by Cotton Smith
Chapter Twenty-three
It was barely past nine when Aaron Kileen came lumbering into the livery, yelling for Time Carlow to wake up.
“Wake up, me lad! Wake up. There be trouble at the jail,” he shouted as he hurried toward the bed of hay where the young Ranger lay sleeping. Chance was sprawled out next to him.
“What time is it?” Carlow asked, stretching his arms and yawning. His wolf-dog was immediately on all fours, watching the young Ranger for his next movement.
“ ‘Tis late enough. A lynch mob be gatherin’ outside the jail,” Kileen said. His suit and shirt were more wrinkled than usual, from sleeping on the marshal’s office floor. “Marshal Bridgeport be alone. Hisself an’ his bleemin’ shotgun.”
“Won’t charge yah for the night. Just for the day,” the livery man shouted from another part of the stable, as he tossed a pitchfork of hay into an empty stall.
“Thanks. Appreciate that.” Carlow stood up, brushed himself off and buckled on his gun belt. He glanced at Shadow quietly eating from a bucket of oats; Kileen’s horse was similarly occupied. “Stay here, Chance,” he said, then remembered the wolf-dog hadn’t eaten since gobbling a stick of beef jerky near the Waulken farm.
“Wait a minute, Thunder.”
Pushing his hat on his head, Carlow hurried to his saddlebags, still tied to his saddle resting on the stall fence. Retrieving two big pieces of jerky from one bag, he tossed them to the appreciative animal. For the first time, Carlow noticed his uncle was carrying a shotgun, one of Marshal Bridgeport’s.
“Should I get my Sharps?” Carlow asked, waving toward his saddle resting over the stall where Shadow stood.
“No. Let’s go.”
“Give my dog some water, will you?” he yelled as he turned toward the livery door.
“Is he a wolf?” the livery man shouted back.
“Not today.”
“Hurry, me lad,” Kileen yelled as he exited the livery, waving the shotgun.
Running to catch up, Carlow’s concern about the innocence of Alben Waulken pushed its way into his just-awakening mind. Drawing the sawed-off carbine as he hurried, the same questions bounced again into his thoughts.
What if somebody truly had set up the German farmer, leaving all that incriminating evidence? Certainly a recluse like Waulken was an easy target. No one in town would likely speak for him. How could they prove—or disprove—Margareitte’s claim that her husband was afraid of horses? What if they tried to force the German immigrant to ride a horse? What if he refused?
Coming alongside his hard-breathing uncle, Carlow said, “Thunder, I think Alben Waulken might be an innocent man. Tanneman’s behind all this. He has to be. We’ve got to check out his attempt to escape from prison. I’m betting he faked his death somehow. I don’t believe there is any gang. I know I keep saying it, but it’s true. I know it.”
“Aye. Be leanin’…the same way meself.” Kileen tried to smile and talk between gulping for air. “But right now…stoppin’ these folks…we must be doin’.”
Down the street they ran, with Carlow easily outdistancing his out-of-breath uncle. He wasn’t certain if Kileen’s remarks meant he was beginning to think Waulken was innocent or that Tanneman was alive. Right now, neither mattered.
In front of the jail, an angry gathering was taking on a life of its own. Furious men yelled at Marshal Bridgeport to bring out Waulken. Their demand was a fierce litany in the gray morning. A few weapons were raised in the air for emphasis. The town itself was awakening to the uproar. Those watching safely from windows and doorways silently approved of the crowd’s desire—or, if not, were afraid to speak out.
Neither Ranger saw a bay horse tied in the alley across the street from the jailhouse. No one noticed a man lying on the flat roof of the two-story J. A. Mosedain Dry Goods and Clothing building next to the alley. In his hands was a Sharps carbine. The barrel moved from Carlow to Kileen and back again. Lying beside him on the roof was a wooden mask.
The younger Ranger was moving too fast to be a good target; Tanneman knew he would have only one chance for now. Kileen would be the better choice. He smiled. How fitting, to kill the one man who believed his stories of reincarnation.
Below the barely visible nose of the gun was a sign proclaiming the name of the establishment, as well as additional information: Dressmaking a specialty…Hats and Caps and Boots and Shoes.
“Break this up! Go home. Alben Waulken is an innocent man,” Carlow yelled as he burst into the crowd and shoved his way through to the door, swinging his hand carbine to emphasize the order. He wasn’t certain about the latter statement; it just came out.
“You go home, Mick. We want our money. If that German bastard doesn’t tell us where it’s hidden right now…we’re gonna hang his ass.” The voice came from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, emboldened by anonymity.
Others joined the challenge, making certain, however, they weren’t close to the advancing Ranger. Carlow joined Bridgeport, standing with a double-barreled shotgun, in front of the closed jail door. The young Ranger nodded his support, levered his gun into readiness and pushed two townsmen back with his free hand.
“Jolly well good to ‘ave you with me, son,” Bridgeport said.
Carlow ignored the slight. It was different when Kileen called him son. Waving his gun, Carlow yelled a fierce command that had the men looking at each other for a decision.
Kileen reached the outer edges of the mob and took a deep breath to reclaim the wind lost in his hurrying. He bent over with his hands on his knees to ease the aching loss. As he bowed, a heavy shot rang out, startling the mob into absolute silence.
Kileen half spun, straightened and fell facedown in the street.
Hearing the shot, Carlow saw his uncle fall and yelled, “Oh no!”
Frantically, he pushed and shoved his way back to the downed big Ranger. “Oh no, Thunder…Thunder…Uncle…Father…”
A tall man in overalls stepped into Carlow’s furious path and Carlow shoved him away and kept on going. Only the closeness of others kept the man on his feet. His reddened face looked after Carlow for only a moment, and then he joined the reinvigorated throng.
In the doorway of the jail, Bridgeport yelled a command of his own, but the rush of emboldened men took his words away. The British lawman was slammed to the sidewalk and his shotgun kicked aside. The door itself followed, bursting open from the furious charge. Margareitte Waulken screamed, threw open her cell and tried to stop them.
Someone slugged her and she went down.
In moments, the keys were found and Alben Waulken was dragged from his cell, shouting his innocence.
Kneeling beside Kileen, Carlow couldn’t remember running back to his uncle. He wasn’t aware of the fierce bolt of the mob into the jail. All he cared about was his beloved uncle, lying facedown with a pool of blood growing around him. Crimson fingers reached out to find Kileen’s dropped shotgun, Carlow’s hand carbine lying beside him and his nephew’s Kiowa legging where he knelt.
The young Ranger managed to turn over his wounded uncle, studying the large black hole in his right shoulder. Blood was everywhere. Carlow ripped off his own neckerchief and pressed the wad of cloth against the ugly wound.
“F-forgot…t-to tap me sh-shotgun…t-three times, me lad,” Kileen stammered.
Carlow bit his lower lip and continued to press against the wound. At his side was a worried Chance, nuzzling his leg for reassurance. The wolf-dog had bolted from the barn when he heard the gunfire. Carlow seemed unaware of him. Or of anything.
“A Ranger’s dog…he be,” Kileen muttered. “Came to…the sound…o’ the gun.”
Carlow realized the beast was beside him and rubbed Chance’s ears. “Good boy, Chance. Good boy.” It helped steady his nerves.
Across the street, Tanneman Rose reloaded and aimed, this time at Carlow.
“Damn that wolf! Get out of the way!” he cursed as Chance stood next to the young Ranger, blocking him from Tanneman�
��s view. For an instant, he considered shooting the dog, reloading and trying for Carlow. His heavy slug would likely go through the animal anyway, wounding Carlow, too.
He remembered the young Ranger being quite fond of the beast; shooting him now would bring a wild Carlow into battle, in full rage. Tanneman didn’t like that idea. Carlow in a gunfight was not something to bring on oneself. He had seen it.
“He’s almost as good as me,” Tanneman murmured. “I’ll wait.”
A minute passed without the wolf-dog moving enough to give him a good shot. Finally he decided it was too risky to wait any longer. Someone would see him if he did, and getting down would be difficult. He could get another shot off; that wasn’t the problem. Getting away was. He caressed the jaguar teeth necklace under his clothes and muttered something he considered to be Persian.
He wasn’t certain that Kileen was dead, but if he weren’t, he wouldn’t be alive long. Tanneman crawled back across the flat roof of the building, jumped to the rickety stairway balcony and climbed down the back stairs. He left the mask where it lay. The alley remained as empty as before.
His disguise was one he had used already—a businessman in a three-piece gray suit and a matching bowler. Heavy eyebrows and a thick mustache completed his look.
Waiting for him was the bay horse from his wagon. He shoved the big gun into its saddle scabbard and rode around the backside of the building. He passed two more buildings, then eased into the main street. The mob was in front of him, dragging the struggling German farmer, now with his hands tied behind him.
Tanneman grinned at the effect his Waulken disguise had created, then kicked his horse into a lope. The peddler wagon and the other horse were waiting for him, hidden in a narrow ravine, not far from town.
Kileen placed a wobbly hand on Carlow’s arm. “M-me son, the wee things p-pulled me over—or me w-would be gone to the other world.” He let go and tried to regain his breath. His eyes fluttered and closed for a moment.
Maybe Kileen was right. Maybe he did have invisible helpers protecting him. Somehow Carlow had never wanted to challenge the idea by thinking about it too much. There were things a person didn’t understand in this world, especially those of the spirit. Certainly he had seen happenings that couldn’t be explained by anything that made any sense, at least not to him. Maybe it was smart to be a little superstitious. Kileen had said this feeling came from seeing miracles that occurred in everyday life and not recognizing them as miracles. Maybe so.
Trying to calm down, Carlow told himself Kileen’s wound was bad, but not fatal. Seeing the first part of neckerchief fill with blood, he took another section and repeated the attempt. He wasn’t sure, but thought the bleeding was beginning to slow. Maybe he was seeing something he badly wanted to see.
Kileen’s eyes fluttered open again, and the big Ranger said in a halting voice, “ ‘Twas a…b-big gun, me lad. A S-Sharps. Like Rangers b-be carryin’. H-had to come f-from…across the street. H-high, it be. A r-roof, me lad. A r-roof.”
Carlow shook his head. How like his uncle to ever be the lawman. He glanced at the buildings across the street. He saw nothing, except townspeople gathering to wonder. But he was certain Tanneman Rose had struck again. Why hadn’t he seen this coming?
“W-where be M-Marshal B-Bridgeport?” Kileen stuttered.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Carlow answered.
Kileen’s face became a frown. “No, m-me lad. You be a R-Ranger. First, ye m-must see to our prisoner. We must…b-be provin’ him innocent. I be thinkin’ yourself be right…about Tanneman. Comin’ after us from the grave he be.”
“No, Thunder. He’s alive. He’s got to be. I think he shot you.”
From the doorway came a distraught Margareitte Waulken, waving Bridgeport’s shotgun. The side of her pale face was red and swelling; her gray hair had found freedom from her usual tight combing and bounced on her shoulders.
The British lawman was barely conscious, shaking his head and trying to stand.
“Ranger…Ranger…they haff taken mein husband.” Margareitte staggered out of the jail. “Please…please…help us.” She ran past them into the main street.
“G-go, me lad. H-help her. I be…all right.” Kileen held up his hand to Carlow.
As the situation registered for the first time, Carlow looked around, saw no mob and realized what had happened. His mind clearing, he grabbed his hand carbine and stood. Glancing at his uncle, who shooed him away, Carlow began to run. In a few strides he passed the sobbing Margareitte.
Just beyond the last building, an ice cream parlor at the commercial end of town, was a cluster of trees. A black silhouette dangled from a rope tied to the closest cottonwood.
Alben Waulken! The mob had lynched him!
Fear took his legs even faster. He grabbed Waulken’s legs and lifted his body with one strong arm, firing his hand carbine twice at the hanging rope near the branch. The second shot clipped the rope and the body fell into his arms. He couldn’t hold it and Waulken’s body crumpled to the ground.
It was obvious the German was dead. His face was blue, his pants stained with the release of his bowels.
Carlow stood over the body, unable to think or act.
Sobbing, Margareitte caught up, dropped to her knees and cradled Waulken’s head against her chest. She rocked and wailed.
Carlow muttered more to himself than to her, “He was innocent. They must pay for this. He was innocent.”
Chapter Twenty-four
When a deflated Time Carlow returned to the jail, his wounded uncle had been moved to the hospital. Behind Carlow, a distraught Margareitte Waulken mourned over her dead husband. She would not allow anyone to move the body.
Marshal Bridgeport watched Carlow advance; the only sign of the Englishman having been unconscious earlier was a red mark on the side of his face. He chewed on a piece of toffee from the sack on his desk. One of his deputies stood next to him. The deputy had reported for duty fifteen minutes ago, unaware of the jailbreak until his arrival at the marshal’s office. A tall man with long sideburns, he wore a shoulder holster and an oddly shaped, short-brimmed hat.
“Ranger Kileen ‘as been taken to our ‘ospital, such as it is,” Bridgeport announced as the young Ranger walked up. “Dr. Morrison is with ‘im.”
“How is he?”
“Bloody old bloke should make it,” Bridgeport said. “Lost a lot of blood, ‘e ‘as. Big ‘ole in his shoulder. Doc says it went through. Didn’t ‘it bone. That’s a blessing, wot. Won’t be going anywhere for awhile.” He paused and added, “Bloody well might not have full use of ‘is arm, you know. Might.” His frown was genuine.
“Thanks for…taking him,” Carlow said, his shoulders rising and falling. “Alben Waulken was innocent. I’m sure of it.” The words tumbled from Carlow’s mouth as if they’d been waiting for the opportunity. He glanced in the direction of the sadness at the end of the street.
Benjamin Payne, the tall deputy, responded first, “Y-y-yeah, y-y-you’re r-right.” He accompanied his stuttering by scratching the back of his right hand.
Without waiting for Payne to explain, Bridgeport told Carlow that a cowboy had come to the jail a few minutes ago. The cowboy had just heard about the arrest of Waulken for robbing the bank. He told the local lawmen that he had ridden past the Waulken farm yesterday morning—about the time the bank was robbed—and had seen the German farmer feeding his pigs. There was no mistaking who it was, the cowboy had said. Or the time. The cowboy had stopped and talked with Waulken for a few minutes before riding on. He had been on his way to another ranch to arrange for round-up cooperation.
“Where is he now? The cowboy,” Carlow asked.
“‘E’s still in town. Bitterman’s,” Bridgeport answered. “Or that’s where ‘e was ‘eaded anyway. To ‘ave a wet.” He pursed his lips. “Well, not tea, I suppose.”
“Th-th-that m-m-means all of th-th-the m-m-mob have to b-b-be arrested.” Payne nodded his head authoritatively and rubbed
his hands together.
Bridgeport bit his lower lip. “You ‘ave a bloody tough job to do, Ranger Carlow. Find the bloody bastard who shot the good Ranger Kileen.” He motioned toward his deputy. “We ‘ave a nasty one, too. That mob is guilty of assaulting an officer—and of murder.” He lifted his hand to reveal a sheet of paper. “A list of the mob combatants I ‘ave ‘ere. Just wrote it out a few minutes ago wot. On the peg they will be. My deputies and I will start arresting them. ‘Twill not be a good day for Strickland.”
“What about Waulken—and Mrs. Waulken?”
Bridgeport shook his head, swallowed the remaining toffee in his mouth and was silent.
Carlow hitched the gun belt at his waist and looked again at the black figures of Mrs. Waulken and her dead husband. A shiver galloped through his body.
“The town must pay for his burial,” he muttered. “A nice funeral. Granite headstone.”
“Agreed.” Bridgeport shook his head.
“Th-th-that’s right,” Deputy Payne added.
“If Mrs. Waulken wants to stay in town during that time, the town will pay for her room and board,” Carlow continued.
Both Strickland lawmen nodded agreement.
“I’d like you to go tell her that. All of it,” Carlow said. “I’m going across the street to see if I can learn anything. Then I’m going to see Thunder. And wire our captain.”
“Got a strong feeling, son, that the bloody shooter was Mirabile’s killer—and our bank robber ‘e be, too,” Bridgeport said.
Ignoring the marshal’s continued use of “son,” Carlow agreed and headed toward the J. A. Mosedain Dry Goods and Clothing store across the street. Chance followed closely. Someone watched them from the store window, but made no attempt to come out. Paying no attention to the curious face, the young Ranger walked into the alley.
Horse tracks were easy to read. The shooter had used the back stairway to gain access to the roof. His footprints coming and going were a mute story of the attempted ambush. Then the man had escaped the same way he had come to town, along the back row of buildings. A quick trip to the roof revealed the mask and a large empty cartridge. A Sharps, Carlow thought. He took both items with him and returned to the ground.
