Free The Coyote Tracker by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

thing,” the rider yelled. “Now. Untie it now!”
    Only a few minutes had passed since the explosion, but it seemed longer. Everything was happening at lightning speed. The gang of men looked well rehearsed, with distinct roles to play—the only hitch so far seemed to be the frightened horse.
    A distant shot rang out, followed by another and another.
    The rider jumped out of the saddle on the gray gelding, holding on to the lead as firmly as he could, and quickly untied the rope from the cell door. The horse continued to nay and protest, but it quit bucking once the rider dismounted. Josiah didn’t have the insight to a horse’s mind that Scrap did—it was one of the reasons that Josiah had grown comfortable with riding with him.
    Once the rope was untied from the gray gelding, another man rushed inside the open jail cell, glanced over his shoulder in a panic, then grabbed the mousy man and headed back for the horse. The mousy man offered no verbal complaints, but he didn’t aid in the escape, either. It was almost like he had to be dragged to the waiting horse.
    It was an odd sight for Josiah, seeing a man busted out of jail in such dramatic fashion, not showing any emotion, specifically joy, or relief. He wasn’t sure if the behavior mattered, but it sure did register with him as odd.
    â€œTrouble’s a-comin’,” someone just outside the hole in the wall shouted inside.
    The rider pushed the man up on the horse and yelled back, signaling for the first time that he might be the leader of the gang. “You know what to do.”
    A heartbeat later, more shots rang in the air, sounding much like a July 4th celebration. There was no way for Josiah to know how many men were actually involved in the jailbreak—he couldn’t see beyond the blast hole, but from the sound of the guns, there were at least five, maybe more.
    The gray gelding was quickly backed out of the hole, and in another half minute, the gunshots were trailing away, the firing continuing but growing distant.
    The only noise in the wake of the jailbreak was the disappointed screams and whistles of the prisoners left behind. If there had been more will and opportunity, Josiah was certain that a riot could have broken out at any moment, leaving him in a worse position than he was in when the jail wall exploded open.
    â€œThey’re gone,” Scrap said.
    Josiah nodded. “Keep quiet. I need to go find Jones and Sheriff Farnsworth.”
    â€œWell, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll get you out of here.” Josiah pulled himself out of the corner and started to head away from Scrap’s cell but stopped just at the farthest corner of it. “Unless you deserve to be in here.”
    â€œI didn’t kill no one, Wolfe. I swear.”
    â€œAll right, that’s all I need to hear.”

CHAPTER 9
    Sergeant Jones was lying facedown in the middle of the foyer, a pool of blood growing underneath him like a dam had been breached by a heavy spring rain; red rivulets trailed away from the body in all directions on the uneven floor. He’d been shot in the back at least four times and at least once right through the heart. His hand was outstretched, only a few feet from the gun locker. Perhaps he’d died valiantly, or perhaps not, there was no way to know. Either way, there was no question that there had been at least one death, a murder through and through, associated with the jailbreak. There might have been more, for all Josiah knew.
    Noonday light pushed inside from the open front door of the jail. The rays stabbed at the dreariness of the foyer, cutting through the dust and dirt that seemed to hang woefully suspended in the air. The room smelled like a mix of gunpowder and blood, an all too familiar assault on the senses for Josiah—he could taste war on the tip of his tongue, and he unconsciously spit it out as he rushed to Jones and pulled