The Coyote Tracker

by Larry D. Sweazy

  “Yes, and the path of the new railroad.”

  “Old news, Mr. Wolfe. I refuse to sell, but there is no stopping progress. That is what you see?”

  “I would think you’d be successful no matter where you take your business,” Josiah said. “So I guess I don’t understand the holdout.”

  “I doubt you would.” Blanche sat as still as a statue, her hands clasped at her waist, her long, thin fingers just in sight over the braided lip of the ornately carved desk. “Now, why don’t you just tell me what you came here looking for, and we can put all of these paladin issues aside.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t need a hero to save me, Mr. Wolfe. I am quite capable of sorting out my own matters for myself. You are quite correct in your assumption that location will have no bearing on my success. But this is my home. One I have worked hard to hold on to. You have a home, I’m sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, again, we can unite on a thought. We are forging quite the relationship, Mr. Wolfe. Now,” she said, leaning forward, unblinking, “what are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for a girl. Two girls, in fact.”

  A slight smile cracked at the right corner of Blanche’s pursed lips. “You don’t look the type, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Pleasure is not what I seek.”

  “Pity. I have just the pair to host you.”

  Josiah ignored the offer as best he could. If he were a different kind of man, he might have queried her for further information—for future reference—but he was not the least bit interested in a moment of double pleasure. “You’re aware of the Ranger that is accused of the most recent murder of one of Brogdon Caine’s whores, Lola something or other?”

  “She had a last name, Mr. Wolfe. Wellsley. Her name was Lola Wellsley. She was a working girl, forced to use only what she carried on her frame to make a living. You would be wise to realize that I do not know what a whore is, Mr. Wolfe. Are we united on that understanding? That that is an offensive word to me?”

  Josiah drew in a breath, felt like he had been slapped across the knuckles. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize.”

  Blanche Dumont nodded, then said, “Of course, I am aware of the murder. Though I am surprised that you are aware of the string of murders. Most of the social monarchs and patrons of respectability in this pitiful town have turned a blind eye to the savagery suffered by these girls.”

  “Much to your . . .”

  “Rage, Mr. Wolfe. I am enraged at the lack of concern or efforts by the sheriff and his men to put a stop to the fear and to the senseless killings. Would you expect me to be anything else? Or are you of the opinion that I mistreat those that I manage, or that I exploit them just for my own riches?”

  “I have no clue how you run your business, ma’am.”

  “Hmm . . . You are a surprise, Mr. Wolfe.”

  Josiah shrugged. “So you applaud the arrest of the Ranger?”

  Blanche flinched, brought her hands to the top of the desk. “He is your friend, I assume? A person you know well. And let me guess, you believe him to be innocent.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “He is wrongly accused, then? Another pawn in a game of power?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Then we are united on that thought, too. Does that surprise you, Mr. Wolfe?”

  Josiah nodded, relieved. “I’m looking for the witness who has stepped forward. I’m hoping she is here. I was at the Easy Nickel earlier. Brogdon Caine said all of his girls had taken refuge with you.”

  “His girls? That is what he called them? They are meat to him. He beats them during the day and chains them at night. Do not speak that man’s name in my presence again, Mr. Wolfe, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I beg your pardon.”

  “No need. You wouldn’t know my enemies, or my benefactors for that matter. Many would surprise you. Not everyone manages their business in the same way.”

  “There was no evidence of chains or abuse that I saw. Could he be the killer?” Josiah asked.

  Blanche shook her head no. “He has no motive that I know of, other than to see me out of business. And even that would not serve him well. He lives off my flies. His rates are cheaper, his girls desperate because they have nowhere else to go. I have standards, Mr. Wolfe. My clientele expects a certain level of comfort. The girls here are clean and educated. Many go on to live happy, successful lives once they leave here. Without me, Caine has no one to undercut, to tear down. He needs me to stay in business so he can stay in business. Rats have need of a successful grocer, do they not?”

  Josiah nodded yes, then shifted in the chair. His Peacemaker pressed tight against his side. “So, if Caine isn’t the killer, do you know who is, or suspect who is?”

  “Your past relationship with Suzanne de Toro allows for a small amount of respect, Mr. Wolfe. I am still uncertain of your intentions.”

  “The same as yours. To find out who killed Lola Wellsley so my friend can be freed.”

  “I care nothing about that young Ranger’s fate. Only that the killings stop. I believe they are directed at me, an effort to fully run me and my business out of Austin.”

  “Because you won’t sell your house?”

  “They will take my house, tear it down at will, with me in it, if they have to. Let’s just say this, Mr. Wolfe. I may know too many secrets for my own good. Men who visit my place of business usually do so under the cover of night, carrying a lie with them in their purse. They have families. Children. Respectable jobs and positions in the government. I have used what I must to stay here as long as I can, and to see what can be done to stop the killings. It has cost me greatly.”

  “You have blackmailed your clients?”

  “Call it what you want. I call it negotiating power.”

  “With who?”

  “Mr. Wolfe, really . . . you know I cannot tell you that.”

  Josiah then studied Blanche Dumont, who had now sat back in her chair, putting as much distance between them as possible. “Okay, I understand that, but I have a name I need some information about. Maybe you can help with this, too?”

  Blanche popped up her right shoulder and turned her head away from Josiah, staring at the closest bookshelf. “You can ask, but I may not answer.”

  He stared at her hard, directly, even though she would not make eye contact with him. “Abram Randalls. Will you tell me why he was busted out of jail? Is he the killer, Miss Dumont? If anybody would know . . . you would.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Blanche Dumont stiffened in the chair, then turned her attention back to Josiah. Her eyes were on fire. “Abram Randalls is a lying, conniving little thief who deserves everything he gets.”

  “He stole from you?”

  “In more ways than one.”

  Josiah remained silent, waiting for an explanation. The piano music played on, faintly, somewhere beyond the closed door. Other than that, there was no noise in the house that he could detect. He knew if he listened hard enough he could hear his heartbeat, Blanche Dumont’s, too. Only hers was beating faster. Anger boiled on her face. She did not blush. She turned pink from the inside out.

  Blanche finally exhaled, bit the corner of her lip. “Abram is not a killer, Mr. Wolfe. That is all I will say. He does not have it in him to physically hurt anyone or anything. He only has the capability to take. Take what is not his. He has no self-control when it comes to money or valuable objects. I learned that lesson too late.”

  Josiah let her words settle. He didn’t want to push her, or shut her down from telling him more. But something about what she’d said struck him as odd. Josiah was certain that Randalls had fought in the War Between the States, had learned the ways of the Vigenere cipher there, just like he had. Maybe it was an
assumption based only on the man’s age. “Do you know if Abram Randalls served in the war?”

  “That’s a strange question, Mr. Wolfe.”

  “Humor me, if you know the answer. I have a knack for asking strange questions.”

  “He was a carpetbagger, an opportunist, a magician with numbers, not a killer. One spot of blood, and he would have dropped to the ground like a battered fly. I know of no service to the Union that he performed in the war. He was probably hiding under a bed somewhere, afraid to peer out until Lee surrendered. The coward.”

  “Lee or Abrams?”

  “Assume what you want, Mr. Wolfe. I have never had any interest in the war.”

  “Randalls is a Yankee then?” Josiah knew the answer to the question, knew full well what the term “carpetbagger” meant: a Yankee who stole from Southern states or people, acting in his own best interest, under the guise of helping the afflicted during Reconstruction.

  “Born and raised in Massachusetts.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” Blanche eyed Josiah curiously, as if he were playing a game with her. “Why is that odd? There are a lot of Yankees in Austin.”

  “More and more every day, I ’spect,” Josiah said, finding the information disturbing. Another pattern was forming, and he didn’t exactly like seeing it. Paul Hoagland and Woodrell Cranston were from Massachusetts. Now he learned that Abram Randalls was, too. Maybe it didn’t mean anything. Or maybe it did. There was no indication that the three men knew one another, but Josiah made a mental note to find out if they were acquaintances.

  “I’m sorry, I still find your question about Abram Randalls as a soldier more than a little curious,” Blanche said.

  “A note was found in his cell, written in a reasonably elaborate cipher. I was trained with the skill of deciphering codes very similar to the one Randalls left behind, so I assumed he’d served in the war in a similar capacity. My assumption may be wrong, judging from what you say.”

  “I know nothing of those skills. Maybe he didn’t write the note.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What did it say?” Blanche asked.

  “That they would hang him at the oak tree. It didn’t take long to figure out that he was speaking about the Tree of Death. Do you know of it?”

  “I do.” Blanche looked confused. “That makes no sense, though. Why would Abram fear his own death from men who went to a lot of trouble to free him?”

  “I wondered the same thing.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I rode out there, and was attacked, shot at.”

  “I think you may have been lured out there under false pretenses, Mr. Wolfe. You are lucky you weren’t killed.”

  Josiah wasn’t going to agree or disagree with that. She might be right. Maybe Abram Randalls didn’t write the note like he’d assumed. “Why do you think Abram Randalls was busted out of jail?”

  “I do not know for sure. Unless he knows who the killer really is. That would make some sort of sense.”

  “If the killer has an army of men.”

  “He just might, Mr. Wolfe. He just might.”

  Josiah settled back in the chair as far as he could, not sure what to think about what Blanche Dumont had told him about Abram Randalls, but that was not what he had come for. “What about the girls? The witness that has come forward? Is she here?”

  “I am not harboring any witness, Mr. Wolfe, nor would I. I think the charade being played out in the court considering your Ranger friend is unjust and unconscionable.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that. Now I just have to . . .”

  “Believe me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I guess I’m sorry to agree with you on that.”

  “I would be disappointed otherwise, Mr. Wolfe. Now tell me of this other girl.”

  “She’s Scrap’s sister. He’s the Ranger accused of killing Lola Wellsley. His sister is a . . .” Josiah stopped short of saying whore. “She works in the same business as you. He saw her at Brogdon Caine’s, followed her out the back door. That’s when he encountered the murdered girl, Lola. His sister ran off into the dark, fearful, I assume, of seeing Scrap and dealing with his anger. He’s ashamed of her, of how she earns a living. He’s been trying to rescue her for years, even though he lied to me, told me all along that she was a nun. Her name is Myra Lynn. Myra Lynn Elliot. I assume she’s got dark hair, black, a fair complexion, and a skinny build like her brother.”

  “I know those stories, Mr. Wolfe. They’re mostly all the same with families. Girls don’t just show up at on my door with a smile, begging for a job. They are usually broken down, poor, beaten, and worse. The stories I have heard would make your toes curl. What men do to girls and get away with is criminal beyond belief. But it is a man’s world that we live in.”

  “Their parents were killed by Comanche.”

  “I can’t justify the choices of a stranger, Mr. Wolfe. But trauma comes in many forms. I’m sorry, I can’t help you on either count. I know no girl named Myra Lynn, or anyone who looks like that. She could have changed her name. They usually do. It’s easier to live through the rough nights if you think what’s happening to you is really happening to someone else. I doubted from the beginning I could be of any help to you.”

  “Why’d you see me then?”

  “Because I can use all of the help I can get. Girls being brutally murdered is bad for business. The sheriff is of no help. He’s turning a blind eye to the troubles. Which is no great surprise, considering his father . . .” Blanche stopped, looked away from Josiah for a brief second.

  “His father, Myron Farnsworth, the president of the First Bank of Austin?”

  “Yes.” Blanche lowered her eyes to the desk.

  “He’s a client?”

  “Assume what you will, Mr. Wolfe. But Rory Farnsworth has many reasons to revel in my current financial troubles, between the loss of revenue and the eventual loss of my home. The sheriff has ambitions, but I assume you know that if you know him at all. He dreams of being governor, or even bigger, if I’m correct in my read of him. He thinks the sheriff’s position is beneath his stature and abilities. But he is wrong about that. He can’t even handle his own men, can’t lead his way out of a wet potato sack. And his father’s discreet habit, at least one of them, I am sure, would be an embarrassment to him and his plans for the future.”

  Josiah nodded. “I know Rory well enough to know his ambitions, but I didn’t know he was after the governorship.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Wolfe, the sheriff is ambitious . . . with all of the trappings that come to a man with that kind of desire. His weaknesses are apparent to everyone but him. He is likely to lose the next election if he does nothing to change that perception. The explosion at the jail will make everyone more nervous about his capabilities. Trust me, he wants to find Abram Randalls as much as you do. But for very different reasons, I’m afraid.”

  Josiah stood up. It was time to go—he was not going to get what he came for. “I’m glad you took the time to see me, ma’am. I appreciate it.”

  “Will you kill him?”

  “Who?”

  “Abram. Will you kill Abram Randalls?”

  “Only if I’m forced to, ma’am.”

  Blanche nodded, understanding, and remained seated, though a softness crossed her face. “Truth be told, I only saw you because of Suzanne del Toro, Mr. Wolfe. She cared greatly about her captain, the dead captain you returned to Austin to be buried, but you stirred something inside of her. Broke her grief from that time and allowed her to feel alive again, hopeful.”

  “She did the same thing for me,” Josiah whispered.

  “I figured if you were that kind of man, then you’d be worth seeing, worth pinning a hope on. It’s just a shame that Suzanne’s life was cut short. We
would have made a great team, a force to be reckoned with in all of Texas, not just Austin.”

  “You know ambition when you see it,” Josiah said.

  Blanche Dumont smiled. “Of course, I do.”

  “I hope I didn’t disappoint you then.”

  The smile on her alabaster face faded. “We are united in our desire that the killer of these innocent girls is brought to a swift justice, and that the travesty of the legal inequality and lack of attention to this matter is put to an end, once and for all. I can hope for nothing else.”

  “We are, ma’am. We most certainly are united on that front,” Josiah said, with a nod. Then he turned and walked out the door of her office and out of the house, without saying a word to another person.

  CHAPTER 31

  Night had fallen while Josiah was inside Blanche Dumont’s house. The air was cooler, drier, the humidity sucked out of it somehow. There was no wind, and it was good to be outside, away from the intoxicating aromas that had followed him everywhere inside the house. His senses, and virtue, were still intact—not that he had ever really feared losing either, but it could have happened, under the right circumstances. He knew that better than anyone. It had happened before. But Blanche Dumont was all business; her own survival, and the survival of her girls, was her main concern. There didn’t look to be one drop of grief to overcome, one hint that she had any desire other than making sure she maintained the only business she knew.

  Josiah unhitched Clipper, his mind a jumble of information. Freeing Scrap still seemed like a remote possibility at best, and most likely next to impossible, if he was being honest with himself. All he had collected so far was a string of people who believed Scrap was innocent and a scapegoat for a series of larger crimes that Josiah knew very little about. He didn’t know whether the killings could even have been perpetrated by one man, and what the motive was, if any. Four dead whores was just as much a pattern as learning in the same day of three men from Massachusetts who may have traveled in familiar circles. But none of that information mattered if it couldn’t be connected or proven significant in a court of law—which was set to start considering Scrap’s case in hours, instead of days.