Death Mask

by Cotton Smith

  Outside, Carlow watched people leave the courtroom, quietly retrieving their weapons from the table set up for that purpose. Most looked at the Ranger and nodded. In his hand was the sawed-off Winchester. Cocked. At his side, Chance was alert and watching. The town marshal left, engaged in a conversation with the bank president.

  Portland half dragged his youngest brother from the courtroom and glared at Carlow. “You bastard! You’ll rue this day, you an’ that big Irishman. I swear it. My brother’s innocent. He’s a Ranger, dammit.”

  “And you need to know hiding stolen money makes you as guilty as the robbers. So is helping with some of the holdups,” Carlow said, cocking his head to the side. “And shooting down a lawman makes you a murderer.”

  The look on Portland’s face confirmed what the Ranger had suspected. The other two brothers were involved.

  Pushing out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, Barnabas stepped toward the table and laid his hands on his pistols. He looked up at Carlow and grinned. “What are ya thinkin’, law dog? Wonderin’ if I’m gonna shoot ya?”

  “I think you’re smarter than that, Barnabas,” Carlow said.

  “What would ya do—if I did?”

  “This isn’t a game. Take your weapons and leave.”

  “Which one o’ ya killed Hillis?” Barnabas asked, his eyes widening and his head twitching.

  “Why don’t you just tell us where all that stolen money is—and we’ll give you a reward.” Carlow wasn’t certain Captain McNelly would like the offer, but it seemed logical to him.

  Barnabas grinned with half of his mouth.

  Portland moved up beside his brother. His expression was taut with anger, his pale eyes cold and narrowed.

  “Don’t know nothin’ about any stolen money, Ranger. No murdered lawman either. An’ we ain’t no bank robbers. Just poor cowmen, understand?” Portland said, almost offhandedly.

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Gonna kill my brother on the way to Huntsville?” Portland reached for his two Webley pistols.

  Carlow tensed.

  “Don’t worry, Ranger,” Portland said, shoving them into his coat pockets. “Ain’t no fool, like Barnabas here. I’m headin’ back to my cattle.”

  “Let’s go to the ice cream parlor first. I like chocolate,” Barnabas said. He swung the gun lanyard over his neck and shoved the other gun back into his boot. His eyes twinkled.

  “Not today. We’ve got a long ride back to the ranch.”

  “You promised. After it was over, you said,” Barnabas whined.

  Wheeling toward his younger brother, Portland pushed Barnabas to their horses and they rode off, spurring their mounts.

  A loud “cockle-doodle-doo” popped through the day from a waving Barnabas.

  As Carlow watched the brothers leave, Mirabile came from the courtroom, announcing that Kileen was bringing Tanneman. Carlow asked him to stay with the gun table so he could assist Kileen.

  “Sure thing, Time.”

  An older couple came up to them. Removing his hat to expose a shock of white hair, the man said, “I want to thank you for what you did, Rangers. We had all our savings in that bank.”

  “Yes, thank you,” his wife responded, adding a short curtsy.

  “You are most welcome, folks,” Carlow said, smiling. “Just sorry it had to be Rangers who tried to rob the bank.”

  The old man took a deep breath, finding the courage to say what was on his mind. “Yes, we were, too. Doesn’t anyone check on you fellows—to make sure you’re…ah, honest?”

  Mirabile swallowed. Red creeped around his neck as Carlow sought words.

  “The rest of us are, sir. We ride for Texas.”

  “I know you do, son. I know you do.”

  Chapter Four

  It was a long walk back to the jail. Kileen and Carlow flanked the handcuffed Tanneman, staying to the side of the street itself, to keep away from passersby on the boardwalks. They moved along easily, in spite of the constant string of wagons, freighters, carriages and riders pushing through town. Chance trotted proudly at Carlow’s side.

  Everywhere people were busy, the interest of the trial already behind them. The boardwalks were thick with merchants and clerks, aristocratic women and dancehall ladies, ranchers and farmers, Mexican peasants and immigrants, mostly German. In the distance, Carlow saw the clock tower of the cabildo, the old town hall building, and was impressed with it all. San Antonio was definitely bigger than where he had grown up.

  “Ever see anything like that network of ditches?” Tanneman suddenly said, motioning with his head. “Built by Franciscan priests. A long time ago. Acequias, they call it. Goes through the whole town. Really something.”

  “Aye. Not be smellin’ so fine,” Kileen observed as they walked.

  “Well, it brings water for gardens around town.” Tanneman smiled. “Afraid it’s also a sewer. Sort of.”

  “Aye.”

  As they walked, Tanneman looked over at Carlow. “See that old mission? East of the river. Down there.” He pointed with handcuffed hands.

  Carlow listened without speaking.

  “That’s the Mission San Antonio de Valero.”

  Carlow’s eyebrows arched in puzzlement.

  “The Alamo. Where our boys fought all those Mex. A long time ago,” Tanneman explained. “Think it’s an army quartermaster depot now.”

  Carlow wanted to ask how it became the Alamo, instead of the long mission name, but decided he didn’t want to give Tanneman any sign of interest.

  As if he had read the Ranger’s mind, Tanneman said the mission had become a fort in the early 1800s, when a company of Spanish colonial mounted lancers arrived to support the existing garrison. They were known as Alamo de Parras, from a Mexican town of El Alamo, near Parras in Nueva Vizcaya. The name, Alamo, had taken hold because of their decades-long presence.

  Tanneman looked again, but Carlow didn’t appear to be listening. He was watching a cowboy shuffle from a saloon.

  “Afraid my gang’s going break me out, Carlow?”

  Carlow’s responding glare was enough to silence him.

  Near the jail, Kileen told Tanneman a prison wagon was coming to take him to Huntsville prison.

  “Looks like you boys aren’t talking any chances with me.” Tanneman snorted.

  “A patrol o’ fine soldiers be ridin’ with ye. Keep ye company. They be here in a few days,” Kileen said as they eased along a full hitching rack.

  “Damn. That sounds like McNelly’s doing.”

  Kileen smiled and pushed him along the street.

  “You boys are going to feel the wrath of my gang. You shouldn’t have done this,” Tanneman warned.

  “Would that be Portland and Barnabas?” Carlow asked.

  Tanneman’s face became a dark snarl. “You keep them outta this, you hear? They had nothing to with Hillis and me. Nothing.”

  Tanneman glanced behind them, then turned to Kileen. “You know, when I was a shaman in Persia, hundreds of years ago…” He stopped and looked around again. “I was imprisoned. Back then. For doing black magic.” He shook his head. “I escaped—and was killed.”

  “ ‘Tis a good idea for ye to be careful in the prison.”

  Tanneman smiled. “I think you really mean that.”

  From an alley thirty yards behind them, two riders came and wheeled in their direction, leading a third saddled horse. Tanneman was droning on loudly about the importance of dreams, reincarnation and his former life as a Persian shaman. Kileen was riveted to the words; Carlow was watching the boardwalks ahead for any signs of trouble. He wished they had sent someone to follow the remaining Rose brothers to ensure they left town.

  Chance half twisted around and growled, his ears flat against his head.

  Turning to determine the reason for the sudden anger, Carlow saw the terror headed right for them. At a gallop.

  Portland and Barnabas!

  Both had knotted their reins and looped them over their saddle horns
to free their hands. Portland raised his Winchester. Leading the third horse by its reins, Barnabas leveled his lanyard pistol with his other hand. His body was completely still and focused.

  “Thunder, look out!” Carlow yelled. He crouched and spun toward the charging horsemen, drawing his hand carbine in one movement.

  Chance, growling and snapping, charged the oncoming horses. The mounts swerved to the right, seeing the oncoming frenzy. The sudden move was enough to cause both brothers to miss. Bullets ripped through the space where Carlow had been moments earlier. One burned the side of his face.

  Holding his gun with both hands, Carlow levered and fired rapidly five times. A long burp of lead. Four at Portland, one at the screaming Barnabas. The oldest Rose brother straightened, dropped his rifle and collapsed against his horse’s neck. An unseeing Portland bounced against the horse and slid from the running animal, leaving a streak of red on the saddle. His left foot remained in the stirrup and the trapped body thudded along the street like a large doll, until sheer weight pulled his foot free.

  At the same time, Kileen drew his long-barreled Colt and laid it across Tanneman’s head. The outlaw crumpled to the street. The big Irishman turned, aimed at the wild-firing Barnabas and fired twice. The youngest Rose brother flipped backward. His freed gun spun on the lanyard around his neck like some distraught windmill. He hit the ground headfirst and lay without moving. The three snorting horses rushed past on Carlow’s left, their stirrups flapping like big birds unable to lift off.

  Then it was over.

  A woman sobbed. A man groaned, hit by one of Barnabas’s bullets. Hushed voices began to fill the awful void. The acrid smell of gunsmoke took over the street, then vanished with the first breeze.

  Mirabile came running from the courthouse, the marshal and his deputies from the jail. Kileen leaned over to check on Tanneman. At the far end of the street, the three Rose horses slowed and finally discovered a watering trough more interesting than running. Chance studied each dead man, then trotted back to Carlow.

  Marshal Timble arrived first, holding a shotgun. Gasping for breath, he stared at the two bodies in the street. “Who are they?”

  Two deputies and Mirabile joined the gathering a few strides later. Immediately, the older Ranger went to Carlow and Kileen to see if they were hurt.

  “You’ve been hit, Time.” Mirabile pointed at Carlow’s cheek.

  “I’m all right.” Wiping the blood with his sleeve, Carlow answered the marshal’s question. The adrenaline of battle was quickly leaving him, making him weary. “That’s Portland Rose. That’s Barnabas Rose. They were in court. Thought they rode out. One of us should’ve followed them. I should’ve guessed they would try something.”

  He knelt beside his wolf-dog and massaged his ears. His eyes stayed on Chance, not wanting to look at anyone. He had killed a man. It was an awful experience that no one should have to know. Even if the person was evil and trying to kill you. It was awful. One moment, the other person was vibrant with dreams and hopes. The next, he was a mound of dust.

  “Would’ve worked, too, if it hadn’t been for Chance. He heard them coming and charged them.” Carlow shook his head. It helped some to talk. “Can you believe that? He charged three galloping horses coming at us. Made them swerve. Made the Rose brothers miss.”

  “Damn. Tanneman’s brothers. Fools.” Marshal Timble tugged on his hat brim. His pockmarked face was pale. “Wilson, go get the undertaker. Tell him the state of Texas will be paying.” He looked at Carlow and grinned.

  “Guess so. Unless San Antonio thinks it should be paying for the funerals of the men who tried to rob their bank.” The young Ranger stood and shoved new cartridges into his hand carbine before returning it to its special holster.

  Marshal Timble frowned. “Never thought about it that way.”

  On the boardwalks, cords of silent townspeople watched the scene. A smattering of hushed comments barely cleared the air. Outside the saloon, the same drunken cowboy tried to clap, slamming his free hand against his glass of beer. Foam and liquid spilled over his shirt. He studied the wetness, unable to connect it to his own action.

  Kileen helped the dazed Tanneman to his feet. His scalp was bleeding from the blow, but he appeared all right, just dazed. He stood, breathing deeply, unsure of what had happened or where he was.

  Tanneman stared at the big Irishman, then at Carlow, and then his eyes found the two dead bodies. His face crumpled in agony and he screamed a long unintelligible cry.

  “My God! My God! Why did you do this? My brothers!” he choked.

  Kileen let him run to his downed brothers. Tanneman flung himself over his oldest brother. “Oh, Portland…Portland. This is so wrong. So wrong.” He touched the stiff face and closed his eyes. “I will see you again. I will know it’s you.”

  He half stood, half crawled to Barnabas. “Oh, sweet Barnabas. You never had a chance. Your first life was better than this, I know. Your next will be fine. Yes, fine.” He patted his brother’s head and stood, glaring defiantly at the two Rangers.

  “You will pay for this. All of you,” he snarled.

  Carlow jumped to his feet and pushed past the marshal, his deputies and Mirabile. “Wasn’t what you expected, was it, Tanneman? You thought we wouldn’t hear them coming—with all your loud jabbering.” He motioned toward Chance, now sitting quietly. “Only you forgot about him. He’s a Ranger, too.”

  Biting his lip, Kileen wanted to say the wolf-dog carried the spirit of Carlow’s best friend. Shannon Dornan had been a Ranger and died in the awful Silver Mallow Gang battle in Bennett. He didn’t say it, though; Carlow would have been angered by the thought. Tanneman would have appreciated it.

  Tanneman’s lower lip quivered and he mumbled some jibberish that only he understood.

  From the boardwalk behind them, the same older couple hurried to Carlow. They stood near him. The white-haired man said, “Are you all right, son? That was awful. Awful.” His gentle wife patted Carlow on the shoulder. “You need the doctor to look at that. My goodness! That was close, wasn’t it?”

  Mirabile and the local lawmen led the distraught Tanneman away.

  “This is the last straw for me, Tanneman. Never thought I’d have to lead a fellow Ranger away to prison,” Mirabile declared. “That’s it. I’m retiring. Going to my ranch. Get away from all this.”

  Tanneman screamed a mixture of obscenities, threats about his brothers coming back and strange phrases that sounded like ancient chants.

  Chapter Five

  Once inside the jail cell, Tanneman Rose was left handcuffed and would stay there until a cavalry escort arrived with a prison wagon to take him to Huntsville. He settled down somewhat, chanting softly in a language no one understood.

  Kileen said it was Persian; Carlow said it was gibberish intended to make people think it was Persian. The Rangers left him in Marshal Timble’s care and went to the telegraph office to report in.

  Carlow outlined Tanneman’s guilty sentence and the resulting gunfight with his two brothers.

  Mirabile sent a separate wire, resigning.

  “‘Tis time for a retirement lunch, me lads,” Kileen boomed as they left the telegraph office. “A proper way to see our friend off to his new ways.” He pointed at the restaurant across the street.

  “You know, I’d like that,” Mirabile said, checking his pocket watch. “Then I’d best be riding. It’s a ways to the ranch. I’ll camp somewhere along the way.”

  Nodding, Carlow glanced across the street, where the undertaker’s assistants were already moving the bodies. He grimaced and looked away. It was like his uncle to talk about eating at such a moment. However, he didn’t have a better idea and it would be good to sit down with Mirabile before he left. The three of them had been good friends, and for a long time, in the case of Kileen and Mirabile.

  At the restaurant, Kileen grandly ordered for them: a bottle of whiskey, rare steaks, potatoes and apple pie. In that order. As soon as the bottle and three glasse
s arrived, Kileen poured a generous glass, passed one to each Ranger and raised his own.

  “A toast to you, Julian,” Kileen announced, holding up his glass of whiskey. “May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”

  Both Carlow and Mirabile laughed and all three clinked their glasses. More toasts followed, from all three. Soon, their meals were served and eating took the place of talking and toasting. In spite of what he had expected, Carlow ate well, enjoying their gettogether. On finishing a second piece of pie, Mirabile looked at his watch, shook his head and declared he needed to be going.

  As they strolled out onto the sidewalk, the telegraph operator came running across the street, waving a piece of paper.

  “Ranger Kileen! Ranger Carlow! A wire from Captain McNelly.”

  Striding up to them, the lanky operator ran his free hand through his slicked-back hair and held out the paper with the other. His right eye blinked, as it often did without his knowing.

  “Well, that be fast. Let’s be readin’ the fine captain’s orders.”

  Mirabile excused himself and headed for the livery to get his horse. He rolled a cigarette as he walked. His horse was already packed for the trip home.

  Carlow took a look at the note and yelled out, “Julian! Wait. Looks like we’ll be riding out with you.”

  The slump-shouldered Ranger stopped and turned, pulling the lit cigarette from his mouth. It was obvious he was happy to have the company.

  “Sure thing. What’s up?”

  “Captain wants us to go to Portland’s ranch. Now,” Carlow declared. “We’ll need to tell the marshal…and the judge.”

  “Aye.” Kileen slapped him on the back.

  Their orders were to ride to Portland Rose’s ranch immediately and look for the bank money taken from previous holdups. A search warrant was to be obtained from Judge Cline. Afterward, they were to check in by wire with McNelly in Bennett and get their next assignment. He was en route with a force of Rangers to stop a gang of Mexican rustlers working the border. If the stolen money was found, Kileen and Carlow would arrange for its return. If they weren’t successful, they would join him. They were also to advise Deconer that he wasn’t on the Ranger payroll until he was ready to ride. Ranger policy. Actually state policy, to save money.