Death Mask

by Cotton Smith

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The advancing shape was as huge as the bootsteps indicated and it soon became Thunder Kileen. Moonlight painted his craggy face into an Irish savage. Kileen stepped into the barn, not yet seeing Carlow. The long-barreled Colt looked like a toy in his big fist. His blustery challenge was a general threat to whoever might be in the barn. Chance was at his side.

  “Be prayin’ on the soul of your sainted mither that ye be knowin’ where Ranger Time Carlow be,” he snorted, “and that ye have not been so foolish as to attack hisself from the back.”

  “I’m right here, Uncle. There’s no one else here.”

  Kileen jerked his head toward the gray figure he loved. “Aye, be knowin’ ye be there. All along.”

  “Of course.” Carlow surpressed a smile, then showed Kileen what he had found. “The gray horse has just been ridden. Still saddled. A Pedersoli rifle. A long black coat. And a wooden mask. Looks like we’ve got our man.”

  Kileen stomped over to the post and grabbed the rifle. “So this be the gun that shot me friend Mirabile.” He spat at the gun and dropped it.

  “Looks that way,” Carlow said and motioned toward the cabin. “There are two inside. I couldn’t tell if one of them was Tanneman.”

  Rubbing his chin, Kileen took a half step back. “Ye be forgettin’ Tanneman, me lad. So there be two in the wee cabin? A second robber at the bank be right, then. Are ye sure there are not more? We don’t be knowin’ how many are in the ol’ Rose gang.” Kileen turned, walked away and stopped at the barn’s entrance. “Would ye be willin’ to listen to an idea your uncle be having?”

  “I always listen to you, Thunder.”

  “Aye, an’ then be runnin’ off to take on the Devil hisse’f.”

  With that, Kileen suggested that he go ahead alone, acting like he was a drunk who was lost. To reinforce his idea, he took another long pull on his flask. He thought it would be unlikely they would be able to sneak up on the cabin without being seen. After he was inside, Carlow could close in as well.

  “What if they don’t wait to find out you’re drunk an’ lost?” Carlow asked, rubbing his hand across the folded black coat. “At least one of those boys knows how to shoot, Thunder.”

  “Is it me actin’ skill ye be questionin’ now?”

  Carlow shook his head. There was no reason to argue. Kileen’s way was the approach they were going to use. It usually was—and it was usually right.

  “Just wobble a lot. You know, weave back an’ forth.” Carlow imitated his suggestion.

  “Be lookin’ like ye know what it is to be full of the spirits, laddie.” Kileen smiled and patted his nephew on the shoulder.

  Carlow resisted the idea of saying he had learned by watching his uncle. His head nodded toward their back trail. “What about Marshal Bridgeport and his posse?”

  Kileen had obviously forgotten about them. He dragged his boot in a line between himself and the younger Ranger. “If ye be hearin’ them, have ‘em wait by our hosses.” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nay, bring Lark with ye. He be good in such as this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Aye, the lark be a bird of good luck.”

  “Think you just made that up,” Carlow said.

  Kileen smiled a full jack-o’-lantern grin and walked away.

  “Get it done, Thunder. I’ll be watching.”

  The evening’s growing coolness felt good as Kileen walked slowly toward the hideout cabin, already weaving from one side to the other. It took longer than it would have otherwise, and almost made him dizzy. He rolled his tongue across his lips. Whoever was inside would likely have seen him by now, so he stood still and weaved back and forth before continuing.

  What would he find waiting? He wondered why men wishing to hide would build a fire, but only someone close would catch it. He tried to remember if Tanneman liked fires or if a blaze was somehow connected to the man’s reported past life. He didn’t think his nephew was right about this one, but it paid to be cautious.

  Now he was being too cautious, he told himself. For luck, he touched the closest tree three times and wobbled forward. Methodically, the habit of being prepared for any situation took over his mind. The trials of many battles—both with guns and his fists—had left him with a set of practiced instincts. There was nothing casual about battle—or his readiness. It only looked that way. He rehearsed the actions he would take if a shot was fired, or, preferably, if he spotted someone about to shoot. He imagined the Colt in his hand as he dove to the ground.

  Carlow would be covering his advance, but he might not be able to see clearly. Kileen dismissed that thought. Of course he would. Carlow could see a crow in the middle of the night.

  Yellow light seeped through the edges of the closed window shutters and out of the small watch holes in the center of each shutter. Slowly, he pulled a black cigar from his coat pocket. Both hands were deliberately kept in sight. After pretending to drop it, he leaned over, letting his eyes search the cabin for movement or the glimmer of gunmetal.

  Seeing none, he searched for a match, lit it and dropped the flame, found another match, and finally drew deeply from the cigar, finding calmness as he let the smoke curl in front of his hard face. A trickle of sweat skidded down his dried cheek but left no mark.

  “H-hey-ish, the c-cabin!” he yelled from fifty yards out, his hands still held away from his sides to further indicate his nonaggressive intentions.

  His voice took on the sounds of someone filled with whiskey. No one answered. From under his hat, another sweat trickle followed the first. He blotted it carefully with his shirtsleeve.

  “H-hey-ish, inside! I be alone an’ hungry. D-don’t know—” Hiccup.”—where I be this night. C-can I come in?” Hiccup. “A gentle Irishman I be,” he yelled, pleased at his fake hiccups. He stood, weaving, fifteen yards from the planked door with the leather strap hinges. “Got me own whiskey. Irish it be.”

  “Vilkommen, Mick—but du keep your hands var I see dem.”

  Kileen didn’t recognize the voice, but it was definitely German in accent. “T-that be a most gentlemanly—” Hiccup.”—offer. Best invitation I be havin’ in a long spell.” He took the cigar from his mouth and waved it gloriously.

  “Var ist your hoss?”

  The door opened and the silhouette of a gray-haired man with glasses filled the space.

  “Uh…left her, I did. Tied to a tree. Back there. Yeah, me think so.”

  An uncomfortable laugh followed.

  “Kileen’s me name,” the big Ranger growled, holding out his hand as he approached.

  Alben Waulken received Kileen’s hand with a strong grip, smiled thinly and said, “Du kommen from town? Var are du headed?”

  “Aye, came from Strickland. Hopin’ one o’ the ranches be hirin’ ‘round here. That be where I was headed.”

  Waulken laughed again. The German had a thick head of hair that touched his heavy shoulders. Mostly gray. Water hadn’t touched his hair or face recently. He looked like a man who had spent his life struggling with the land—and the land had won. An old pipe grew from the corner of his mouth, its smoke curling about his rugged face. Kileen guessed the man was in his late forties.

  “Aye, S-Strickland. Been a-drinkin’ there since the wee morn,” Kileen said casually. There was no reason to lie about it. “Ye hear ‘bout the bank bein’ robbed there?” It was an impulse; he wanted to see how the man would react.

  Waulken straightened himself in what Kileen judged was genuine surprise. “Das ist vhy I do not put der gold in there.”

  “On me mither’s grave, I didn’t do it.” Kileen wiped his mouth. “Leastwise, I donna remember nothin’ like that. Nossir, I didn’t.”

  Waulken removed his pipe and chuckled again, more comfortably this time.

  From an adjoining room came a tired-looking woman. Her hair was as gray as Waulken’s, but had been tied in a bun at some point during the day. Her shape was thick with age, yet there was a strengt
h about her that was appealing. Her smile was hesitant. Shy.

  “Das ist mein frau, Margareitte,” Waulken said. “Mama, this is Kileen. He comes from Strickland. Looking for cow work he be.”

  “Guten Abend,” Mrs. Waulken said with a slight curtsy.

  “Aye, ‘tis a fine evening, ma’am.” Kileen’s eyes brightened.

  Inside the log-lined cabin, a blackened stone fireplace held a fat, crackling fire. The room reeked of fried food and sweat. Sitting on the fire’s edge was a coffeepot, its tantalizing aroma mixing with the other smells. A single oil lamp was doing its best to push the shadows into the corners.

  Kileen was surprised at the condition of the cabin’s interior. The main room was sparsely decorated, but lovingly clean. Every corner of the hard-earth main room had been freshly swept. A rag rug, obviously handmade, attempted to cover what it could of the floor. Even the hard-working fireplace had been recently scrubbed to remove soot from its stone foundation. Two chairs and a threadbare settee completed the room.

  The northern split-log wall featured an oil painting of hill country in the spring. It looked like West Texas. Kileen wondered if it could be Germany, instead. An adjoining room held a bed and a chest of drawers. No rug.

  It was definitely a home, although a poor one. A home, not a hideout.

  As far as Kileen could see, there was no gun in the house, just the rifle left in the barn. The big Irishman looked around the small house. Could anyone be hiding? Where? There were no closets. No large food bins. Certainly no curtains to stand behind. From where he stood, he could see the lone bed—and underneath it.

  “Are du hungry, Kileen?” Waulken asked politely. “We haff eaten our evening meal, but I am certain Frau Waulken could find something for du.”

  Margareitte Waulken nodded agreement. “Ja. Du be needin’ something in der belly, besides der whiskey.” She smiled.

  Kileen’s eyes blinked twice before he responded. He hadn’t expected any of this. Had Waulken gotten revenge by shooting Mirabile? For what? Being accused of stealing one of his cows? Why did he think he would get away with robbing the bank? Certainly, the big Irishman could see why the man would want the money. Maybe it was time to lay it on the line.

  Kileen cocked his head. Had that been Carlow’s face briefly at the window? Where was he, anyway? Kileen glanced again but the window was black, and he realized he should concentrate on the task at hand. His fat fingers touched the acorn in his pocket. Good luck to carry such, he told himself. Reassured the little people were with him, he took a deep breath and announced his real intention.

  “Waulken, I am Texas Ranger Aaron Kileen. I’ve come to arrest ye for the murder of Julian Mirabile—and the robbin’ o’ the Strickland bank,” Kileen’s face was hard; his eyes shoved their way into the German’s face. He reached into his coat pocket with his left hand, withdrew his dull Ranger badge and showed it.

  Kileen’s heavyweight prizefighter frame was coiled, as he expect the German to explode into violence. Smoothly, his big right hand drew the revolver and cocked it, as his left fist, holding the badge, dropped to his side.

  Waulken looked like a man who was going to vomit. His wife was white, frozen in place.

  As the big Ranger’s Colt took a visible position in his fist, the door slammed open and Ranger Time Carlow and Marshal Bridgeport entered. Carlow held his sawed-off carbine in his right hand and the mask from the barn in his left. Both men wore their badges on their coat lapels.

  Bridgeport was a few steps behind Carlow, holding a double-barreled shotgun. Behind him charged Chance, as refreshed as if he had been resting all day.

  “Well, did ye enjoy your fine Sunday afternoon buggy ride? It be takin’ ye so long to come to me aid?” Kileen growled and slipped his badge into place on his coat lapel.

  “Watching from the window.” Carlow motioned with his gun. “You didn’t seem to be in any trouble.” He glanced down at Chance and told him to stand at his side.

  “Blimey, I should say not. The old sweat would seem to ‘ave it all tied up in a bow,” Bridgeport chimed in. “Captured the bloody bloke. On the peg, he be. Now all we need is to recover the queen’s gold.” He looked at the stunned Waulken. “It will go easier on you, mate, if you turn the money over to us.”

  Carlow guessed “on the peg” meant “under arrest.”

  “I-I don’t know vat du—or der big Kileen hier be talkin’ about.” Waulken shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his terrified wife. “P-please…I do nicht know. W-we are quiet people. W-we…I haff hurt no one. I haff nicht robbed any bank. I haff nicht taken any cow. P-please.”

  The younger Ranger challenged the German’s response by reciting what they had found in the barn.

  Waulken was incredulous and said he didn’t own a gray horse, or a black coat, or fancy rifle—or any kind of mask. He turned to his wife and pleaded for her to say something.

  She found her voice, swallowing hard. “Meine Herren, I believe du haff made der great mistake. Mein husband has nicht bien gone from our house for der week. He has bien planting…der crops. Do you nicht see der fine furrows?”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to contradict you. Ranger Kileen and I, we’re trying to find a man who killed a rancher not far from here. Three days ago. A friend of ours.” Carlow studied the couple for any reaction. “The rancher’s wife described him as wearing a black coat, riding a gray horse—and carrying a rifle, just like the ones we found in your barn. She said he sounded German.”

  Margareitte Waulken’s eyes widened into huge circles. She tried to speak, but could not find words. Only the shape of her mouth gave any indication she was attempting to respond.

  “That’s the same description the bank president gave us—of the man who robbed the bank,” the young Ranger continued, motioning in the direction of town. “Oh yes, both said the guilty man wore a wooden mask. Like this.” He held up the mask with his left hand.

  “Blimey. Coincidence, she makes such a lovely mistress.” Bridgeport grinned.

  “Oh yeah, the man we’re after…he smoked a pipe,” Carlow continued. “Like you do.”

  Waulken’s face ballooned into a red ball and he began to wave his arms in frustration. “Nein! Nein! Nein! I did nicht to do these awful things. Warum? Wer kann…nein.”

  Studying the farmer, Kileen asked, “How long have ye been part of the Rose gang?”

  Waulken stared at him. “I know nicht vat du are saying to me. I know nicht.”

  “Holy mither of Mary, the Rose gang, ye know,” Kileen growled. “Men who be following Tanneman—and Hillis Rose. Before they died. Bless their black souls. Men who be seeking blood for their dying.”

  Scratching his head, Waulken turned toward his wife again and asked her if she had ever heard of this Rose gang. Her response was fiercely negative.

  Carlow tried a different approach, following what he was beginning to believe. “What direction did Tanneman ride from here? How long has he been gone? An hour? A day?”

  Kileen’s expression was clear; his nephew wasn’t right—and shouldn’t be asking such questions.

  Behind them, the sounds of stirring brought a reaction from the three lawmen: Kileen swung his pistol in the direction of the noise; Carlow turned toward the sound with his hand carbine; and Bridgeport lifted his shotgun to his shoulder.

  A furry yellow and gray cat ambled into the room, meowed its introduction and continued on as the lawmen stared, then looked at each other, then back at Waulken.

  “You didn’t answer my question. How long ago did Tanneman ride out of here?” Carlow said. “Do you know where he was headed?”

  Waulken looked like he was going to cry and muttered a long German statement that the three lawmen assumed was a negative response.

  “Alben, you can go with us peacefully—or ‘andcuffed,” Bridgeport said, lowering his gun. “It is your choice, mate.”

  Margareitte finally found her voice. “I would go with mein husband.” Folding her arms, she declared, �
��Ve nein to let der volf into our haus.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. He isn’t a wolf. Not all, anyway,” Carlow said, and motioned for the wolf-dog to go outside.

  Reluctantly, Chance turned around and left the cabin.

  “Waulken, how do you want to ride to town? You and your wife?” Kileen asked, his voice trapped in a strange sense of gentleness.

  “Your gray’s still saddled—and doesn’t look too tired,” Carlow said, cocking his head to the side.

  “Das ist nicht mein horse.” Waulken’s face reddened again. “I haff a braun vagon hoss and der vagon. Ve go in dat.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  From behind the dark treeline, Tanneman Rose watched the two Rangers, Marshal Bridgeport and the Waulkens exit the small cabin. He grinned in satisfaction at the sight.

  “Perfect. Perfect,” he muttered, then squinted to get a better look at the hulk of a Ranger leading the group and the younger gunfighter with him. It had to be! Ranger Kileen and Ranger Carlow! Ah, his trip to Strickland had truly been a rich one.

  His next kill would be those two, the Rangers who had first confronted him, arrested him and then killed his brothers, supported by the others. Tanneman had assumed he would have to return to San Antonio and draw them to him by killing more on his revenge list. And now, here they were. Providence was, indeed, blessing his way.

  After they had been killed, only one more Ranger would remain on his revenge list: Captain McNelly himself.

  Tanneman glanced back at the wagon. The gun wasn’t in sight, but he knew it was there, ready for Kileen and Carlow. A new model Sharps rifle with .50-70 centerfire cartridges.

  He needed to get a closer look to make certain. The two Irish Rangers would likely be in town for a few days to help oversee Waulken’s trial. Maybe they would provide some predictable pattern of behavior that would leave each Ranger vulnerable and alone. Did he dare get that close? What if they recognized him? His ego told him that they wouldn’t. People saw what they expected to see. In this case, they saw an eccentric peddler.