by Cotton Smith
The young Ranger remembered his uncle saying Bridgeport had fought with the British Royal Marine Light Infantry in India. It was difficult to match this graying, out-of-shape figure with the image of that fierce fighting unit.
As if reciting what he had had for breakfast, the Strickland lawman explained what he knew about the bank robbery. A lone gunman had accosted the bank president, Gerald Douglas, at his home, and had come with the president into the bank through the back door. Patting his cheek with his fingers, Bridgeport noted that the bank president was not an early riser and the bank itself had been open for several hours. The gunman took the money from the opened vault; stuffed certificates, coins and some small sacks of gold dust into his saddlebags; and made his getaway. Again, he had gone out the back, taking the president with him, and then leaving President Douglas at the rear.
The shaken bank executive hadn’t recognized the bank robber, who had covered his face with a full mask made of wood. However, he had long, gray hair, wore a wide-brimmed black hat and rode a gray horse.
Kileen mumbled that a gray horse was, indeed, bad luck.
Bridgeport pondered the idea for moment before continuing. According to the bank president, the robber had carried a rifle with a scope and sling. Bridgeport said it sounded like a Pedersoli rifle to him. He knew the gun, owning one himself.
“Your fine bank president, did he be sayin’ this blackguard be wearin’ a black coat?” Kileen asked, leaning over to make his point. “Or be smokin’ a pipe?”
“ ‘Is clobber included a black coat. A long one, at ‘is knees. No pipe. At least, no one mentioned it, by golly.’ Course ‘e had a mask on. That would make it difficult to smoke such,” Bridgeport chirped. “Said the fellow was a little taller than he was, Mr. Douglas did, yes he said that. Mr. Douglas, our bank’s head executive, is only a bit taller than me.” He indicated the relative height difference with his hand.
“Oh yeah, almost forgot, ‘e had a German manner of speaking.” The marshal waved his arms vigorously and the movement caused him to remember the sack in his left hand.
“Blimey, I forgot my manners an’ all. Would you be carin’ for a gumdrop? Fresh they be.” He took one from the sack, popped it into his mouth and held out the sack.
“No thanks,” Carlow said, shaking his head.
“Thank ye, Lark, but I be fine,” Kileen responded and asked, “Aye, be there not a wee hole in the mask for his mouth?”
“Hmmm. Didn’t ask. Probably. I don’t know,” Bridgeport responded. “We can ask Mr. Douglas.” He took another gumdrop from his sack.
Carlow watched the crowd fade away except for the bearded man, who leaned over twice, trying to regain the nerve to retrieve his rifle. “Just leave it there, mister. You can come back for it later. After we’re gone.”
“Y-yessir. Sure…I will.” The man backed away from his gun, his arm still extended toward it, then spun around and half ran down the street.
“What’s a clobber?” Carlow eased down the hammer on his gun and holstered it. He was satisfied the crowd had thoroughly dispersed, except for three men standing outside the bank. Carlow guessed one of them must be Gerald Douglas, the bank president. They might learn more from him than from continuing discussions with the marshal.
Bridgeport glanced in the direction of the retreating man as he continued, “Clobber. Ah, uniform. Clothing, if you please, Ranger Carlow.” He smiled at his own use of British military slang. “ ‘Aving spent my life with the RMLI, mostly in India, I ‘ave a tendency to talk like a swaddy.”
Cocking his head, Carlow waited.
“Ah, yes, the Royal Marine Light Infantry…and a swaddy is a soldier.”
The marshal continued, “Mr. Douglas even asked if I still ‘ad my fine gun, thinking it looked just like the robber’s. Assured ‘im I did, that my rifle was resting in my closet at ‘ome.” Bridgeport paused and giggled. “Of course, I made a bloody beeline to the residence shortly thereafter to make certain of the gun’s continued presence. And, ta-da—there it be in all its glory.” He struggled to keep from smiling. “Oh, and there may have been a second fellow, watching from outside the bank. The witnesses aren’t clear on the matter.”
“Your bank robber be soundin’ like the man who murdered a fine rancher a few days ago. A former Ranger,” Kileen responded. “The killer be usin’ such a gun—and riding a gray horse, he be. We be trackin’ the blaggard.”
“Blimey, a busy boy, it would seem.” Bridgeport giggled and felt sorry for it. “Would that be the rancher Mirabile?”
“Aye. What do you be knowin’ o’ the sad thing?”
Frowning, Bridgeport explained that a cowhand from a neighboring ranch had brought the news yesterday.
“Are you going to gather a posse? I don’t suppose you know which direction he went?” Carlow was annoyed by Bridgeport’s self-amusement. The marshal pointed toward the other end of town, watching a young man in his late teens walk toward them, trying to build his confidence as he advanced.
Kileen frowned, but said nothing.
Bridgeport smiled again. “Yes, a group of armed citizenry rode out immediately, led by one of my fine deputies. Before I arrived. Gallantly all, bellowing their vindictiveness. You colonials are a bit impetuous, you know. Actually, that may be the most cruel of bloody jokes played upon our avenging angels.” He reached into his sack and gathered a handful of candy and slipped the pieces one at a time into his mouth as he talked.
“What do you mean?” Carlow’s eyes flashed annoyance.
“Shortly after they left, all claiming loudly of immediate success and bloody retribution…” Bridgeport stopped, pushed another gumdrop into his mouth and chuckled, before going on. “A young lad came to me and told of a lone rider in a black coat—on a gray horse—clearing the hills to the east, where the boy ‘ad been watching some sheep.” He giggled loudly. “Isn’t that a bit much?”
“Could’ve been just another gray horse,” Carlow observed.
“Ah yes, it could ‘ave been. But the boy said the fellow was ‘olding a rifle with a sling. Long hair under his hat. Gray. ‘E couldn’t see his face. The bloody mask again.”
“How come this blackguard let the lad go?” Kileen asked.
“Blimey lucky ‘e was. Said the rider didn’t see ‘im. The boy was kneeling down, checking one of ‘is lambs.”
Carlow looked in that direction. “That would mean he’s headed for the hill country. Good places to hide up there.”
“Before there, as well,” Bridgeport corrected. “There’s a ‘eavy stand of fine trees a few ‘ours ride from ‘ere. I’ve enjoyed the scenery more than once.” He giggled and selected another piece of candy from his sack. “A small cabin can be found there, as well, if one knows where to look. A worthy place to doggo for the night.” His stare sought Kileen’s for approval.
“So what about your posse?” Carlow frowned. He didn’t ask what “doggo” meant, assuming it was English military slang for “hide” or “sleep.”
“Oh, I sent an enthusiastic galloper out after them. As soon as I knew.” Bridgeport raised his chin to support his claim of action. “It was the least I could do.”
“Close to it, anyway,” Carlow growled.
Bridgeport folded his arms in front of his chest. “Ranger Carlow, I think I did well under the circumstances. Warned the bank’s owners of the laxity of their chief executive several times, I ‘ave. It should not ’ave been a surprise that the bank was violated in this way.” He cocked his head to the side. “Myself, I keep no money there.” He turned toward Kileen. “Come to my favorite establishment for some good food and drink before you ‘ead on—you and your angry associate. Steer’s ‘Ead rivals the finest English taverns—and the wenches are much nicer.” He giggled again. “An’ the Gem Theater, ah, a Shakespearean troupe is in town. Othello, they’re doing. ‘Ear it’s really good.”
“Be thankin’ ye for the kind offer, Lark, but we best be gettin’ after him,” Kileen answered. “Dark be his friend, not ours.
A three-day lead he once be havin’. ’Tis shorter now, ‘twould seem.”
The British lawman asked why the Rangers had gone to Mirabile’s ranch and Kileen explained the situation, leaving out Carlow’s suspicion that the man behind the killings was Tanneman Rose. Carlow listened, but made no attempt to add to the description.
“Bloody tough business, yours.” Bridgeport shook his head. “Will you be minding if I bring along some support to ‘elp in this endeavor?”
“You mean a posse?” Carlow was still watching the young man coming toward them, now more purposefully. As far as Carlow could tell, he wasn’t armed.
“Blimey, what else?”
“They’ll get in the way.”
Kileen glanced at his nephew and frowned. “Easy, me lad. Mind your manners. The good constable can be comin’ with us if he’s a mind to. ‘Twould be much to our likin’.”
The young man from town stepped up to them and announced with as much bravado as he could muster that he wanted to go with the posse. His voice gave away his age by cracking in midsentence.
Bridgeport put his arm around the man and cocked his head upward toward the Rangers. “Ah, the Imperial Yeomanry is gathering already.” He turned back to Kileen. “By the way, there’s a man—and ‘is lady—who live in that cabin I mentioned. They’re real loners. Never come to town. Farmers, sort of. Got some ‘ogs. Milk cows, too. ‘E’s been suspected of bringing someone else’s cow home for eating from time to time. Not proven, mind you. From Germany. Long gray hair. Thick glasses. Speaks with a German accent. Waulken is the name. Alben Waulken.”
He looked like a man sharing a private joke, smiling slightly.
“Does he own a rifle with a scope? A gray horse?” Kileen asked intently, ignoring the obvious reaction.
“That I not be knowing.” Bridgeport shrugged and examined his sack to see if any candy remained. “Never seen ‘im with either. Never seen either ‘e or ‘is lady in town, for that matter.” He cocked his head. “But I haven’t exactly been spending afternoon tea there. It’s out of my jurisdiction.”
“Not ours,” Carlow snapped, annoyed at Bridgeport’s manner.
Bridgeport nodded agreement and pointed at Carlow’s wolf-dog. “Be this scary fellow with you?”
The young Ranger cocked his head to the side. “Yes. You have a problem with that?”
Shaking his head, Bridgeport chuckled. “Naw, I do not. ‘E bloody well fits you, it seems to this bloke.”
Chapter Nineteen
Letting the gray thoroughbred have its head, Tanneman Rose passed four quiet farms and mostly open plains. He knew this country well, having spent most of a week combing the area, disguised as usual as a traveling peddler with a thick Missouri twang. Selling goods from his rickety wagon was an ideal way to move about a region without raising suspicion. No one cared where this odd man came from or where he was going. It had also produced the perfect foil—Alben Waulken.
With his field glasses, Tanneman had observed Mirabile for two days. This yielded a pattern of behavior Tanneman had used to catch the rancher alone. Disguised as the reclusive farmer, he had executed his plan and then headed for Strickland. The bank robbery had gone well; the bank president was a predictable buffoon.
Tanneman had planned the crime as a reinforcement of his disguise as the long-haired German in a black coat, riding a gray horse, carrying a Pedersoli rifle. He had expected a posse to follow his easy-to-read trail, which would lead directly to Alben Waulken’s isolated cabin. The news of Julian Mirabile’s death would catch up with the local law soon enough. Maybe it already had. However, it was necessary to pin both crimes on the unwitting man living at the edge of the timberline.
Tanneman would leave the rifle on the man’s property, along with the black coat and the wooden mask. The long gray wig and pipe he would keep for another time. Actually, the only thing he didn’t like about his current strategy was leaving the gray horse behind. He had actually purchased it from a rancher outside of San Antonio in need of immediate cash.
Laughing as he rode, Tanneman Rose revisited his discovery of Alben Waulken. It had happened almost by accident. Except he didn’t believe in accidents, only fate. He had been looking for the right person to set up and, behold, there he was. Alben Waulken lived alone with his wife at the edge of a wooded area, scratching out a few crops, raising hogs and milking a couple of cows. Through careful questioning as he peddled his wares, Tanneman learned Waulken was suspected of stealing an occasional steer for eating. Better yet, the couple never went to Strickland, so nobody there knew them well. Long gray hair and a pipe were simple props he already had that would be hidden along with many others inside his peddler wagon.
Waulken’s thick German accent was memorable and easy to imitate. Tanneman liked having someone blamed for his assassinations when possible; it gave the law a sense of accomplishment—and kept them from probing further.
“Perfect, Herr Waulken, du vill never know vhat ist happening to du,” Tanneman muttered and chuckled at his imitation. He touched the jaguar necklace beneath his shirt. A suitable replacement for the original was secured in a small town he passed through. A Mexican trader had three, just like his first necklace; he had bought all three.
Tanneman’s peddler’s wagon was well hidden in the forest not far from Waulken’s small cabin. Once there, he would reapply his well-developed disguise as a downtrodden peddler and head back to San Antonio. Planning for the execution of the next man on his list would begin. Probably Marshal Timble—or the jury foreman. Unless Carlow and Kileen showed up unexpectedly. He smiled. Just like in his dreams.
“Mirabile, you bastard, I waited a long damn time to put a bullet in your head,” Tanneman muttered. “Sitting there in the courtroom. Smiling at me. You bastard.”
Town was well behind him and forgotten. He had ridden in sight until he saw the young shepherd. That sighting would bring the posse in the right direction—and his trail could be followed by anyone. Anyone.
“Good. Good,” he said, passing a fifth farm, where a man was still working in his field.
Tanneman rode slowly past the south edge of the man’s pasture. The farmer’s description would aid the posse. Of course, he wouldn’t identify the rider as Waulken. He would only state that a black-coated rider—in a full mask—had ridden by on a gray horse. Tanneman grinned and kicked the animal into a smooth lope to move out of range of any further identification.
At the last instant, he avoided the temptation to holler out “Guten Tag!” The farmer might know Waulken well enough to recognize it wasn’t his voice.
Suddenly his anger at his former comrades for trying to send him to prison burst through. “Rotten hog meat. Filthy mattresses. Working every stinking day. Being whipped. You bastards wanted me to live like that. Now you’ll pay.” The tirade slipped into a chant only he knew.
Lately, his dreams had been filled with images of Pakistan and a dark hut that had often appeared in his reveries. He assumed the hut had been his home in his previous life. In the dreams, he often changed from a spider to an owl and back again.
An hour of riding took him across the darkening land. He eased past a string of trees lining a fat creek, through a spongy swale of slick wet grass and slipped over a broken hill. A man-high rock passage was the prelude to an open spoon of level earth with a small cabin settled within it. Shadows were twisted and angry around him as he reined up beside a scraggly oak tree thirty yards from the house.
Tanneman dismounted, removed the mask and studied the cabin. He had to be careful not to scratch his nose as he removed the mask. He had already done that with one of them.
A feeble light at the only front window was enough to assure him that the couple were inside. Snickering, he muttered that their lives were about to change. Forever.
With a deep breath for reassurance, he removed a canvas sack filled with oats from his saddle horn. Quietly, he led the gray horse toward what passed for a barn, slipping past a pen of comfortable hogs and a
buckboard wagon. The door was ajar and he pushed it open slowly to avoid any squeak. The mount went easily into an empty stall next to two worn cubicles, each containing a disinterested milk cow. Next to them was an old brown horse. It was used to pull the wagon, he guessed.
Looking around, he found a bucket and emptied the sack into it, to assure the horse’s silence. He had carried the sack just for this purpose. He wouldn’t take the time to unsaddle the animal, only removing the saddlebags carrying the bank money and laying them outside the stall. He laid the black coat over the stall door, propped the Pedersoli rifle against the post and flipped the hat, then the mask, on top.
He decided it might fall off and bring the Waulkens, so he laid the wooden disguise on the ground. It had felt good to take the mask off; the closeness to his face always brought unwanted sweat. Besides, his vision was limited through the eyeholes. Actually, he preferred disguising himself and not using the mask, but when he wanted to lay blame on some poor fool, like now, it was important to use the mask and leave it.
He lifted the heavy saddlebags over his shoulder. Why give away such treasure? He would add it to the pile of bank money hidden in the wagon. A cave near the ranch had been a perfect place to keep it. Not even Barnabas, with his childlike mind, had guessed where it was.
There was plenty of evidence already. Satisfied with the picture he had created, he cleared the barn. With gleeful eyes, he glanced down at the pistol rig strapped to his waist. The stiff holster was handsomely accented with woven layers of tan cowhide and soft doeskin throughout the base of dark-brown hard leather. He had bought it from a penniless Mexican and had never seen another like it.
He drew the Colt with the cutaway trigger guard for swifter firing, and checked the loads. He had modified the gun since taking it from the luckless traveler the night he escaped. His fingers caressed the barrel with its filed-off sight and reholstered the weapon. The presence of the gun, any gun, was always comforting.
Even in the dark, the forest was an old friend as he entered. An owl saluted as he entered and he smiled at the welcome. He raised his hand in tribute and whispered, “Good to see you again, Hillis. We missed you. Portland is here with me. Haven’t seen Barnabas. He may not return so fast, you know. It doesn’t always happen that way.”
