by Cotton Smith
Had he been an owl once?
To his right were the remains of an old campfire. Lighting the pipe resting in his pocket would taste good, but he decided against it. Even a tiny spark could be seen by a knowing man from a long way off. Something rustled to his left, then disappeared. Presumably a squirrel. He worked his way along a path most men would not have seen in the daylight, but the opening had been wide enough to drive his wagon to the hiding place. Most men riding by the forest would not believe a wagon could ever move through the trees.
Minutes later, Tanneman rose out of a dry creek bed inside the stretch of clustered trees. Smothered within this fortress of trees and overgrown brush was a shallow arroyo connected to the creek bed. He was no more than a half mile from the Waulken cabin, although it could just as easily have been ten miles, as well concealed as it was.
Within this land crease were his wagon and its two unharnessed horses. The two animals—an older bay and a chestnut with two stockings—raised their heads at his advance, then resumed their grazing. Both were hobbled and tied to the wagon on long lead ropes. After laying the saddlebags on the wagon seat, Tanneman buckled the harness into place, keeping the hobbles on for the moment.
Working from the back of the wagon, he sought a small mirror and a bottle of glue to help hold his fake beard he used to disguise himself as the peddler. Deftly, he began to apply the lotion onto his flat cheeks and down onto his thick chin.
“ ‘When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.’” He muttered the Shakespeare passage again. His shrill laugh turned the bay’s head toward him, its ears cocked for understanding.
The only thing bad about this glue was that it was difficult to scrub off, but that was better than having his beard sag or fall off. Finally satisfied with the transformation, he applied fake eyebrows over his own. The arching brows were full and thick, giving an instant scowl to his gray-blue eyes and long eyelashes. Then he inserted tiny rolls of cloth between his lower jaw and cheeks on the inside of his mouth. The cloth was definitely better than the paper he had originally used. The effect made his face more full, but wasn’t uncomfortable.
From a trunk came stomach padding with long strings he used to attach it around his waist and over the back of his neck. Then he added the worn suitcoat of gray woolen heritage, stringed tie and the battered derby, completing his peddler’s appearance.
He decided it was prudent to hide his supposedly removed arm, even though no one was around. It was good discipline. He moved the Colt to his waistband where it could be easily reached. His normally light brown hair was already dyed black to match the beard. There no need to change his pants or boots; both were his regular attire.
“Y’all need some pots today? Got some fine pots an’ pans.” He practiced his affected delivery and felt the jaguar teeth neckace under his clothes for reassurance.
The Missouri drawl, delivered in a high-pitched voice, was effective, as was the slump-shouldered manner in which he carried his body. So was the limp he had perfected using an old cane. Most people with whom he came into contact when disguised as the peddler referred to him simply as “the peddler.” In this disguise, he had no name and never offered one. He chuckled. No one had ever asked.
When this revenge was all over, he would retire to New Orleans, perhaps, and underwrite, direct and play the lead in a production of The Merchant of Venice, his father’s favorite play. It would be a grand tribute to the man. Tanneman decided he would attribute the performance to his father’s memory, citing him as a visionary in theater, in the printed program.
Satisfied with the day’s actions, Tanneman removed the hobbles from his wagon horses and returned to the wagon seat. He checked the jar with the spider and was pleased to see it was moving around. Two dead flies he had placed in the jar before leaving were gone.
“You won’t believe who I just saw, Portland. Yeah, it’s Hillis. He’s an owl, you know. Came to watch.”
Making certain the jar was secured among the wagon’s possessions, Tanneman repeated his ritual chant and jigged the horses into a trot. He rode for an hour through the forest. His horses needed no encouragement. They were well rested. The load of man, wagon and goods seemed to disappear into the pounding hooves.
Several loose books continued to slide around. The hidden sack of money bounced and moved sideways. It angered Tanneman that he had not been able to secure either the books or the money sack. The creaky buckboard bounced and leaned as they traveled into the night. Folded clothes, linens, coils of rope, bridles and a saddle, pots and pans, boxes of tobacco, the trunk holding all of the stolen bank money, horseshoes and bullets, and a few guns slid around and behind him as he reined the wagon to a stop.
“Why not?” he said aloud, grabbing the spider jar so it wouldn’t be turned over.
Both horses sought the location of the words, then stood quietly, waiting for more instructions.
Most times he hadn’t been in a position to watch the payoff of his meticulous efforts, to see the set-up man arrested and taken away while protesting his innocence. This time he could. Easily. He could easily watch, unnoticed, from the edge of the woods and see what happened at the cabin when the posse arrived. Even if he was seen—and he wouldn’t be—he would simply pretend he was still working his trade.
It was too joyful to pass up. He would leave for San Antonio after that. Reining the horses, he turned back toward the cabin.
Chapter Twenty
After an hour of hard running, Carlow and Kileen eased their horses into a land-eating lope that led them past sunset and into the night. To save the weary wolfdog’s legs, Carlow had carried him across the saddle. Chance seemed to enjoy the transportation and licked Carlow’s hand.
The trail of the man who had robbed the Strickland Bank was too warm to stop. Even in the growing darkness, hoofprints told a story fairly easy to follow. They were headed directly for the forest Bridgeport had mentioned. The British lawman and his posse were coming behind them, or so he had promised. Neither Ranger was interested in waiting. Carlow figured a bunch of trigger-happy volunteers behind them could be more trouble than the outlaw or outlaws ahead of them. Bridgeport had assured the Rangers that he would only bring men who had fighting experience, except for the teenager who had volunteered. The British lawman didn’t have the heart to turn him down.
In an unnecessary statement, Bridgeport had said the Rangers didn’t need to wait for them to catch up; the posse was more for the town to feel good about itself. He had full confidence in the Rangers apprehending the robbers and returning the bank’s money. Carlow realized he was trying to set them up to take the blame if the money wasn’t recovered.
Curling in and out of a mile-long string of cottonwoods lining a struggling creek, the two Rangers passed a spongy swale of slick wet grass and slipped over three broken hills. The bank robber’s trail was clear, even in the pale moonlight. Rather than a hurried escape, it appeared to be a planned one.
“Aye, ‘tis an old man’s thinkin’ that our lad’ll be stopping at that cabin Lark be tellin’ about,” Kileen volunteered, motioning toward the north.
“Looks like it,” Carlow said. “Looks like he’s the man who lives there, doesn’t it?” He rubbed his hand along the tired wolf-dog’s back. “What would a man like Bridgeport be doing out here—to discover such a man and such a place?”
“Doin’ his job, me thinks.”
“Do you think he really sent a messenger after the posse?” Carlow peered into the hillside ahead, trying to determine if any of the shadows belonged to a man.
“I’d be sayin’ so. Ol’ Lark, a strange one he may be, but I’ve never known hisself to lie.” Kileen took a flask from his coat pocket and downed a long swallow. “Leastwise, not when it be counted.” He made no attempt to offer the small container to Carlow and slipped it back into his pocket.
“So when do you think we can expect the posse to catch up with us?” Carlow asked sarcastically, removin
g his boots from their stirrups, allowing them to hang free for a few minutes to let his legs relax.
“Me not be knowin’.” Kileen wiped his mouth with the back of his huge hand. “Many o’ them lads be rediscoverin’ the wonders of home an’ hearth, I reckon.” He motioned toward the dark shapes that were the forest ahead of them. “Hmmm, on me sweet mither’s grave, this be a place where the wee people be livin’.”
“Do they ride gray horses?”
“Don’t ye be foolin’ with your sweet ol’ uncle, laddie.”
Looking around, Carlow said, “Thunder, do you think the Captain was certain about Tanneman’s death? I still think he’s alive—and behind all this madness. Nothing else makes sense.” He rolled his tired shoulders and glanced at Kileen. “I don’t know who we’re following, but Tanneman’s got to be involved. I’m sure of it.”
Kileen’s drained face twitched. “The captain hisself wouldn’t be sayin’ so, if it weren’t.” He looked around. “Of course, Tanneman Rose be a dreamer. Return in another form, he might be.” He bit his lower lip. “Ye know, the Navajo, they talk of the skinwalker. A witch who can change into a crow. Or a wolf. Or a man.” He shook off the idea as a shiver rattled through his shoulders.
“If he’s dead, Thunder, he’s dead. I think he’s alive—and setting up innocent men to throw everyone off track. There’s no Rose gang and you know it.”
They rode through the man-high rock passage and saw the small cabin resting on the flattened open land.
“Rein up,” Carlow said in a hushed voice.
“What?” Kileen reached for his holstered gun.
“I’m thinking we’d better expect a guard along here somewhere.” Carlow stopped his black horse. “Easy, Shadow. Whoa.”
Kileen frowned but did the same, watching the younger Ranger slip from the saddle and lift Chance down. Immediately, he began removing his spurs. Dismounting himself, Kileen secured his reins to a branch, keeping the horse’s head tight enough that it wouldn’t attempt to graze. He did the same with Carlow’s black. After a swig from their canteens, they poured water into the crowns of their doffed hats and offered the refreshing liquid to their mounts.
Chance rubbed his nose against Carlow’s leg. The young Ranger poured more water into his hat and gave it to the tired wolf-dog. He patted the fierce animal on the head, ordering him to wait with Kileen and told his uncle to stay where he was until he gave the all-clear. Carlow would go on ahead and see if a sentry had been posted. Or maybe he would see the man they sought. For the first time, both men noticed the new full moon in the darkening sky was heading toward its full circle.
“Much to be wary about with the moon, me lad, ye be knowin’ that.” Kileen motioned with his head. “Don’t be pointin’ at it. The man there gets angry—at bein’ pointed at.”
“I can understand that. Don’t like being pointed at either,” Carlow said with a grin.
“ ‘Tis a good time to be killin’ the pig.” Kileen rubbed his unshaven chin. “When the moon is becomin’ her full se’f, makes the f ryin’ bigger.” He took a long breath as if preparing himself for a most serious statement. “ ‘Course, the moon in her full can make a man crazy, ye know. Best not to tempt her.”
Facing the yellow orb, Kileen tipped his hat and uttered, “Lady Moon, I hail thee.” He repeated the phrase two more times and added, “Me father—and your mother’s—would go outside the house and bow nine times to the new moon. Aye, he did so every time.”
Carlow looked up, half a grin on his tanned face. Many Irish he knew had tendencies to believe in, or at least talk about, things beyond their control, but Kileen was certain of every one of them. Sometimes, Carlow wondered how his uncle made it through the day with all the interlocking and contradictory superstitions he followed. Silently, he thanked his mother again for making certain such tendencies hadn’t made their way into his thoughts.
“Touch your money. In your pocket, son,” Kileen continued, still looking into the dark sky. “Turn your smallest coin upside down. ‘Twill make sure ye do not run out.”
“Stay here until I give a holler.” Carlow laid the second spur over his saddle horn. He hesitated, then thrust his hand into his pocket. There would be no rest until he followed his uncle’s superstitious counsel.
“That’s a good lad. Make a wish now. Keep it a secret and it will be given ye.” He added, “A blade, not a bullet.” Kileen wanted to caution him about being careful, but knew it would sound like he didn’t have confidence in his beloved nephew.
“I want him alive,” Carlow announced. “We need to find out if he’s Mirabile’s shooter. Who knows? We might even find Tanneman here. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Aye. May be more than one, laddie. ‘Member Lark speakin’ of a possible second robber.”
“I remember.”
In seconds, Carlow had disappeared into the darkness surrounding them. Even the bright moonlight couldn’t find him. Kileen shook his head at the swiftness of his young protégé. “Aye, the strike of the Celtic warrior, he be gifted with,” Kileen muttered. He thought about taking another swig of whiskey, then decided not to.
Drinking on duty was not allowed, but Captain McNelly had never paid any attention to Kileen’s indiscretions. Probably because Old Thunder could outfight any three or four Rangers put together. Except for Carlow. Ranger Time Carlow might be young, but his reputation for battle savvy had already outstripped all but Kileen and one or two other veteran state lawmen.
An owl saluted the big Irishman as it glided through the night. Kileen watched the wide wings and tried not to think that the Comanche thought the bird was a ghost. Could it be somehow related to Tanneman? He shook his head to drive away the thought.
“Ye be lookin’ out for me nephew now.” Kileen looked at the moon and growled, then pulled his pistol and tapped the barrel three times against the trunk of a nearby oak.
Both horses’ ears twitched toward the sound to assure it was not harm coming. He tried to think about Angel Balta and her warm body, so he wouldn’t worry about his nephew. Patience was a trait hard earned by the big man. Hard earned. One he had diligently taught his nephew, or so he told himself.
He looked down at Chance sitting quietly. “Shannon, me be countin’ on ye to watch over me nephew.”
Chance cocked his head to the side and stretched his head out on his legs.
Nearly soundlessly, Carlow worked his way through the trees, alternating his attention on shadows ahead and on the ground for anything that would make noise if stepped on. His tracking skills were more the result of the guidance given by a Mescalaro Apache years before, than that of Kileen’s teaching. Carlow and Kayitah had become friends after the young Ranger whipped three white men who were beating on the Apache in a nameless town along the western edge of Texas.
Later Kayitah had been shot down by the U.S. Cavalry in an attack on a small village, and Carlow had sought his body for proper burial. With Kileen’s support—and McNelly’s—the army unofficially allowed him onto the site of the pitiful massacre. Carlow’s best friend, Shannon Dornan, had joined him. Less than a year later, Dornan had died and Carlow had been badly wounded in the Silver Mallow Gang’s ambush.
Breathing through his teeth to avoid the sound giving away his advance, Carlow patiently studied the forest as he darted from tree to tree. He could see well, even though the forest cloak lay heavily on the land. Moonlight knifed its way through most of the branches, providing shards of yellow seeking gray rocks and downed branches. Night sounds filled the dark, a good sign that no one waited. And so far, he couldn’t see anyone on guard.
Strings of smoke from the cabin’s chimney were caught in the cloudless sky as if weaving the handful of aggressive stars together. The yellow light gracing the inside of the cabin yielded two shadows. Carlow stopped behind a fat tree to determine his next move. To his left were a weathered barn and a hog pen. It would make sense to determine whether or not the gray horse they followed was in the barn.
He crouched beside a fallen log and watched a jackrabbit scurry away. Ahead of him was a thick maze of trees, rocks, dead branches and hardy weeds surrounding the barn. No sign of any outlaw sentry was evident from this angle. Carlow knew it was unlikely there would be, until he had completed at least a half circle. He hoped Kileen would remain where he was and not get anxious, for this would take longer than he had expected. But to do it any other way would be to invite a bullet. Slowly, he worked his way to the barn’s doors, past a buckboard and a pen of softly grunting pigs. A favorable embrace of moonlight indicated the doors weren’t locked, only shut.
Waiting longer would only increase the likelihood of the shadows in the cabin being suspicious, so Carlow drew the Colt from his sidewinder holster and shifted it to his left hand. He leaned over and, with his right, pulled the war knife from its sheath in his Kiowa legging. If necessary, the silence of the blade would be preferable to a gunshot.
He darted forward, but didn’t see a rusty hoe left from tending the field and he kicked it into the barn. Carlow froze in place. Would it arouse whoever was in the cabin?
If the noise had any effect on the cabin’s inhabitants, it didn’t show. Finally satisfied his mistake hadn’t changed anything, Carlow slid inside the barn and let his eyes become accustomed to the even darker situation. His gaze took in a gray horse, then the wooden mask, black coat and Pedersoli rifle. He walked over to the horse, which was still saddled and sweaty. The two cows and a brown horse in the adjoining stables looked like they could use some grazing time, but that wasn’t his concern.
Heavy footsteps interrupted his examination. Carlow thought it must be Kileen, but a smart man was always careful. He stepped back into the shadows with his Colt ready in his hands. If this wasn’t his uncle, he would first try for a quiet surrender. He fingered the sharp blade in his right fist. Firing would be a last resort.
