Free The Coyote Tracker by Larry D. Sweazy Page B

the keys off the man’s belt. There was no use checking to see if Jones was still alive; his eyes were fixed upward, frozen open for the very last time.
    Josiah headed to the gun cabinet, unlocked it, and quickly found his Peacemaker and Bowie knife.
    He quickly buckled his gun belt on his waist, slid his knife back in the sheath, then pulled his six-shooter from the holster and made his way to the door. He was reasonably certain that the outlaws were gone, quick on their getaway, but he wasn’t taking any chances.
    There was still a great deal of riotous noise coming from the cell block, but it was a different sound; the prisoners’ hopes of escape and rescue had faded to anger, disappointment, and rage.
    Just as he was about to approach the door and exit the foyer to the outside world, Josiah heard a different variety of screams, shouts, and footsteps approaching from the wing behind him, as well as from down the hallway that led to the sheriff’s quarters. He stopped and turned around.
    â€œPut your hands up and drop the gun!” a man yelled, pushing through the hallway door, aiming a rifle directly at Josiah’s head.
    The man was a deputy that Josiah didn’t recognize, but he quickly realized the situation he’d put himself in and what it must look like. He was an unknown man, with a gun, heading out the door just after a jailbreak. Luckily, Rory Farnsworth appeared right behind the deputy.
    Josiah put his hands up automatically, still holding his Peacemaker.
    â€œIt’s all right, he’s one of us,” Farnsworth shouted at the deputy. “Put your hands down, Wolfe.”
    The deputy didn’t seem entirely convinced but stepped out of the way as a line of armed deputies pushed by him, rushing into the cell block and out the front door, weapons drawn—their reaction to the jailbreak certain if not swift.
    Upon the deputies’ entrance into the cell block, the noise elevated to an unbearable level—it almost sounded like another explosion had gone off. Boos and hisses were followed by a string of antagonizing and hateful words.
    Josiah knew Scrap was not one of the hecklers, that he was sitting silently in his cell, waiting for Josiah to return—and Josiah also knew that he was glad that there were bars separating the men from the deputies, or there would have been another melee, a riot of unimaginable consequences.
    The deputy who’d pointed his gun at Josiah stepped away at the silent behest of a hard nod from Farnsworth, leaving the two men, along with Jones’s body, alone in the foyer.
    â€œDamn it, they’ve killed Jones,” Farnsworth said. He walked over to the man, kneeled down, and felt for a pulse at the side of his neck. “Deader than dead. Now I’m going to have to go tell Matilda. That will be another entirely unpleasant event that I must face today. Can matters get any worse?”
    â€œI suppose they could,” Josiah said.
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œNot sure, Rory. But I imagine they could.”
    â€œJones was the best desk sergeant I ever had.”
    â€œHe did his job, stripped me of all my weapons when I came in.”
    Farnsworth stood up and faced Josiah. “What are you doing here, Wolfe? I assumed you weren’t involved in this mess. I am right, aren’t I?”
    â€œYou are.”
    â€œGood to hear.” It was hard to tell whether the sheriff believed what Josiah said or not; his face was as expressionless as a possum—and nearly as mean-looking—from a distance. “What were you doing here, anyway?”
    â€œA friend told me Scrap Elliot had been brought in on a murder charge, and I came to see for myself.”
    There was no need to tell Farnsworth that the friend was Juan Carlos. The sheriff and Juan Carlos knew each other, but Josiah didn’t know the depth of their relationship, and now was not the time to find out if it was a healthy friendship or not. Juan Carlos