The Coyote Tracker by Larry D. Sweazy Page A

you saw?”
    Josiah scrunched his shoulders, frustrated. “Is there something else I should have seen, Rory, besides the prisoner that got heisted out of here?”
    â€œI’m just asking. A man of your position should have keen powers of observation.”
    Before Josiah could say anything else, the first deputy, who’d entered the foyer with Farnsworth and aimed his gun at Josiah, hurried to the sheriff’s side. He was a tall, thin-faced man with a thick upside-down V mustache streaked with wiry gray hairs. Sweat beaded on his exposed brow, and his felt Stetson was cocked back on his head. He still held the rifle, but casually, so it didn’t look to Josiah like there was an immediate threat to be concerned about.
    â€œThey took Randalls, Sheriff,” the deputy said, words rolling off his tongue hurriedly.
    Farnsworth didn’t flinch. “Who’d you expect they busted out, Milt, the two drunk cowboys we brought in for fighting last night?”
    â€œDidn’t expect it to be Randalls, Sheriff, that’s all,” the deputy said.
    For the first time, Josiah noticed that the deputy, Milt somebody or other, was holding a piece of paper. He thrust the paper toward Farnsworth. “I found this under Randalls’s pillow. It don’t make no sense though, does it?”
    Farnsworth took the paper and stared at it, then shook his head as if he didn’t understand it, either. “Doesn’t make an ounce of sense to me.”
    â€œWhat is it?” Josiah asked.
    â€œLooks like a bunch of letters thrown together, but they don’t make any sense,” the sheriff said.
    â€œCould I see it?” Josiah asked.
    Farnsworth eyed Josiah cautiously, then shrugged. “I guess I don’t see why not.”
    Josiah took the paper and stared at it for a second, immediately recognizing that it was a cipher of some kind.
    Â 
    XLICAMPPOMPPQIYRHIVXLISEOXVII.
    Â 
    There was nothing else but that line of letters on the paper.
    â€œI looks to me like this Randalls fella knew someone was coming for him,” Josiah said. “Now that I think of it, he didn’t seem real happy, or helpful, about going. He left you a message, Rory—in code. It’s the only explanation I can think of.”
    â€œIn code? Are you sure?”
    Josiah took a deep breath. “Yes, this kind of message was pretty common in the War Between the States. Most likely, this Randalls fella served with the Confederacy. It looks like a familiar formula to me.”
    Farnsworth shrugged his shoulders. “I know nothing of the man’s past other than his crimes.”
    Josiah knew that the sheriff had not served in the war. He was hardly old enough to wear the badge, and it was only because of his highly connected father, Myron Farnsworth, a banker, and his own education, obtained at a highfalutin college out East, that he held the position at all.
    â€œWho was this man, Randalls, anyway? Why was he in jail?” Josiah asked.
    Farnsworth and Milt exchanged a quick set of glances, then each looked away from the other quickly.
    â€œAbram Randalls worked as an accountant for a bank, Wolfe,” the sheriff said. “He’s a thief, an embezzler.”
    â€œWhy would an embezzler be worried about being broke out of jail?”
    â€œWho said he was worried?”
    Josiah shrugged and eyed Milt the deputy at the same time. The man unnerved him. Milt acted like he wasn’t paying attention, like he was waiting to be discharged, but neither was hardly the truth. He was listening to every word and watching every move Josiah made.
    â€œI just made an assumption, that’s all,” Josiah said.
    Farnsworth pointed to the note. “Do you think you can figure out what it says?”
    Josiah nodded. “I think I can, but it might take some time. It’s been a lot of years since I had to figure something like this out.”
    â€œYou were good at it, then, in the