by Cotton Smith
“How do I know you’re not makin’ this up?”
“Look, we ride out at night, you behind me all the way. With your gun. If it’s there, we split it. If not, you bring me back. And you’re a hero. Either way, it’s good—for you.” Tanneman folded his arms. “No one will know. I’ll tell you how.”
“I’ll think on it.”
“Well, you’d better make up your mind quick. When those soldiers get here, there won’t be a chance.”
“I don’t see how I get away…with it.” The guard’s voice was little more than a breath. “And what about Henry? He’s outside whenever I’m on duty.”
“It’s easy,” Tanneman said. “You give Henry a bottle of whiskey. Take the money for it from my stuff in the drawer. You know where it is. In fact, keep the rest of it for yourself. I’m sure your family could use it.”
Trying to keep from smiling, he continued, “When Henry’s asleep from the whiskey, we walk out. Together. Tomorrow night. Easy as that. You’ll need horses waiting. In the back.” He paused and continued, “If you don’t want to do it, I understand. I’ll find someone else. Just thought your family could benefit from some extra money.”
The next day Tanneman was taken to the burials of his three brothers. Marshal Timble told him it was something Kileen had asked them to do. The ex-Ranger chuckled and chanted softly at the grave site. Gripping his hands together in front of him, he let his mind become the shaman he had been in another life. It was something he had developed over the years. None of his brothers had ever understood its meaning. Barnabas had said he did, but he had been a fool. Of course, the chant was something he made up. Rather, he told himself that it was a ritual coming through, hidden in his brain. The ritual would guide him toward making his escape, guide his words and actions.
“That’s enough, Tanneman. We’ll head back now,” Marshal Timble said, adjusting the shotgun in his arms.
Tanneman hated the raw-faced man. The ex-Ranger took a deep breath and said, “Of course, Marshal.”
“What the hell are you doing anyway? Praying?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
That evening Gaggratte took his post and the marshal left. Near midnight, Peter Gaggratte opened Tanneman’s cell. They walked into a dark night with only a handful of stars watching, passed the drunken deputy and made their way silently to the back, where two horses were already saddled and waiting. A filled canteen dangled from the saddle horn of Tanneman’s horse.
“We did it! We did it!” Gaggratte said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Aggie will be so happy. We’re going to buy some land. Raise some beef.”
Tanneman hushed him as they rode out.
“How far is it to my money again?” Gaggratte asked with a huge smile.
“This way.”
An hour outside of town, and a half mile off the main road, Tanneman Rose dismounted near a rather large cave overlooking a creek that showed little interest in keeping its water moving. Three cottonwood trees stood as sentries. He remembered the place as one that he and Hillis had used to hide from a posse.
Gaggratte pulled alongside him.
“There it is, my friend.” Tanneman pointed.
“In that cave? There?”
“Right. You’ll need a candle and matches. Like I said,” Tanneman said, dismounting and tying his reins to a branch.
“Got ‘em.” Gaggratte jumped from his saddle, tied the reins to another branch and immediately went to his saddlebags. It was awkward holding his rifle and looking for the materials at the same time.
“Let me help.” Tanneman smiled. “Step back.”
“Sure. Sure. They should be right there,” Gaggratte said, so excited he couldn’t keep from jumping. “Oh, my, will Aggie be happy. She’s the one who told me to do this, you know.”
Tanneman’s face darkened. “No, I didn’t know. I told you not to tell anyone.”
“Well, Aggie’s not going to tell anybody. She’s my wife.”
Finding the candle and matches, Tanneman turned from the saddlebags and held them out. “Here you go. Maybe I should go in there first.”
Gaggratte frowned. “No. I don’t think so. You just might not bring it all out.”
“Now why would I do that?” Tanneman held back a smile and motioned for the guard to enter the cave. “Better light the candle out here. It’s dark in there. You’ll need to go in…oh, about twenty feet. Off to your left. Saddlebags are under some rocks. You can’t miss it.” He paused and added, “Remember now, we’re going to split it. Might be more’n six thousand in there.”
Gaggratte propped his rifle against his leg and popped a match against his belt buckle. His too-eager movement took away the flame. A second match produced a better result. After lighting the candle, the excited guard disappeared into the dark fissure. Immediately, Tanneman looked around, found a sizeable rock at the edge of the creek and climbed above the cave entrance.
After a few minutes, Gaggratte came to the cave’s entrance. “I got it! I got it!”
Tanneman slammed the rock into his head and the guard crumpled. The dust-covered saddlebags flew toward the creek.
“Stupid fool,” Tanneman said, pulling the rifle from Gaggratte’s body. Blood was working its way down to the creek bed. Tanneman retrieved the saddlebags and left them near the waiting horses.
A shot from Gaggratte’s gun to the guard’s head made certain he was dead. As if nothing had happened, Tanneman sat beside the body and repeated the chant that was becoming his own ritual, grasping his jaguar necklace. He stood and looked around. If he could find a crow, he would kill it and drink some of its blood. He had decided this was a tradition of his previous life. To kill a crow would grant him success over his enemies.
The shaman’s great gift was the ability to transform himself into an animal, he had decided. The gift had been passed on to him in his ability to transform himself as necessary. It was too dark to see much of anything, especially a crow, he decided. More important, for now, was to complete the rest of his plan.
After a drink from the stream, Tanneman mounted his horse and took the reins of Gaggratte’s. He laughed. The next thing to do was to “kill” himself. The ultimate transformation. But he had to do it quickly, before anyone came to the jail and realized there had been an escape.
Quickly, he returned to the main road, riding his horse and leading Gaggratte’s. He reined up beside a long gully snuggled parallel to the well-traveled path. It was the first of a line of slopes and arroyos that stretched out for a half mile, broken by several clusters of trees. This was a good place for an ambush. He needed someone to become him in death. If not, he would ride on until someone suitable was found. He didn’t expect any posse until after the morning shift of lawmen arrived.
He tied the two horses well off the trail in a shallow ravine that was two over, so they wouldn’t give away their presence and alert anyone. Lack of sleep was pushing its way into his mind, but he couldn’t let that deter him. The next step in his plan was the one that would stop any Rangers from seeking him. He would stage his own death.
“ ‘When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.’” Tanneman muttered one of his favorite passages from the second act of Shakespeare’s Othello, letting both of his hands swing dramatically toward an imagined audience. His shrill laugh turned the horses’ heads toward him, their ears cocked for understanding.
Discovery of his escape would not be too far away. Still, it was vital to be patient.
“Patience, ah, the wondrous virtue,” he said. “Something I learned centuries ago.” He laughed, then heard something.
Yes, someone was riding on the road. Probably headed for town. He crouched behind the rocky incline. Good. The rider was alone. But even in the dark he could tell the horseman had light-colored hair. That wouldn’t do. Patience. Two more riders passed and he was beginning to wonder if he should ride on and stage his “death” later.
A half hour sl
id by and he almost dozed. The noise of a rider brought him alert.
From his concealed position, Tanneman fired. The horse reared in fright as the man threw his hands in the air and fell from the saddle. Tanneman quickly fired a second shot. The startled horse stutter-stepped and stopped, its ears alert. Speaking softly, Tanneman gathered the reins. Faint blushes of rose lined the dark sky.
He carried the body back to where Gaggratte had died and tied the three horses to nearby trees. Without wasting motion, he stripped off the body’s clothes and put them on. The dead man was slightly taller than Tanneman, but the clothes would do until he could buy some. A bonus was discovering the man was carrying a small wad of gold certificates and a short-barreled Colt, but no extra bullets. The gun was more important than the money—for his special presentation.
False dawn was strutting across the sky as Tanneman dressed the body in his own shirt and pants, then built a small fire. The light of a new day took away any real concern about it being seen. Reluctantly, he placed the jaguar necklace around the dead rider’s neck. The spirits would understand. He dragged the body onto the flames, pushing the dead man’s face into the hot flames. The crackling sound made him queasy, but it was necessary. That was the final touch. No one would be able to identify the body. Tanneman left it as if he had died and fallen there.
Even though Tanneman didn’t want to do so, the guard’s rifle had to be left at the scene, placed carefully near Gaggratte. Tanneman left the guard’s handgun in the man’s hand. He fired both guns three times each, with the noses next to the ground to muffle the sound. His boot covered the holes with new dirt.
To the posse eventually coming, it would appear that the guard and Tanneman had killed each other in a wild fight. No one would examine the body of “Tanneman” closely; it would be enough that the breakout had been solved. Gaggratte would be treated as a dead hero. He laughed. It was the ultimate in theater. After removing the saddlebags, he turned his horse and Gaggratte’s loose and encouraged them to run. They would return to town—or be found by the posse. He strapped both sets of saddlebags and the canteen onto the third horse, mounted and rode away, giggling.
His next projects would be to kill the men who had brought him to this: Judge Wilcox Cline; District Attorney Waddell Johnson; Marshal Timble and all the Rangers who had been involved, including Captain McNelly. All would die. It was time to bring his previous self into full bloom; the Persian shaman had been known for his transformations and his masks.
His shrill laugh echoed through the quiet land.
Chapter Seven
After riding for two hours toward the fast-rising sun, Tanneman Rose passed a lone shack off to his left. His tired mind took a few seconds to let it register in his thoughts. He reined up and looked back at the small building resting in a shallow ravine, almost like the place had grown from the land. It definitely looked abandoned. Probably had been a line cabin at one time. He swung the horse around and headed back.
“Aho, the cabin!” he yelled, holding his pistol at his side as he neared the building.
If anyone were here, Tanneman would kill him. Immediately. There was no reason to take any chances now. He was too close. He yelled again, but no one answered. Assuring himself that it was, indeed, abandoned, Tanneman rode his horse up to the structure and swung down. His empty canteen bounced.
A small corral, probably big enough for six horses, adjoined the shack. Unsaddling his horse, he turned the animal loose in the enclosure. The bay went to a low water trough half-filled with old rainwater. It was enough to quench its thirst and leave enough for later. Tanneman found an old bucket filled with grain shoved against the edge of the house and away from the rain. After smelling and verifying it still had food value, he brought it to the center of the corral for his horse to enjoy.
Drawing his pistol again, Tanneman went to the closed door and shoved it open. It didn’t like the idea of moving and groaned a sad reaction. He stepped inside. The one-room building danced with shadows, disturbed by his intrusion. Thick cobwebs and layers of dust confirmed a long absence. A quick inspection brought only a nearly empty sack of coffee, a dented coffeepot and two china cups, both chipped. No food. A cot lay against one wall. Across the way was a fireplace that hadn’t been used in a long time. He guessed at least a year. Didn’t matter. Heat wasn’t a concern. Sleep was—and after that, something to eat. Unfortunately, he would have to ride on for food.
He was asleep almost as soon as he hit the cot, not even getting his boots off. His dreams were wild and unsettling. The Rangers, who had arrested him, rode on fiery horses through his body. Kileen and Carlow pointed their fingers at him and laughed. Laughs that turned into curling snakes. Running through the dream was a strange wagon that ran over the snakes.
He awoke with a start three hours later. Sweat glistened on his face and arms. Listening intently, he could just hear the snorting of his horse outside. His stomach was growling with the need of food. The only water he knew of was in the horse trough. He grabbed his canteen, filled it from the trough and drank deeply, letting ribbons of water run down his chin and the front of his shirt. At first, he had thought this would be the right time to prepare himself ceremonially for his strategy of revenge. A Persian shaman would do such.
A stronger desire, however, was the demand for food. The ceremony of revenge could wait. Even in his hungered state, he studied the shack, noting it was made mostly from long planks of wood.
A few minutes later, he was traveling again. He knew of no large towns nearby, but it seemed to him there were several small communities. Clearing a long bluff, he saw a settlement and his mind jumped with a tired joy. Twelve buildings straddled the short main street. He had no idea of its name, nor did he care.
Tying his horse to the hitching rack in front of the restaurant, he went inside. Instinct made him study the restaurant’s inhabitants as the door closed behind him. There were no Rangers, at least none he knew. The five men eating looked up out of curiosity, then returned to their food.
He tried not to overeat, but his stomach cried out and he was glad to oblige. A pot of hot coffee chased down two bowls of beef stew and large chunks of cornbread. Sipping a last cup, he asked the waiter for the name of the town.
“Some are callin’ it Prairie Village,” the bucktoothed waiter replied. “Most folks around hyar jes’ call it ‘town’, though.”
Tanneman nodded to keep from smiling. “Haven’t looked around. What all’s here?”
“Not from hyar, are ya?” the waiter said. “Knew it ri’t off. Know’d ever’body ‘round.”
“Good for you.”
The waiter proudly explained that besides the restaurant, Prairie Village boasted a general store, livery, two saloons, a whorehouse, gun shop, boardinghouse, surveyor’s office and bank, drugstore and a barbershop and bathhouse.
Tanneman paid him and headed for the barbershop. An hour later, a cleaned and shaved Tanneman Rose entered the small house on the far corner of town. A woman, plain of face with weary eyes and long dark hair resting along her shoulders, gave a lifeless smile and invited him in. She brought practiced enjoyment, faster than he wished, but he wasn’t in a mood to complain.
Afterward, he paid her, opened the door and studied the surroundings. An old habit.
A one-armed peddler riding an enclosed wagon bounced along the street. The side panels proclaimed: hard goods…knives…shirts…books…clothing…medicines…horseshoes.
Tanneman was fascinated. He turned back toward the whore. “Who’s that?”
Licking her lips, she said, “Oh, that’s just the peddler. Comes around every now and then. Selling stuff. Always moving. Lost his arm in the war, I heard. Usually stopping at farms and ranches, you know. Don’t know his name. Usually comes here when he’s in town.”
She flipped her head to move and resettle her long hair. Her hand rested on her extended hip; it was her best provocative pose.
He didn’t notice and left without another word.
The short, bowlegged livery stable manager studied Tanneman, then his horse. “How sound is it?”
“Been good for me,” Tanneman said, “but it needs rest. I’m riding dispatch for the Rangers and I need to get to them soon as I can.”
“Rangers, huh?” the liveryman said, scratching his chin. “Thought maybe yah was runnin’ from them.”
Tanneman laughed deeply and said, “No. Just trying to help them. I’d show you the dispatch, but I’m not supposed to.” He motioned toward his saddlebags.
“Say, how come they ain’t usin’ the telegraph?”
Biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from saying something angry, Tanneman said simply, “Where they are, it isn’t.”
“Oh sure,” the liveryman said. “Kinda like here, I reckon.”
“Yeah.”
The liveryman waved his arms. “Oh, didn’t mean nothin’. Just we don’t get many strangers ridin’ through here.” He rubbed his chin. “I hear tell we might get the wire next year. Been here all my life, ya know.”
“Well, good for you.”
The livery operator beamed. “Ya know if you’re stayin’ around, there’s gonna be a bunch o’ races tomorrow. Hoss races an’ footraces.” He straightened his back. “Figure on enterin’ the footrace myself. Took third last year.”
Proudly, he explained the town would be celebrating its founding, an annual event. “Do it every year, ya know. Well, two years ago, we didn’t. Too much rain. But I think that’s the only time.”
“Sounds like fun, but I’ve got to be moving on.”
Looking genuinely disappointed, the livery operator added that a cake contest and a spelling bee were also planned. Tanneman nodded and brought the conversation back to horses.
