Death Mask

by Cotton Smith

  Tanneman rode out of the livery on a long-legged buckskin horse, then stopped at the gun shop and bought a Winchester, two boxes of ammunition, a pistol belt and holster for his Colt, and a large sheath knife. An idea was forming in his head. He remembered the distinctive mask of theater, combining tragedy and comedy. A mask would be perfect. In its own way, it would be a death mask. For the men who had betrayed him.

  Another stop, at the general store, took longer. He entered the cluttered store and let its smells of fresh coffee, bacon, tobacco, spices, vinegar and leather surround him. Like most such stores, it carried a little of everything. Walking around barrels and kegs of grocery staples, he examined the supplies displayed on rough-planked shelves. With a basket, he gathered a shirt, pants, canteen, leather strips, a small sack of coffee, another of beans, one of flour, a wrapped package of beef jerky, another of salt pork, eight cans of peaches, a glass jar of preserves, two pencils and several sheets of paper.

  Satisfied with his selections, he moved to the lumber-and-hardware section of the store. He selected a sack of nails, hammer, chisel and twenty thin pieces of wood. Each was about eight inches wide and a foot long. After choosing the wood Tanneman grabbed a can of white paint and a brush.

  “Those’ll work good for shingles,” the clerk exclaimed as he checked out. “If you’ve got roof problems.” He smiled, revealing two missing teeth, and slid his hand along the side of his head, caressing his combed-back hair.

  Irritated, Tanneman caught his anger before responding. “Well, my wife, you know, she got real unhappy when the roof leaked. After that last rain.” He shook his head. “Got to keep on their good side, you know.”

  “Sure do. Looks like she’s got you doin’ some painting, too.” The clerk winked and then asked, “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”

  Tanneman didn’t like the innocent curiosity, but tried not to show it. “No. We live over yonder. Only been there a short while.” He motioned toward the east, hoping the vagueness would suffice. “Thought I’d give the town a try.”

  “Good. Glad to have you here,” the clerk said and started to ask another question.

  “Thanks now. I’ll be seeing you next time,” Tanneman said and turned toward the door with most of his purchases juggled in his arms.

  “Hey, you might want to bring your wife in tomorrow,” the clerk said.

  Tanneman stopped without turning.

  “It’s our big day. Celebrates the founding of the town,” the clerk declared. “All kinds of things goin’ on. Contests an’ races. Everybody around will be here. Good time to meet folks.”

  Turning toward the counter slowly, Tanneman thanked him and went outside to pack his purchases in his saddlebags and return for the wood. The clerk was busy helping a woman with a bolt of cloth, so the ex-Ranger didn’t have to talk with him any longer. He tied the shingles onto the back of the saddle and headed out.

  By dusk, he had returned to the shack and begun creating a mask from one of the wooden pieces. He gouged eye and mouth holes into the narrow wood, and carved an indentation in the wood to allow his nose some room.

  A small circle with a cross in its center was painted in white where a nose would have been. It was a symbol of the Persian shaman he had been. He had seen the mark often in his dreams. He laid the new mask on the floor to dry. He studied the hand-painted design and smiled. A circle was the symbol of reincarnation. Of completion. Of accomplishment. The lines extending from it, like a sun’s rays, represented the men he would kill. The mask itself was a symbol of death. Like a funeral mask of ancient tribes. Whenever he was conducting one of his planned revenges, he would wear the wooden mask to disguise himself. That would allow him to direct the law to someone else. Someone innocent. Someone who would pay with his own life.

  He worked for hours before taking a break. Hot coffee and a can of peaches tasted good. Four hours later, he was exhausted and went to sleep on the floor in the middle of his mask making. Next to him were ten finished masks.

  When he awoke, he continued to work on the masks, stopping only to relieve himself, drink coffee and eat something, usually more peaches. Finally, twenty masks were finished. Nails held rawhide strips that would hold the mask to his face; another strip came from the top of the mask and would be tied to the cross pieces. This would keep the mask steady and less likely to slip down.

  Before a yellow half moon, a naked Tanneman sat before a small fire fifty yards from the shack. He chanted, waved each mask over the smoke of his fire and raised it toward the silent moon. When he was finished, he straddled the small fire and let the smoke plumes crawl up his nude body.

  Holding up a mask with both outstretched hands, he yelled into the dark night. “Aaron Kileen, you will die.”

  Laying the mask aside, he picked up a second and repeated his ceremonial commitment. “Time Carlow, you will die.”

  With each mask, he screamed the name of one of his intended victims. “Julian Mirabile, you will die. Pig Deconer, you will die. Waddell Johnson, you will die. Wilcox Cline, you will die. Marshal Timble, you will die. Leander McNelly, you will die.”

  Stepping away from the smoking fire, his shoulders rose and fell. He felt like the shaman he had been so many years before. Yes, he was the same man. He could sense it throughout his entire body. He had reconnected with his soul. From a distant tree, an owl saluted his determination. Tanneman smiled; the owl was definitely a reincarnated being. He was certain it was his late brother Hillis. The large bird’s feathers reflected gold and red from Tanneman’s fire.

  “Hillis, it is good to have you here.” Tanneman saluted. “Do you know where Portland and Barnabas are?”

  He was ready. Revenge would be his. Sweet revenge. All it would take was time—and his own brilliance. Carefully, he prepared, on a sheet of paper, the list of men who would be killed.

  Chapter Eight

  Morning brought the sounds of a creaking wagon outside. Tanneman Rose jumped from the cot and grabbed his new Winchester. My God, has the law already figured out my escape? he asked himself as he hurried to the door.

  He peeked through the barely opened door and saw the peddler’s wagon outside. In its seat was the onearmed peddler from yesterday. He was a heavyset man in an old suit and barely shaped fedora. His age was difficult to gauge, probably in his forties. A chestnut horse with two white stockings and a bay pulled the wagon and appeared happy to stop.

  From what the prostitute had told him, the man traveled from town to town, ranch to ranch, farm to farm, selling goods. Why was he here?

  “How may I help you?” Tanneman opened the door. His rifle was clearly visible.

  “Wal, I am certainly sor-ry, suh,” the peddler responded in a high-pitched Missouri drawl. “Didn’t think nobody was hyar. No suh, I didn’t.” He waved his right arm. “I, uh, have stayed hyar. Before. I’m sorry.”

  In that moment, Tanneman Rose made a decision. Becoming a peddler would be a perfect way to move about the region without raising suspicion. The perfect transformation. The perfect theater. The wagon had been sent to him for the fulfillment of his plan. He had dreamed it.

  “I’m just doing the same. Come in and I’ll get us some coffee on,” Tanneman invited.

  Eagerly, the peddler lashed his reins around the brake stick and climbed down.

  Tanneman fired twice and the Missouri peddler coughed and collapsed next to the right front wheel. The two horses were too tired to get excited and instead looked around for something to graze on. Calmly, Tanneman walked to the wagon and fired again into the unmoving body.

  His inspection of the covered vehicle revealed that every inch was packed with goods, from ready-to-wears to sewing patterns, from boxes of needles to thread and thimbles. Even pairs of black silk gloves and green gauze veils were shoved into a box. Three pillows and two worn blankets occupied a small corner. Several loose books sat on top—two on poetry, one of Shakespeare’s plays and three old school editions. A large box contained a wide assortment of
bottled medicines, mostly home remedies of Epsom salts, cod-liver oil, opium, paregoric, camphor and snakeroot. Other items included folded linens, small mirrors, coils of rope, bridles and two saddles, pots and pans, boxes of tobacco, horseshoes and bullets, a heavy knife-sharpening wheel, a box of knives and a few revolvers from the War of Northern Aggression.

  Laughing at his luck, he decided to develop the disguise he would wear as the peddler, using the dead man as a model. The spirits wanted him to prepare his transformation. A pillow from the wagon became stomach padding, held in place around his waist with long leather strings, also from the peddler’s wares.

  What to wear? He decided on the peddler’s own worn suit coat of gray woolen heritage, a wrinkled string tie and his battered hat. There was no need to change his pants or boots; both would work. His own shirt, taken from the earlier road traveler, would also be fine. Besides, the peddler’s was bloody and sported bullet holes. Everything fit well enough for his purpose, especially when he wore the pillow.

  He walked around the small room, working on a limp he decided would add to his new persona. A cane from the wagon would help the presentation. As he practiced, he imitated the Missouri accent and high voice of the peddler. He wouldn’t attempt to be the man literally, but the transformation required mannerisms, and it was easy to imitate something he had already seen or experienced.

  Then Tanneman inserted tiny rolls of paper from his paper pad between his lower jaw and cheeks on the inside of his mouth. With one of the mirrors from the wagon, he checked his idea. The effect made his face more full, but wasn’t particularly comfortable. Strips torn from a towel, also taken from the wagon, would work much better. He shoved them into his coat pocket.

  “ ‘When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.’” He again muttered one of his favorite Shakespeare passages. His shrill laugh bounced around the room.

  After testing the approach, he decided it made sense to present himself as one-armed as well. The coat sleeve was already pinned in place; he only had to work with his arm to decide the best way to conceal it. Keeping it curled inside his shirt, under his coat, worked well. It would be an easy way to hide a handy gun.

  Looking into the mirror, he rubbed his unshaven chin and decided growing a beard would be a good way to hide his face. He smiled at the idea of such a transformation. This was more of the wonder of theater.

  The man who had raised him and his brothers—Highland Griffin—instilled this love of the stage, of make-believe, in him. Neither Hillis nor Portland cared anything about performing. Barnabas had tried, from time to time. This gift of becoming someone else had carried the ex-Ranger to considerable wealth—and he had tried to make his siblings wealthy, too. Until they were foolish enough to get killed.

  Certainly he had accumulated far more riches than anyone could ever earn prancing about in some threadbare costume on a makeshift stage, constantly moving from one forgotten town to the next, as their foster parent had done all his sad life.

  Far more wealth than wearing a Ranger badge, for that matter. Actually, he had seen being a Ranger as a role to play, between bank robberies.

  The idea of a beard simmered in his mind. It was limiting. He needed to be able to change disguises, to transform. A fake beard would be necessary. Stopping at a theater in one of the bigger towns would be a priority. He smiled. Of course. The theater.

  He had never known his mother, but suspected she had been one of the dancers in the traveling troupe. He had also deduced that Highland Griffin was their real father, although the gentle man had never admitted it.

  Definitely, black hair would enhance his transformation. It would make things easier if he wore it that way all the time. He would have to find some black hair dye.

  Satisfied with himself and the next steps he must take, he walked toward the doorway. A spider meandered across the floor. His first instinct was to step on it, but then he reminded himself that he had been a spider in another life. After his life as a Persian shaman.

  “Go along, fellow,” Tanneman said. “I know what it’s like. I was there, too.”

  He straightened and the thought that this might be Portland occurred to him. Or was it was too soon? His own past-life recall on that point was sketchy. Some of it, he admitted to himself, was painful. Most, though, was quite pleasant. But he had no sense of how quickly he had returned. He scooped the spider into one of the empty peach cans, with the help of the brim of his hat.

  A mask served as a temporary lid while he looked for something bigger and better to hold the spider. Finally, he chose to dump the preserves into another empty peach can. A handful of grass and one of dirt were added to the jar, so the spider would have a nice place to stay. Then he moved the spider from the peach can to the jar. Small holes in the lid ensured air. He carefully carried the jar outside and placed it on the wagon. He was certain it was Portland, reincarnated.

  After placing his masks inside the wagon, he dragged the dead peddler into a ditch that worked its way across the land, aided by a sometimes creek. He wrapped the bloody scalp in a towel for later disposal. Whoever found the body would blame Indians. Minutes later, he rode away on his buckskin toward Prairie Village. He would return for the wagon after he robbed the settlement’s bank. With the excitement of the celebration at hand, no one would pay attention to the bank. The trick was to get there before it closed for the day.

  Chapter Nine

  Tanneman Rose went directly to a vibrant town southwest of San Antonio. He had been there once before—as a Ranger. And as a bank robber. All of his brothers had been involved. He smiled when he thought of his first bank robbery since escaping; the townspeople of Prairie Village never sent a posse, at least not one that came his way. Too busy with their day of races and cake contests, he supposed, and chuckled again.

  Everything about the town was appealing to Tanneman Rose—and little had changed since his last visit. Saloons. Brothels. Gambling. A nice, fat bank. And most importantly right now, a theater. Even though the Brass Robin Theater had definitely seen its better days.

  He rode past the building. According to the framed notice, King Richard III was appearing nightly. A traveling company, of course. Fifty cents was the price for a seat. The added stripe across the lower part of the poster declared: sold out.

  Elsewhere, morning activity was taking over the main part of town. Freighters and wagons of all sizes attacked the streets while townspeople focused on their daily chores. No one noticed him. For that he was appreciative. The peddler’s wagon and horses had been left in a nicely shaded basin a mile from town.

  He liked riding the buckskin far more than being in the wagon. He glanced back at his saddlebags, empty except for one mask. Soon, though, he would have to let the animal go. People would be suspicious of a peddler with a fine horse.

  Rumors were everywhere that a large group of Rangers were moving toward the border to try to stop Mexican rustlers using the border as their safety. But the right Rangers would definitely come after he started his pattern of revenge. He would go first to San Antonio. If Judge Cline and District Attorney Johnson weren’t there, he would wait for them, probably getting rid of Marshal Timble while he did so. Then he would head north to kill Mirabile. The former Ranger had a small ranch just outside of Strickland, two days’ ride from San Antonio and a day from Bennett.

  On the way he planned to retrieve all of the stolen money. How brilliant he had been to keep it—and its location—from his brothers. After killing Mirabile, he would again wait, this time for Kileen and Carlow to come. He knew they would and was certain they had gone to his brother’s ranch to search. The fools. McNelly would definitely have to be tracked down. That would be the sweetest of them all. Then he would simply ride away to New Orleans. It was a fine plan.

  Reining up beside the theater, he studied its aging frame with appreciation. He dismounted and led the horse to the back of the building. He expected to find the back door locked, but that wo
uldn’t deter him. What he wanted from inside wouldn’t take long, he expected. A fake full beard, mustaches and eyebrows. Hair dye. And a lotion to provide darker skin if necessary for a disguise. Other elements of disguise, if possible. He took a canvas sack from his saddlebags and shook out its wrinkles.

  It only took a minute to break open the hanging lock with the butt of his revolver, and he slipped inside. The place smelled musty and shadows played everywhere. It seemed like home. He walked past three small dressing rooms and out onto the stage itself. Painted sets were positioned for the evening’s performance. Additional sets lay in the corner.

  A creak accompanied his steps to the center of the stage. He jumped at the sound and laughed, then bowed and took in the silent seating for at least four hundred, counting the double-decked boxes in a semicircle above the main floor.

  He presented the nonexistent audience with, “ ‘True hope is swift, and flies with swallows wings; Kings it makes gods and meaner creatures kings,’” then bowed again. The sack flopped against his body. It was the only line from King Richard III he could recall.

  How appropriate, he thought. His first killing had actually been the man who had broken his foster father’s will and taken most of his money, in a theater production gone bad. For a moment, he considered staying in town and watching the evening’s performance. That idea vanished as he reminded himself of the need to rob the bank. His money from the Prairie Village Bank was getting low. He spun and returned to the first dressing room. What he sought should be there.

  The first room was a disappointment. Obviously, it was earmarked for a lead actress. Only dresses occupied the large trunk; many more hung from a rope across the entire side.

  The second dressing room contained what he wanted. Among the costumes, stage pistols and swords was a flat box containing every manner of fake facial hair, from wigs to beards and mustaches. He opened the box, examined its contents and set them aside to take. A pile of wigs and beards, even sets of fake heavy eyebrows. He added two pairs of fake eyeglasses. On the dressing room table, he found the rest of his needs: black hair dye and a large bottle of tan makeup. In the bottom of the trunk, he found a weathered and cheap imitation of an Indian headdress, yanked free three feathers and placed them in the sack as well. He might not need them, but the tan lotion and the feathers would give him a good start on an Indian disguise if he wanted it. He slipped them into his canvas sack and headed out.