front of him with Josiah’s plate of sizzling steak and beans.
The waitress slid the plate in front of Josiah, glanced up at Milt, and then said, “Everything all right here?”
“I was just leavin’, ma’am,” Milt said.
“All right then,” she said, carefully eyeing Milt, who backed away then walked straight out of the café, instead of joining the three men.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world, the waitress rested her hand gently on Josiah’s shoulder. “You need anything else, mister, you holler, ya hear now?” she said, eyeing Milt Fulsum’s shadow like she’d just run off some kind of varmint.
Josiah nodded, not taking his eyes off Milt, or the muddy heels of his boots, as he disappeared out of the café door.
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. Th
e 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.
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