by Cotton Smith
“Rather be riding with the captain,” Carlow said. “We aren’t going to find anything at Portland’s. Tanneman’s too smart for that.”
“ ‘Tis our duty to find that money, me lad. ‘Twas Rangers who stole it,” Kileen said, motioning toward the marshal’s office. “Hisself the captain be worryin’ Tanneman’s gang might get there before we do.”
“Thunder, the only gang Tanneman had is dead. All three of them.” Carlow stepped off the boardwalk. “Anyway Tanneman’s not going to let boneheads like Portland and Barnabas handle that kind of money.”
“ ‘Tis the captain’s orders.”
At the marshal’s office, Kileen and Carlow advised the marshal they were leaving, but didn’t tell him where they were going. Carlow had suggested to his uncle that it would be wise not to share that specific detail.
From the cell, Tanneman held on to the bars and said, “Heading to Portland’s, are you, boys?”
“No,” Carlow snapped. “Heading for the border. The captain wants to stop all the rustling down there. Got Mexican gangs using the border for safety.”
Tanneman smiled evilly. “Looks like one of my brothers got pretty close, Time.”
“Not as close as I got.”
“You bastard!” Tanneman screamed.
Marshal Timble pledged to keep a two-man watch until the wagon came in the next couple of days, rotating his deputies and himself. One deputy would be stationed inside the jail and one outside, at all times.
Satisfied, Carlow turned to go to the door. Kileen walked over to Tanneman’s cell.
“ ‘Tis sorry I am that this is the way it must be,” he said. “Ye will see your brothers’ burials, I promise.”
“Well, ain’t you a real sweetheart, Kileen,” Tanneman said. “You ride on. One of these days I will kill you. You an’ that smart-ass nephew of yours.” He spat at Kileen between the bars.
Kileen let the spittle slide down his cheek. He turned away, then spun back and spat into Tanneman’s laughing face. After leaving the jail, Kileen and Carlow got supplies from the general store and left with Mirabile. They checked again on Deconer, who was resting in a hacienda; his thigh wound was slow in healing and he wasn’t yet able to walk. He didn’t take his removal from the Ranger payroll well and wanted to go with them, but knew he wasn’t ready. None of the three Rangers talked after leaving Deconer and getting their horses. Leaving a fellow Ranger—and a friend—behind was never easy.
“Thunder, we don’t know exactly where their ranch is,” Carlow said as the town disappeared behind them and they slowed their horses to a walk.
“Aye, not so. Tanneman told me about it. Some months back, it be. Not far from Bennett, it be. A wee north.”
“Why didn’t you say so before?”
Winking at Mirabile, Kileen looked over at his nephew and said, “Ye not be askin’.” His jack-o’-lantern grin followed. “Some time seein’ Angel an’ Ellie we be takin’, too.”
“There’s a lot of land…‘a wee north,’” Carlow said and grinned back. “Julian’s ranch, for example.”
“Aye. We’ll be askin’ folks as we go.”
Changing the subject, Kileen asked, “Do ye be thinkin’ Tanneman be put away for the good?”
Carlow took so long to respond that Kileen asked again, “Would ye be thinkin’ his previous life—as a Persian mystic—be helpin’ him?” Kileen crossed himself.
“No. I was thinking he would try to escape,” Carlow said. “I was wondering if we should’ve stayed until the army came.”
“Turn hisself into a small animal, he might,” the big Irishman declared. “That necklace he wears—of jaguar teeth—that be from a time he was a big cat.”
It was Mirabile’s turn to look at him. “Come on, Thunder. You know that’s not possible.”
Kileen’s face indicated he thought it was.
The threesome rode silently, Kileen and Carlow thinking ahead to how close to Bennett they would be after checking out the Rose ranch. Mirabile looked forward to seeing his wife again—and this time, staying at the ranch for good. Kileen was already savoring the idea of a reunion with Angel Balta, the infamous Mexican woman bandit. Carlow was thinking of Ellie Beckham. He glanced back at his bulging saddlebags. Among his supplies were a special brooch for her and a beaded sheath knife for her son, Jeremiah. They had been purchased in San Antonio.
“Oh, tell me ‘tis not so,” Kileen blurted and reined his horse to a stop.
“What?” Carlow said, drawing his hand carbine.
Mirabile was in the middle of rolling a cigarette and dropped the makings in surprise.
The big Irishman pointed to a dead crow almost in the center of the trail.
“It’s a dead crow, Thunder,” Carlow said, reholstering his weapon.
Mirabile shook his head in relief, brushing off the tobacco shreds.
“Aye. ‘Tis bad luck. A sign of death, me lad.”
With that, he made his nephew get down to pluck a feather from the crow’s tail and stick it in the ground.
“Good, me son. Now ridin’ around it we go. All o’ us. Three times.”
Carlow cocked his head. He might have been Irish, but he had none of their superstitious nature—or their lyrical brogue, thanks to his late mother, Kileen’s sister.
“We’ve got riding to do, Thunder.”
Mirabile frowned, but said nothing.
“Three times around, me lads. Three times around.”
Carlow griped all the way through the little ceremony, but Kileen only smiled, as did Mirabile. The land ahead looked flat, but was broken by hills, canyons and sudden arroyos. White rock decorated most of the ridges. Prickly pear and mesquite added their own touches. In the distance, an occasional ranch house disturbed the wildness.
Dusk found the three lawmen camping near a half-dead pond that badly needed rain to restore it to glory. But the remaining water was clear, not brackish like so many small pools and springs in the region. The appearance of mesquite had alerted them to its presence. Mesquite usually meant water. Two downed cottonwood trees, a wobbly pecan tree and a few lonely willows were solemn testament to high winds and the lack of consistent water. A batch of buffalo grass thrived near the pond. Around them the prairie was highlighted with mesquite, prickly pear, catclaw and alkali. If it was grazing land, there wasn’t much for cattle to work with.
The Rangers stayed far enough away from the pond that animals seeking water wouldn’t be scared away. That was Carlow’s idea.
Kileen rolled his shoulders to relieve the fatigue and took a swig from his flask. He offered it to Mirabile, who enjoyed a long pull and returned it. Carlow declined. After returning the flask to his pocket, Kileen yanked the saddle from his tall horse and studied the rising moon.
“ ‘Tis a wanin’ moon. Matters of importance should nay be done durin’ a waning moon. Nay, should not. Should be waitin’ for a new moon.” He rubbed his chin. “Vegetables are to be gathered while the moon is on the wane. Wood be cut best when the moon finds herself below the horizon.”
“Any problem with us gathering mesquite? For a fire?” Carlow teased and nudged Mirabile with his elbow. “Or rubbing down our horses?”
“Nay. ‘Tis no problem.”
“I’ll help get us some wood,” Mirabile said.
Soon a small fire cut into the growing dark. They built it in a narrow hollow where the glow was not likely to clear the land. After cooking, the men doused the fire. This was Indian country. Small bands of Comanches and Kiowas mostly. No use taking unnecessary risks. At night a fire could be spotted a long way away.
Bitter hot coffee washed down a pan of salt pork and beans with a little hardtack. Chance shared Carlow’s meal, enjoying the meaty morsels tossed his way. With so little grazing about, they gave their horses grain from the small sacks each Ranger carried. Afterward, they walked the horses to the side of the pond where the water appeared to be clearest, then tied them up for the night to sturdy branches of the downed trees. Carlow kne
lt beside the pond and rubbed the bullet burn on his cheek with the cool water. It felt good.
Weary from the riding, the Rangers stretched out, using their saddles for pillows. Only their boots and gunbelts were removed. Their weapons were cleaned and reloaded, including their saddle guns. Of course, Kileen reminded his nephew not to use the thirteenth bullet when reloading his hand carbine. Carlow licked his lips and didn’t respond. Mirabile lit a cigarette, then decided the tiny light could be seen a long way off and rubbed it out on the ground.
Settling into bed, Carlow reread one of Ellie’s letters, using a small candle for light. He cupped his hat around it so the tiny flame wouldn’t be seen from any distance. Chance nestled next to him, his head resting on Carlow’s stomach.
Kileen watched and said, “Even if we not be findin’ the money, we must be making a ride to Bennett afterward. The captain be wantin’ to know. Aye?”
“I’d like that,” Carlow replied. He blew out the candle and made certain his hand carbine was next to him and cocked.
A weary Mirabile said, “Hell, why don’t you boys wander up my way afterward? Bertha’d be glad to see you. She’s a helluva cook, you know.”
“Sounds good to me. How ‘bout you, Thunder?” Carlow asked.
“Aye. Bertha be a most wonderful cook. We be doin’ it.”
Carlow shifted to get more comfortable. The silver crest he wore on a silver necklace slid outside his shirt. It was the only material thing remaining of his mother. She had told him it had belonged to his father. Kileen had told him it was the symbol of a Celtic warrior. He stuffed it back inside his shirt and shut his eyes. No image of his father ever came and now images of his mother were blurred. His solid chest and well-muscled arms were well hidden within his coat. They had helped him win many fistfights as a lad and some as a Ranger. Not as many as his uncle, of course. Few could match that.
Minutes passed.
Carlow was almost asleep when Kileen said, “Me lads, do ye be thinkin’ there be a Rose gang still about? Some be sayin’ ‘tis so.”
“Don’t know, Thunder,” Carlow said, and yawned to reinforce his disinterest in talking more. “Don’t know. Could be. Might find them at Portland’s ranch, but I doubt it. Let’s get some sleep.”
“Not my problem anymore,” Mirabile said and rolled over to sleep.
“Aye. Don’t be starin’ at the moon. She not be likin’ it.”
“I won’t. Got my eyes closed.”
Carlow was up first and had coffee on and bacon frying when Kileen awoke. Mirabile was still sleeping. Chance’s growl jolted the young Ranger from his morning reverie of cooking.
“What’s the matter, boy? Coyote wanting water?”
He looked up to see eight mounted Comanches on the ridge twenty yards to the west. They seemed as surprised as he was to see others. It was definitely a war party, with their painted faces, thick chests, arms and legs. Plucked eyebrows added to their fierce appearance. Although short and stout, they were most graceful on horseback. Magnificent horsemen, Carlow thought, and fierce fighters.
“Thunder, Julian, we’ve got visitors.”
“Aye,” Kileen responded, already moving beside their horses; his rifle, cocked and ready. “Next to our hosses, I be. They’ll be takin’ a likin’ to ‘em, me thinks.”
“I’m ready,” Mirabile said, stretched out where he had slept, his Spencer rifle cocked. His revolver lay next to him, along with his bullet belt.
The apparent war leader carried a Henry rifle; its stock was decorated with studs and feathers. His face was painted in vertical stripes, alternating between red and yellow. His right arm was similarly painted. So were his leggings. He wore a wolf’s head as a headdress, its skin draped down his back.
The others carried bows and arrows and lances shortened for horseback warfare. A warrior with his entire face painted black had a long-barreled revolver resting in his stud belt. Another carried a Springfield rifle, adorned with eagle feathers. Two of the lances held fresh scalps. Silver conchos, tied feathers and strings of cloth decorated their long black hair. One wore a white woman’s dress and a white man’s fedora, obviously the spoils of a recent raid.
“Stay, Chance. Stay,” Carlow said as he grabbed his hand carbine, levered it into readiness and said to Kileen, “I’m going to motion for them to water their horses. Keep your rifle down. Maybe we can keep this from being a shooting affair.”
“Aye. ‘Tis a good idea. But if ‘tis a fight the lads be wantin’, ye take the striped lad first. I’ll be takin’ the fine lad with the black face. Julian, you take the boy with the fine Springfield there. After that, I’ll go to the boys on the left. You two take the right. An’ we’ll meet in the middle.” Kileen chuckled, in spite of the situation.
Carlow took a deep breath to ease the tension. He lowered his gun and waved toward the water.
“Paa.”
It was the Comanche word for “water.” It was also the only Comanche word he knew that would help. He couldn’t think of “friend” so he made the sign for it, then gave the sign for “drinking water.”
The war leader eased his horse forward two steps, halted and raised his rifle in one hand. He shouted something Carlow didn’t understand, but he repeated his words and the sign.
“What’s that boy a’jabberin’?” Kileen asked, not taking his eyes off the warriors.
“Don’t know. Hope it was ‘good morning.’” Carlow looked down at Chance, who was hunched, his teeth bared. “Steady, boy. Maybe they’ll water and go.”
Mirabile frowned. “That’s a big risk.”
The war leader spoke again to the other warriors and they began to descend one at a time to the pond to water their horses. He remained where he was, watching Carlow.
“They might try something after they water. Think they’ve come a long way. Our horses must look mighty good,” Carlow said.
“Sweet Jaysus. So do our guns, me son.”
“You call it, Time,” Mirabile squinted down the barrel of his gun.
After the seven horsemen had watered their horses and returned to the ridge, the leader nudged his pony toward the pond. He looked up at Carlow and smiled.
Smiled! Carlow didn’t know at first how to react. He nodded and forced a smile. Was it a trick to make him think they wouldn’t attack? His fingers tightened around the hand carbine.
Suddenly, the warrior in the dress screamed a throaty cry and charged his horse toward Carlow. The others held their mounts, watching; the war leader looked up from watering his horse. His face was unreadable.
From his position by their tied horses, Kileen yelled, “Switch. I’ll take the lead bastard hisself. Ye dispatch the lady a’comin’.”
“Wait.”
Carlow didn’t move as the warrior galloped down the ridge toward him, waving his lance and screaming.
“Not long, me son.” Kileen aimed his rifle at the headman. “Not long.”
Holding the cocked hand carbine at his side, the young Ranger’s eyes locked onto the rapidly advancing Comanche.
Chance growled.
“No, Chance.”
From the pond, the war leader yelled and the warrior reined his horse to a skidding stop. The pony’s hooves slammed into the hard earth; the warrior shoved his legs forward to maintain his balance and waved his lance over his head. Grinning, he came to a complete stop five feet from Carlow. Raising his gun, Carlow touched the brim of his hat with the weapon, in a salute, and returned it to his side.
The other warriors grunted their approval. The warrior nudged his horse closer and slowly raised his lance. Carlow knew what was coming. Counting of a coup. The bravest act a warrior could do: touch an armed enemy and return.
“Naugh,” Carlow barked, shaking his head and pointing his gun at the warrior.
The move might be a mistake on his part, but he didn’t like the idea of the warrior forcing some kind of ritual submission on him. The warrior glanced over at his leader, who motioned with his head for him to ret
urn to the others.
“Aiieee!” the warrior shouted, wheeled his pony and galloped back up the ridge.
Minutes later, the eight disappeared as quickly as they had come. Carlow told Kileen to keep watch while he and Mirabile saddled the horses.
“We’ll eat while we ride. They might change their minds and come back,” Carlow said, grabbing a piece of bacon and pushing it into his mouth. He took another and held it to let it cool before giving it to Chance.
“I’ll be havin’ me coffee first, lad. No damn redmen be stoppin’ me from it,” Kileen said as he filled his tin cup, added some whiskey from his flask and savored it.
“That sounds good to me,” Mirabile said, holding out his own cup. His hand was shaking. “Maybe I won’t ride off by myself until we get closer.”
“Pour me one, then the rest on the fire. The coffee, not the whiskey.” Carlow grinned.
Chapter Six
Late that evening, Tanneman Rose selected the deputy who would help him escape. Peter Gaggratte didn’t know it. Yet. It was one o’clock in the morning. Gaggratte was alone, sitting at the marshal’s desk, his boots propped on its scratched top. He was examining an itch on his forearm. Another deputy, Henry Stevenson, sat outside on a bench. The two men would be relieved early in the morning.
Tanneman said, “Got three thousand dollars waiting for you. A day from here. All you have to do is ride with me there. It’ll look like I broke out and you chased me. You’ll be a hero…for trying so hard.”
He didn’t expect anything to happen right away. It was best to let the idea seduce the guard. Three thousand dollars would go a long way for a man with a wife and four kids. A long way.
That morning before leaving his post, Deputy Gaggratte strutted over to the cell. “You think I’m some kinda fool? You ain’t got no money. None close anyway.”
Tanneman said, “That’s where you—an’ the Rangers—are dead wrong.” He stood and looked around to make certain no one was listening. His voice lowered. “An hour’s ride. South.” He looked around again, like a deer at a stream. “It’s the money from our first bank job.”
