by Cotton Smith
A few steps from the back door, a loud voice interrupted his escape.
“Hold it right there!”
Tanneman couldn’t see the person clearly and decided it was wiser to stop than to risk a hurried escape. He slipped his Colt into the sack and waited.
Within a few seconds, a stagehand with a pronounced limp appeared from the shadows. He wore worn Confederate pants, suspenders and a kepi hat. His extended belly was barely contained by his filthy shirt and stretched waistband.
“What do you think you’re doing in here?” he demanded.
Tanneman smiled. “Hoping to buy a ticket. The back door was unlocked so I came in. Perhaps you can help me.”
“Don’t give me that crap. You busted the lock,” the stagehand growled. “What you got in that sack?”
“Oh. Let me show you.”
Tanneman reached into the sack with his right hand, withdrew the gun and fired. The surprised stagehand gasped and the ex-Ranger fired again. The shots rang through the quiet building, but Tanneman hoped they wouldn’t reach the street. Stepping over the dying man, Tanneman reached the door, opened it and listened.
No sounds of alarm reached him.
He closed the door and decided to see if the show’s receipts were kept somewhere. A few minutes later, he found a fat sack of certificates and coins, lying in plain sight on what must have been the stage manager’s desk. He emptied a large cup of cigars into his sack, along with the money and disguise props. Retreating to his horse, he fixed the lock to appear unbroken from a distance.
After tying the sack to his saddle horn, he removed the mask from his saddlebags, tied it in place around his face, then pushed it onto the top of his head until it was needed. To the casual observer, it would appear to be a hat. He held his actual hat in his left hand at his side. He had practiced this move many times while riding.
The key was to move slowly to keep from attracting attention. Tanneman reined up at a hitching rack one building away from the bank. He dismounted and wrapped the reins around the pole for a quick release, then pulled empty saddlebags from the back of his saddle. He paused, a step before entering the bank, and yanked the mask into place and put on his hat. Pulling his Colt, Tanneman strolled inside. He didn’t lock the door. It was better for someone to come in while he was robbing the bank than to realize the bank was locked and go for help.
Inside, customers and bank employees were stunned by the appearance of the wood-masked robber with a gun. He loved their reaction. It was grand theater.
“This is a holdup. Fill these saddlebags. Fast. My gang’s outside, waiting,” Tanneman growled. “Two of them will stay on the roofs across the street for five minutes. With Winchesters. Anyone coming out of the bank before then will be shot down. Understand?”
Outside the bank, Tanneman Rose kept his head down to avoid anyone noticing the mask, then pulled it off, returned his hat to his head, mounted and rode slowly away, holding the mask at his side. He rode through town without looking back. Again, slowly. His warning to the bank patrons had definitely worked. He slowed alongside a string of horses tied to a saloon hitching rack. Dismounting, he looked around to make certain no one was watching, then shoved the mask into the closest saddlebag and remounted.
A mile from town, he pulled up alongside his peddler’s wagon. The two hobbled wagon horses, already hitched, barely looked up before returning to their grazing. He unsaddled the buckskin, threw the saddle gear into the back of the wagon and slapped the horse into a run. He hated to let the fine horse go, but it was necessary.
This time he expected a posse.
He added the filled saddlebags to the back of the wagon. Quickly, he put on the new fake beard and old fedora, hiding the rest of his new masquerade materials in a corner of the wagon, under some pots and pans. Unbuckling his gunbelt, he drew the Colt and shoved it into his waistband so his hidden hand could control it. He wouldn’t take the time to add the stomach padding or special clothes, but he shoved the mouth rolls into place as he clucked the horses into a walk. He made certain the wagon wheels and horses covered the tracks of the buckskin being stopped and unsaddled. Appearing to be headed for town would further dismiss him from any suspicion. He shook his head and chuckled.
“ ‘When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.’” He again savored the favored Shakespeare passage.
His shrill laugh turned the horses’ heads toward him, their ears cocked for understanding.
The creaky buckboard bounced and leaned one way, then the other, as they eased onto the road to town. Rattling and clanking, things slid behind him as he rode back along the road from which he had just come. He hadn’t gone a quarter mile before a posse of a dozen armed men cleared the closest hill. He waved and the men reined up.
“Seen a man riding hard?” the red-faced marshal asked.
Tanneman answered in his practiced Missouri drawl. “Yah, I sur did. Yessuh. Ridin’ a buckskin. Had a wood…ah, mask over his face. Scary as all git out.” He wiped his mouth with his hand. “I feared he might shoot me an’ I got off the road so’s he could pass. What’s he done?”
“Robbed our bank,” the marshal declared and waved his arm. “Come on, men, he’s not far ahead of us!”
Tanneman chuckled and headed on. The mask was left behind for someone to explain. San Antonio was next. He couldn’t help wondering if he had been this brilliant when he was a Persian shaman.
Chapter Ten
The two Irish lawmen rode toward a familiar hacienda less than a day’s ride from Bennett. Their long coats fluttered around their stirrups and against the flanks of their horses. Chance was a few feet behind. Mirabile had left them earlier to head to his ranch. Their search of Portland Rose’s ranch had been fruitless. The only thing of interest they had found was a strange-looking shrine in one bedroom they thought Tanneman had built.
As they rode, Carlow had talked about the merits of settling down, marrying and raising a family. Kileen planned to stay with Angel Balta while Carlow rode on to Bennett to send the message to McNelly that no money had been found and wait for their next orders. Carlow couldn’t wait to see Ellie Beckham; he could already see the surprised look in her eyes.
Pulling up, Carlow noted how the weather had turned the sun-dried alluvial clay and straw house into a rainbow of dull browns and grays. Kileen only grunted. To the west, the crop fields hadn’t seen a plow in years, nor would they. Angel Balta, the one-time outlaw queen, wasn’t interested. She preferred other pastimes.
“Angel, me darlin’, do ye be there?” Kileen yelled out as they reined up.
“Si. You two geet yourselves down and in here,” came an unseen, but hardy, female voice.
Before they had dismounted, Angel came hurrying from her house. She was a formidable woman even now. In her waist belt were two pearl-handled revolvers. An old sombrero bounced on her back. Long, mostly gray hair matched the rhythm along her shoulders. Her massive bosom jiggled and threatened to break through the strained buttons trying to hold their places on her blouse. Even though she no longer rode, her large Mexican spurs added their own music as she rushed to greet them.
Once a stunning beauty, she was reported to have bedded a hundred men. And shot at least fifty others. Heavy boots covered her calves and nearly reached her knees. The inset design of green, red and gold was mostly worn to bare horsehide and the remaining colors had faded to gray. But growing older had taken away none of her sensuous charm.
A wide grin took control of her wrinkled brown face. It forced the old scar across her high cheekbones and wide nose to move up and down. The scar was a reminder of a long-ago battle between the United States Army and a band of Mexican guerrillas near the border.
“Buenas tardes, Senor Beeg Thunder and mi hijo Senor Time,” she exclaimed. “Angel ees mucho lucky. Adelante! Come in! Come in!”
Her dark eyes sparkled and her long lashes batted their welcome to Kileen. A stained tan leather skirt, accented with a r
ow of tiny bells sewn around the bottom edge, flared wide at her knees. Carlow was certain it was the same outfit she had worn when they had stayed three years ago.
She wrapped her arms around the big Irishman and gave him a warm kiss on the mouth. He returned it with the same enthusiasm.
Talking quietly to Chance, Carlow tried not to look at their special moment. He privately hoped to be greeted the same way by Ellie Beckham.
“And mi hijo, you have come back to me,” Angel declared and gave Carlow an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the cheek. She stepped back from him, her hands still holding his shoulders. “Et ees so bueno. You ees strong, mi hijo. You ees warrior.”
Carlow told her that she, too, looked wonderful, knowing that “mi hijo” was Spanish for “my son.” He was the same age as her oldest son, Miguel, who had died years ago. She had helped heal Carlow after an awful battle in Bennett when the Rangers had fought the infamous Silver Mallow Gang. Kileen had brought him to her house, more dead than alive, a safe haven, he hoped, from the Mallow gang. Carlow’s best friend and fellow Ranger, Shannon Dornan, had been killed in that same fight.
“Me lass, some fine Irish whiskey, I be bringing,” Kileen declared. “An’ pipe tobacco. An’ some other surprises an’ such. Good things to eat, they be.”
Carlow retreated to his own saddlebags and retrieved a package wrapped in brown paper and a sack.
“I never thanked you…for all you did,” he said, holding the gifts toward her. “Fact is, I wasn’t very nice, seems to me.”
Her smile was gracious and warm as she accepted the gifts. “De nada, mi hijo, you ees a warrior. They no like not being in ze fight. Eet ees their way. I know.”
In a moment, her brown hands revealed the contents of his gifts: a pad of drawing papers and a sack filled with pencils, ink pens and two bottles of ink. Her face became a wide smile once more. Her drawing skills were exceptional; Carlow knew that firsthand.
“Ah, you know what Angel wants,” she exclaimed. “Thees ees wonderful! I have used up all that I had from Beeg Thunder’s last trip.” She looked past him momentarily. “You steel have the bueno hoss. Shadow, no?” She walked over to the black horse and stroked its nose. “Si, you ees like mi Cuchillo, run like ze wind and ask for more.”
“Good memory, Angel.” Carlow smiled back and added, “Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll be riding on. Got to go to Bennett and wire the captain. There’s a certain young woman there I hope will remember me, too.”
“If she not, she ees not a woman worthy of mi hijo.” She grinned wickedly. “Then there be a house at the edge of town where a young man weel be treated well.”
Carlow blushed.
She hugged him again and he returned to his black horse. He grinned to himself. So far she had made no attempt to ask him to stay. Good, he thought. She will be good for my uncle. He wondered if they would marry when his uncle was ready to settle down. Maybe they both should do that. Maybe retire to ranching like Mirabile had just done.
Leaping into the saddle, he said, “I’ll be back in two days. Sooner if Ellie doesn’t remember me.” He made no mention of Angel’s reference to visiting one of Bennett’s cribs. He had been to a whorehouse once in El Paso, years ago, at Kileen’s insistence. Never again.
“Come inside an’ eat first. Angel insists.” She smiled. “Angel has some bueno salve to heal that burn. A bullet came close, mi hijo. Mucho close.” Without waiting for a response, she gave the big Irishman another kiss that made Carlow blush, and he headed inside.
After a big meal of tortillas, beans, eggs, bacon and coffee, complemented with toasts of whiskey, Carlow headed back to his horse, bringing pieces of bacon and tortilla for Chance.
Coming up behind him, Kileen said, “That doubleyolk egg ye be eatin’ this day, ye know what that be meanin’?”
“That it was twice as good?” Carlow teased as he checked the cinch.
Kileen frowned. “Nay, me lad. ‘Tis a wedding it be tellin’.”
“You and Angel getting hitched?”
“Me be thinkin’ o’ ye an’ the fine Miss Beckham.”
Carlow smiled. The thought had crossed his mind more than once. Other Rangers were married, some with families. Why not him? He patted his packed saddlebags. Among his gear was the silver locket and chain; the heart-shaped piece was engraved with intricate, floral designs. For Ellie. Even Kileen thought it was fine-looking. Next to it was his last letter to her. Unsent. He would deliver it personally. The young Ranger grinned. He also had the small knife in a beaded sheath for her son, Jeremiah, whom he cared for. The boy would be about twelve now. A time when Time Carlow had been running the streets of Bennett with his best friend, Shannon Dornan, looking for trouble and usually finding it.
Studying his nephew, Kileen proceeded to tell him of the wonders of a sprig of mint in a man’s hand. It was to be held until it was moist and warm, and then the man could take the woman’s hand. As long as their hands touched, she would follow him. However, they must be silent for ten minutes first for the charm to work.
Carlow was tempted to ask if his uncle thought he and Angel could be quiet that long, but decided it was better to just wave and ride on.
Without thinking about it, the young Ranger found himself heading toward the quiet place where his mother and best friend were buried. After several hours of letting his mind drift over the yesterdays, usually settling around Ellie Beckham, he saw the fat creek curled around a patrol of cottonwoods, signaling the quiet area. He cleared an uneven ridge and reined up.
A granite headstone had replaced the simple cross above Shannon Dornan’s grave. It had been purchased by the two Irish Rangers some time ago and installed by the Bennett undertaker. White and yellow flowers similar to those around Carlow’s mother’s headstone caught his eye. Who had taken the time to plant them? He remembered his uncle telling him that if flowers grew around a grave it meant the person had lived a good life. It was a pretty story, he told himself.
Two other headstones had joined those of Carlow’s friend and mother. The names of the deceased were vaguely familiar.
Looks like some other folks have joined them, Carlow noted to himself.
He didn’t remember dismounting and leading Shadow closer. A huge tree overlooked Dornan’s grave. The site had been selected by Kileen when Carlow had been lying, barely alive, in a wagon. The two boys had played often in that tree and Carlow found himself returning to those shadowed moments of yesterday.
A nudge at his Kiowa buckskin legging brought him back. Looking down, Carlow petted Chance. “We found each other, not far from here. Didn’t we, boy? Do you remember?” He bit his lower lip. “Thunder thinks you’re Shannon. Yeah, I know.”
Tying his horse to a branch, he walked over to Dornan’s grave, said a silent prayer and felt in his vest pocket for the two blood stones. One was his; the other had been his friend’s. They were rock memories from a ceremony the two had held on Carlow’s fourteenth birthday. From that day on, both carried stones with marks of each other’s blood. It was their idea of an Indian blood-brother ceremony mixed with an ancient Gaelic rite, Lia Fail, or “the stone of destiny.” Carlow had heard the story, from his mother, about how each king of Ireland had taken his oath upon this special stone.
Carlow’s thoughts snapped to the Bennett jail three years ago, when the Silver Mallow Gang had attacked the four Rangers defending it, after some of the gang had already been arrested. Most of the town had turned against them, partly out of fear of Silver Mallow and partly because three of the Rangers were Irish.
His knees wobbled as he again saw Shannon Dornan cut down with bullets while he fought from the doorway of the jail. He vaguely remembered his uncle finding the two of them as Kileen and a few of the townspeople fought the gang into a retreat.
“Oh Shannon. Shannon. I know you are in Heaven and it is wonderful. I know that,” he murmured. “Just wish you could have waited. For me.”
He spun away and went to his mother’s grave, with memo
ries of their childhood friendship trailing him. Carlow reached inside his shirt and touched the silver Celtic cross hanging around his neck.
His name, Time, was the result of his mother thinking it meant “eternal.” Time Lucent Carlow. Lucent had been his mother’s maiden name. She hadn’t known much English when he was born, but she had made sure her son did—and that his voice carried none of the Irishness about it and that he had no tendency to be superstitious. His uncle had enough of that for both of them. He chuckled. His uncle had taken care of his mother and her infant son when he was around, usually making money as a bare-knuckle prizefighter; Carlow didn’t want to think about the times when he hadn’t been.
That reminded him of the time when he first realized his uncle didn’t have the last name he should have had. He should have been a Lucent, not a Kileen. Carlow was already a Ranger when the thought hit him. His uncle told him that he had changed his name because of an incident in New York, when Carlow was just a small child. Kileen had killed a man with his fists after the man refused to pay him for some hard work done. Money was sorely needed to buy groceries for his sister and her child. Kileen had put them both on a train and said he would follow as soon as he could. The name change was to help keep anyone from tracking him down. They never spoke of it again.
Touching the top of the gravestone, he said, “Mother, I know you are taking good care of Shannon. You remember he was a bit shy at times.”
A soft smile reached his face. “He was almost as superstitious as Thunder, too.” He paused and looked again at the gravestone. “Mo mhíle grá.”
