“How do you know what I saw, mister?”
“Scrap told me what happened. That he followed you out of the saloon and saw someone attack and kill Lola. He stopped to help the girl, and you ran off. That’s the truth, isn’t it? You didn’t see Scrap kill Lola, did you?”
Myra Lynn hesitated, and then looked down to the ground, resigned. “No. I didn’t see him kill her.”
“But you know who did kill her, don’t you?”
Myra Lynn nodded her head again. “Yes. I saw who did it.”
CHAPTER 38
The storm raged on, and the heavy rain offered a much needed rinsing off to Josiah and Myra Lynn. He situated her in front of him on Clipper’s saddle, then rode directly over to the remaining Rangers. They were circled around the fallen man.
“Luther Vect is dead, Sergeant Wolfe,” the man who was grazed by a bullet earlier said. His sleeve was blood-soaked, and his face was drained of color; sadness hung in his eyes like low-hanging clouds.
“Get him on his horse and take care of him as properly as you can. The rest of you, follow me. We’ll return to help Captain McNelly, if we can,” Josiah said. He didn’t know if Luther Vect hailed from Austin or not; he barely knew the man, but there wasn’t time, at the moment, to provide the dead man with the respect he deserved.
“I ain’t goin’ back to that damn saloon,” Myra Lynn said.
“I’ll protect you.”
“Like I’ve never heard that before.”
Josiah stared at the back of the girl’s head, and he could’ve sworn he was talking to Scrap Elliot, hardheaded, stubborn, with cotton in his ears. His sister was just like Scrap in a lot of unmistakable—and annoying—ways. No matter how hard it rained, Myra Lynn still stunk. She had a head full of lice, too, all scurrying about, trying to avoid being drowned.
“You’ve got no worry with me, girl,” Josiah said. “I’ll look after you.” He swung his right hand up and urged Clipper on, heading back toward the Easy Nickel Saloon as fast as he could, unconcerned about the lightning storm that danced over his head. The Rangers fell in behind him, offering their own bit of thunder to all that circled about them.
* * *
Captain McNelly had set up a perimeter around the Easy Nickel Saloon, allowing no one in and no one out within a block of the battle. A man on the roof of a three-storey building waved Josiah and his company of Rangers through, offering no challenge. It didn’t take long to get to the saloon from there.
The fire had been tamped down by the heavy rain. There were no flames to be seen, just smoke, mixed with sizzling vapors, rising out the roof and through the top-floor windows. Gunfire was silent, and there weren’t any ground-shaking explosions to be heard from the Ketchum grenades as Josiah and the Rangers arrived.
“Why are ya bringin’ me back here?” Myra Lynn asked, tensing up noticeably. “I hope the whole place burns to the ground.”
Josiah ignored Myra Lynn and looked ahead for Captain McNelly.
A group of Rangers stood under the awning of a little shop that sold writing instruments about half a block from the saloon. It looked like they had regrouped and were in the midst of planning their next move. They were doing little to cover themselves from any outlying shooters. Josiah decided that something must have changed. It looked like the battle with Brogdon Caine and his men was over.
Josiah held the reins with one hand, his arms wrapped around Myra Lynn slightly, to keep her from jumping and running, and the other hand holding his Peacemaker, at the ready for any kind of attack or shenanigans that presented itself. “Don’t say a word, you understand me?” he said through gritted teeth.
“Why should I listen to you?”
“Because I’ll keep my promises to you.”
“Oh boy, I have finally been saved by a real man.” There was an incredulous tone in Myra Lynn’s voice that Josiah had heard before. For a quick second he thought about leaving Scrap and his sister to face their fates alone. But he knew better than to believe he would. He’d risked too much now to turn back.
Josiah brought Clipper to a stop about five feet from the crowd of Rangers. One of them looked up at Josiah, tapped the man he was standing next to, and then as if everyone had communicated silently, the group of men parted, allowing Josiah sight of their concern.
Josiah blinked to make sure he understood what he was seeing.
A man lay on the ground, riddled with bullets. He was no ordinary man, nor was he a Ranger. At least openly. Instead, the man was Mexican. Josiah’s mouth went dry and his heart skipped a beat upon recognition of his friend Miguel.
“You stay here,” he said to Myra Lynn in a low voice that was affected greatly by the sight in front of him. “Don’t make me come after you again, okay?”
Myra Lynn was staring at the saloon, unconcerned, it appeared, by the Mexican’s state.
“Say you understand,” Josiah demanded.
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere. Like I could anyways.”
She was surrounded by at least fifteen men, all with rifles or pistols in their hands.
Satisfied, Josiah slid off Clipper and made his way to Miguel.
Juan Carlos was kneeling alongside Miguel, his leathered face ashen with fear and anxiety. The old Mexican had blood on his shirt, too. But it only took a second to figure out that he wasn’t wounded. The blood was probably Miguel’s.
Captain McNelly stood at Miguel’s head, unmoving, his chest heaving, as he struggled to regain his breath, and his eyes were fixed on Miguel, waiting. There was nothing anyone could do for the man.
The air smelled like it did at the end of a long battle. The clouds’ origins were indecipherable, whether from the weather or gunsmoke. Death waited in the shadows, as Miguel coughed, his own chest rattling up through his throat, as he fought to stay alive.
“Ah, Señor Josiah, it is good to see you,” Miguel whispered, in between coughs.
Josiah knelt down next to Miguel, opposite Juan Carlos. They exchanged glances, and with a tick of the head, Josiah knew that there was no hope for Miguel.
“Hang on there, friend, help is on the way. We’ve sent for the doctor.”
Miguel forced a smile. “You always were a horrible liar, señor.”
Josiah nodded, but didn’t agree. “You should be still.”
“There’s no use, señor. I am a dead man. I dreamed of dying like this, and now it is true. Soon, I will on a new adventure.” Miguel moved to genuflect, make a cross over his chest, but his hand fell to the side, too weak to complete the task. “I would’ve preferred a padre instead of a doctor.”
Josiah looked away. His belief in the existence, or nonexistence, of the afterlife was not something he wanted to inflict on Miguel. Religion had always made him uncomfortable, especially after losing Lily.
When Josiah looked back to the man, Miguel arched his back, took a long, grating breath, and then collapsed as the last bit of life escaped from him. His head was turned toward Juan Carlos, who quickly reached over to his neck to feel for a pulse.
“Él está muerto. He is dead, señor. He saved my life, stepped in front of the man, there,” Juan Carlos said, pointing to a man lying facedown in the street. “If he had not, it would surely be me whose soul now faced judgment, not Miguel’s.”
Josiah had been so focused on the crowd of Rangers, and Miguel, that he had not seen the dead body. It was William, the barkeep. “I’m sorry,” Josiah said. “Miguel was a good man.”
“Sí, he was, and I will never forget that he paid the ultimate sacrifice so that I should live.” Juan Carlos leaned over then and closed Miguel’s eyes. “Que Dios se apiade de su alma. May God have mercy on your soul.”
“This is over, Wolfe. We have Brogdon Caine in custody,” McNelly said.
“And I have the witness they were trying to hurry out of town,”
Josiah answered.
McNelly nodded confidently. “There’s only one thing left to do, then.”
CHAPTER 39
The rain had eased as the morning moved on, and the sky had grown lighter—but it was still overcast, gray and dismal. There was no doubt that the day to come was going to be gloomy. Any thunder to be heard was distant as it moved east, and the harsh wind of the fiery dawn had pulled back to a steady, southerly breeze.
Josiah was soaked from head to toe. His fingers were shriveled, almost numb, and he was chilled to the bone. It would be good to be inside, he thought as he brought Clipper to a hesitant stop in front of the Travis County Courthouse. But I’m not looking forward to what I have to face.
The courthouse sat at the corner of Guadalupe and Cedar streets. There were scads of empty buggies, wagons, and carriages parked in front of and around it. Every hitching post within sight was crammed full of horses.
A small brass band had come together under a tall live oak that stood in the middle of the field to the right of the two-storey building. They were playing happy marching music, trying to rouse the crowd that had gathered around the gallows in anticipation of a hanging.
Hucksters tried to spark the crowd, too, doing their best to lift a coin or two from any pocket they could—all to no avail. It was either too early, or the gloom and rain had soaked the crowd to the bone, too. They all stood nearly motionless and silent, waiting patiently, instead of celebrating.
The courthouse lacked the Greek Revival or Victorian style of the buildings on Congress and in and around Old Courthouse Square. It looked nondescript, like it had been built only to serve a purpose and not to make any kind of statement.
Myra Lynn sat securely in the saddle in front of Josiah, and he was followed by Captain McNelly, Juan Carlos, the company of Rangers, and one prisoner who had been taken during the Easy Nickel battle. Brogdon Caine was none too happy to see Myra Lynn, or to be confined, hand and foot, in shackles. He’d been outnumbered by McNelly’s company of well-prepared Rangers and surrendered quickly after William, the barkeep, met his death in a blaze of gunfire. From what Josiah had been told, the man’s death was not glorious, but resigned; he’d walked out into the street after killing Miguel, firing every bullet he had, taking no cover at all.
Josiah dismounted first, then put out his hands, offering to help Myra Lynn down from Clipper.
“A nickel for a peek,” she said, a wry smile crossing her face as she pinched the corners of her skirt, threatening to raise it and show Josiah, and the rest of the men behind him, her private parts.
Josiah didn’t flinch, didn’t change his expression one bit. “Get down here right now and act like a lady.” He wanted to add, If that’s possible, but restrained himself for fear of leading her into the courtroom even angrier than she already was.
He flexed his fingers impatiently. “Now, Myra Lynn.”
The girl frowned, let go of her skirt, then slid down off the saddle, refusing Josiah’s show of chivalry. “You probably wouldn’t know what to do with it, anyways,” Myra Lynn scowled.
Josiah took a long, deep breath as Captain McNelly walked up to his side.
“I think it’s best if you let me take the lead on this, Wolfe.”
“Yes, sir. I agree. You have far more influence than I could ever hope to have. And this judge might have an axe to grind.”
Myra Lynn stood within a foot downwind of Josiah. Her eyes were darting about furiously. Josiah stepped over and took her hand into his, just in case she was calculating an escape attempt.
“Why is that?” McNelly asked as he struggled for a breath.
Myra Lynn shot Josiah a nasty look but remained quiet. To his surprise, she didn’t try to pull away.
“From what I understand, the judge is a relation of Pete Feders.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the rain continued to fade into drizzle.
“Even more of a reason for you to keep as quiet as possible.”
“I agree, sir.”
McNelly started to walk forward but hesitated. “You were never in this alone, Wolfe. Elliot is one of my men, and I will go to any length to protect him.”
“I know about Milt Fulsum being one of yours, sir.”
“I figured you might’ve stumbled onto that.”
“I was never a good spy, but the use of one inside the sheriff’s department was not a surprise,” Josiah said.
“General Steele was getting a lot of pressure to solve this case, but we hadn’t been asked by the sheriff to join in, so my hands were tied—to a degree.”
“I understand.”
“I never believed Scrap Elliot was guilty of murder for a blue second,” McNelly said.
“So you know who the killer is?”
“Yes, I do now, thanks to your work, and Milt Fulsum’s.”
There was no way to drain all of the humidity and discomfort from the inside of the courtroom. The smell of human perspiration, a mix of fear, boredom, and anticipation, was almost too much to bear. Fans whirled overhead, and all of the women staring down from the mezzanine pushed away the smells as best they could with their own personal fans.
The room was circular, and there was not an empty seat to be seen on either floor. Out of tradition and social expectation, most of the spectators wore black to the trial, funeral clothes, instead of everyday wear, unless they were in the profession of the law.
The judge, Evan Dooley, sat on a slight dais wrapped in an ornately carved walnut rail. Even though Josiah had never seen the man before, the judge looked like he’d expected; tall, full white beard, hard eyes that appeared to be wise and angry at the same time. The only similarity Josiah could see that the man bore to Feders was his birdlike nose. Other than that, he was as unrecognizable as any stranger. He must have been related on Feders’s mother’s side, considering the difference in his surname.
A big man with skillet-sized hands sat to the right of Judge Dooley. Josiah assumed he was the bailiff. He was the only visibly armed man in sight.
Myra Lynn was securely in the middle of McNelly and Josiah. Two Rangers holding Brogdon Caine upright had followed them inside. The clank of Caine’s shackles echoed throughout the courtroom.
The rest of the company of Rangers waited outside, ready at a moment’s notice to quell any trouble that might arise.
When Josiah and McNelly had appeared in the doorway, the courtroom had immediately hushed, and every eye, including the judge’s, was on them.
McNelly glanced over to Josiah, gave him a slight nod, and stepped up the aisle that led to the judge. It was then that Josiah got his first good look at Scrap and the rest of the small room. To his surprise, he saw quite a few familiar faces among the crowd who had gathered inside.
Scrap looked withered, like a shadow of his former self. Skinnier, if that was possible, barely clean, even though he was dressed in a fresh white shirt that almost matched the color of his pale skin. His stark black hair was combed but severely in need of being cut. Fear was held tight in the boy’s jaw, and he didn’t relax one bit when he looked up and saw Captain McNelly enter the room with Josiah and Myra Lynn. Instead his eyes grew more intense and angry as he looked away.
Myra Lynn’s hand tensed in Josiah’s grip, and her breathing became more rapid.
Woodrell Cranston sat next to Scrap. Oddly, seated together, they looked nearly the same age, and cut from the same impetuous cloth. Cranston’s eyes lit up when he saw Josiah, but that was the only hint of recognition. There was no silent message to pass, nothing that Josiah could signal. Cranston was going to have to wait and see what was up, like everyone else.
Another row of lawyers, the prosecutors, sat opposite Scrap and Cranston, their faces dim and less than amused by the disturbance.
Beyond the prosecutors, the gallery was filled with onlookers
from the community. Rory Farnsworth, his father Myron, and Paul Hoagland, of course, were in attendance, all in the front row.
A quick glance upward told Josiah that the second-floor mezzanine was full of onlookers, too, as he’d expected. For as uncaring as everyone had made the city out to be about the killing of the whores, there sure seemed to be a lot of people interested in the outcome of Scrap’s trial. Maybe they wanted to see justice done. Or they were there for the festivities around the anticipated hanging. This trial lacked the circus environment and fervor that usually surrounded such an event. Maybe it was the weather, but for some reason, Josiah doubted that was it.
Josiah spotted Blanche Dumont, right away, in the mezzanine. Rufous was at her side, his head barely coming to her waist—he had to look through the spindles of the rail to make eye contact with Josiah.
There seemed to be a bubble around Blanche. Apparently none of the other fine women from Austin wanted to stand, or sit, next to her. Her pale white skin was the color of Scrap’s shirt, and they could have been related if judged by skin tone alone. Attitude, too, as far as that went. Scrap’s condition was temporary—hopefully, if he lived long enough to recover. Blanche’s condition was lifelong, and had its fair share of torment that came along with it.
The face Josiah desperately wanted to see, however, but could not find in the crowd was Pearl’s.
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