Death Mask

by Cotton Smith

  Next to the building, he discovered a fake eyebrow. At first he thought it was a caterpillar. He held the fuzzy strip in his fingers, trying to decide what it was. Then it hit him. Of course! It was part of a disguise. Tanneman Rose loved the theater; he talked about it all the time. When they had arrested him, he and his brother had been wearing beards. As far-fetched as it seemed to his uncle, it had to be Tanneman. It just had to be.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Carlow placed the eyebrow in his vest pocket, next to the bloodstones, and headed in the direction of the shooter’s escape. Every part of him was alert to the possibility that an ambush was waiting. Tanneman would expect Carlow to come. The Ranger looked up at the buildings on both sides of the J. A. Mosedain Dry Goods and Clothing store. They were clear.

  Chance gave a yip and hurried after him. Carlow was certain Kileen’s shooting had nothing to do with the lynching, other than the fact that it had provided a convenient distraction. He was growing more and more confident the killer was Tanneman Rose. They should have checked into his supposed death. At the time, though, it had seemed right.

  As Carlow walked, he saw where the ambusher had returned to the main street. The would-be killer had been in full view for a period of time, probably close to the time of the lynch mob’s charge to the trees. Why would someone try to kill Kileen in the middle of town? Even a twisted man like Tanneman? The only answer that made sense was that it was an action of opportunity. The mob. The damn mob! All that confusion had given the shooter the perfect opportunity to shoot Kileen—and escape unseen. The hoofprints indicated the ambusher had left town. South.

  But how did Tanneman know Kileen and Carlow were in town? Again, the only answer that made sense was that he was watching them. Had seen them bring Waulken in. Instinctively, the young Ranger looked up.

  Tracking him now wouldn’t be easy, but it would have to be done. Certainly, Kileen would have enemies; no lawman would be free of them. But the continuing connection to Tanneman’s arrest bothered Carlow. Kileen had been a major factor. So had Pig Deconer. So had he. Why hadn’t the shooter tried for him? His mind retraced his steps from the barn to the jail. Was it simply that his uncle provided the better target? Or was Carlow trying to tie together something that didn’t exist?

  Shaking away his concerns, he returned to the J. A. Mosedain Dry Goods and Clothing store and told Chance to wait outside. As he entered, an older woman looked up from an unpainted table where she was working on her new Edward Ward Arm & Platform sewing machine. Her soft smile indicated she was enjoying its speed and convenience as she worked. She was finishing a fancy dress with lace around the collars and cuffs. He smiled and wondered if Mrs. Jacobs in Bennett had a machine that nice. He couldn’t recall seeing anything like it.

  That made him think of Ellie and he shook his head to lose the painful memory.

  The small area was jammed with bolts of cloth. In the back, another woman examined a roll of calico. The woman was deep in concentration, reviewing how the material would be made into a dress. The north wall behind the table displayed bonnets, ready-to-wears, sewing patterns, boxes of needles, thread and thimbles—even pairs of black silk gloves and green gauze veils. On the adjoining wall were displays of shoes and boots. One pair of Mexican embroidered boots caught Carlow’s eye and then he rememembered what he had come in for.

  Removing his hat, Carlow asked politely, “Is the manager in? I’d like to talk with him. It’s about the shooting.”

  She stood, brushing herself off. “I own this store. How may I help you?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’m Ranger Carlow. My partner was just shot and the man who did it was on your roof. Wondered if you…”

  “That can’t be. It just can’t be,” Mrs. Mosedain declared. “Are you saying my establishment had something to do with such an awful act?”

  Shaking his head and waving his hat, the young Ranger tried to explain, but the older woman wouldn’t listen. The door opened behind him and he turned to meet the incoming person.

  “I’m Abigail Mosedain. This is my mother, Mrs. Mosedain,” she said, brushing her brown hair back toward the tight bun that held it close. She smiled and sought Carlow’s eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am. As I was saying, I’m looking for clues. Anything that might help me find the man who shot my un…the Ranger,” Carlow said, gripping his hat with both hands in front of him.

  “I’m very sorry, but we didn’t hear anything until that awful gun blast. I knew it was above us.” She swallowed, as if recalling the incident was difficult and distasteful. “I heard a slight noise. Across our roof—and down our back stairway.” She pointed in the direction of the back of the building. “I ran outside and saw a man was riding away. Behind the building. I went to find Marshal Bridgeport—and he told me you were over here. We must’ve just missed each other.”

  “Can you identify him? Was it anyone you know?”

  She folded her arms. “No, no one from town. I’m sure of that. He was in a nice three-piece suit. Gray. Broadcloth, I believe. Yes, definitely. His hat matched the shade. A bowler, it was. A red silk cravat. Rather dapper, I would say. Oh, and he had a thick mustache and kinda heavy eyebrows.”

  “Very good, ma’am. You have an eye for detail. That’s most helpful.” Carlow smiled and shifted his feet. “Didn’t happen to see what kind of horse he was riding, did you?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “It was a bay. Wasn’t young. I have a young bay. It’s kept at the livery.”

  After she asked about the lynching and the status of the bank’s money, Carlow explained the situation. Then he thanked her for her help and left. Her eyes followed him, hoping he might turn back to look at her, but he didn’t. She began to discuss the encounter with her mother.

  Carlow stepped out onto the street and his tired gaze took in the Gem Theater across the street. A traveling troupe was presenting Othello, as Bridgeport had told them. His mind skipped along to Tanneman Rose. Then his eyes took in the small symbol adorning the playbill attached to the theater door. A mask! The traditional mask of theater, combining sadness and happiness.

  “Of course Tanneman is using a mask. Wooden masks,” Carlow muttered to himself. “It’s the perfect way to set up an innocent man. He would be drawn to the idea. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that before?” He took another step and studied the people walking along the sidewalks. That meant Tanneman Rose could be anywhere, disguised to look like someone else.

  Carlow saw Marshal Bridgeport walking slowly down the middle of the street and decided to join him, pushing his thoughts about Tanneman to the back of his mind. He was surprised it had taken the British lawman so long to head for the site of the lynching.

  “Find anything useful, son?” Bridgeport looked up as the young Ranger approached.

  “Horse tracks. Headed out of town. The lady in the dress store said he wore a three-piece suit. Gray broadcloth. Had a mustache. Rode a bay. An older one, it sounded like.” Carlow pointed south, but didn’t mention the eyebrow he had found or his growing sense of who the murderer really was.

  The British lawman pursed his lips and stared at the horizon. “Blimey. Doesn’t ‘elp much.”

  “It’s a direction.”

  “Which Mosedain lady did you talk with?”

  “Mostly the younger one.”

  Bridgeport acknowledged that she had come to him and he had sent her to find Carlow. The British lawman walked farther, then stopped, his face laden with a heavy frown. “Why didn’t Waulken jolly well tell us ‘e ’ad an alibi? That would’ve stopped this whole thing.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Marshal. It wouldn’t have made any difference. Not last night anyway,” Carlow answered, staring at Mrs. Waulken ahead. “We would have still arrested him—’til that cowboy was found.”

  “Jolly right you be, lad. Never thought about it that way,” Bridgeport said and nodded several times to affirm his agreement. “I sent Deputy Payne for the undertaker. Wilson Gibbs makes furniture. Does this…co
ffins and the like…on the side.”

  Finally, Carlow decided to share his growing suspicion. “I’m pretty sure the real killer—and probably your bank robber—is a former Ranger. Tanneman Rose. A bad one. Escaped from jail before he could be taken to prison. Been killing everyone who put him behind bars.”

  “Tanneman Rose, eh? Jolly wot.” Bridgeport eyed the younger lawman. “Somehow, I take it, Aaron doesn’t agree. A sticky wicket that.”

  “He will.”

  “Blimey.”

  Around and behind them, small groups of townspeople were quietly headed toward the hanging tree, ever drawn by the sight of the ugly violence, and now a grieving woman.

  “You going to be able to arrest all of that mob?” Carlow glanced around at the curious crowd moving in the same direction.

  A freight wagon cranked past them, its driver either unaware of the lynching or not caring. Both lawmen stepped to the side to let it pass. Parallel to their advance, the morning stagecoach groaned to a stop beside the Wells Fargo office. One passenger leaned out of the coach to glimpse the tragedy, then advised the others inside.

  Bridgeport returned to Carlow’s question. “My two deputies and I will do our duty. Strickland is a lawful town, wot.”

  “Most of these folks are going to want you looking for their money,” Carlow said. “Not arresting some of their own—for what they think was justice.”

  Glancing at the young Ranger, Bridgeport frowned again. “Well, if it’s not Waulken, where do we bloody look? Maybe it is the good Rangers that need to ‘elp us now.”

  Carlow didn’t respond for several steps. Finally he said, “After I check on Thunder and wire the captain, I’ll be riding out. To find the man who tried to kill him—and who murdered Mirabile. To find Tanneman Rose.”

  “Following horse tracks that’ll join hundreds? Where’s that get you, lad?”

  “Like I said, it’s a direction.”

  Bridgeport thought about saying he was going to wire Ranger headquarters for a change in the young man’s orders, but didn’t. He wondered if the young man at his side would be effective without his famed older partner. Looking back, he saw the wolflike beast trailing them. What kind of man traveled with such an animal? Maybe Bridgeport had underestimated the youthful lawman. He chuckled to himself. The animal was probably keeping people from getting closer, or from bothering him with questions, mostly about the bank’s money, that he couldn’t answer.

  The idea of having to arrest certain townsmen for the lynching was settling into his mind. Really settling. Some of the town’s top businessmen had been involved. His first step would be to see Judge DeVere and get warrants for the multiple arrests. Eight names he could remember for certain. There were more, however. The arrests would trigger more names, of that he was certain. He thought there had been fourteen in the mob. Fourteen.

  The matter was going to get more complicated. Bridgeport wasn’t certain what judge would come to town to handle the case; Judge Cline was, of course, dead. He didn’t think the governor had yet appointed a new one for the district. Or a district attorney, for that matter. None of that was going to bring back Alben Waulken—or the town’s money. He would be criticized for his misplaced attention. Maybe lose his job. Maybe he should leave the mess well enough alone. Some candy would be nice, Bridgeport thought. Chocolate drops, perhaps.

  “Mrs. Waulken, Marshal Bridgeport and I want to apologize for this awful tragedy,” Carlow said softly to the distraught Margareitte Waulken, removing his hat as the two lawmen reached her.

  “Nein. Ist too late.” She looked up, her face stained with tears.

  “Ma’am, the city will be paying for the burial and services,” Bridgeport said, taking off his own hat. “And a fine tombstone. Granite, it will be.”

  She stared at him.

  “Bloody run over, we were,” Bridgeport mumbled and looked down at the hat held in both hands. “Didn’t ’ave a chance against so many.”

  She continued to stare at him. Only her lower lip moved, quavering.

  His shoulders twitching nervously, the marshal told her about the cowboy coming in and telling of Waulken’s whereabouts during the bank robbery. He pointed out that it had happened after the lynch mob had taken the German farmer away.

  It didn’t look like she was going to speak, but finally she said, “Var ist der big Ranger?”

  Carlow answered first. “He is wounded, ma’am. In the hospital. Hit bad. Sharps carbine from across the street. Lost a lot of blood. I haven’t caught the shooter. Yet. I’m sure he’s the man who set up…your husband.”

  She grimaced and shook her head before slowly standing. Carlow hurried to help her up.

  “Danke.” She looked hard into Carlow’s eyes. “So vat ist your thinking now? About mein husband.”

  “He was an innocent man, set up to look guilty. I know who did it. I will find him and bring him to justice. I promise.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Does nicht matter now. My Alben ist gone.”

  Fiddling with his hat, Carlow studied her agonized face. “Marshal Bridgeport will be arresting those involved in this.”

  “Vill du be helping with der arrests?”

  Breath pushed its way through Carlow’s closed jaw. His short night of sleep felt even shorter, and he repeated himself. “I’m going after the man who shot…Ranger Kileen. He’s the one who…”

  “Der Marshal vill need your strength,” she interrupted. There was something different in her eyes.

  The young Ranger didn’t know how to respond. He looked down at his leggings, then his boots, then away. After all, it had been his actions—and Kileen’s—that had contributed to Waulken’s arrest.

  “You’re right, Mrs. Waulken.” Carlow was surprised at his own words. “If the marshal wants my help, he has it.”

  His eyebrows saluting, the British lawman wrapped an arm around Carlow’s shoulder. “Jolly wot! ‘Twould be proud to ‘ave you with me, son.” A wide smile popped onto his face.

  Down the street came Deputy Payne, a short, stocky man with a soiled apron and two Chinese men in Oriental workwear. Bridgeport quickly introduced the short man as Wilson Gibbs. The undertaker mumbled something that Carlow took to be an introduction of his helpers. He nodded to both and they returned the greeting with deep bows. Margareitte declined Bridgeport’s offer of breakfast, but accepted his invitation to stay at Delvin’s boardinghouse for women. Carlow said he would catch up with the local lawmen after wiring Captain McNelly and then visiting Kileen.

  It surprised him when Margareitte told him, in parting, that she would be praying for Kileen. He thanked her and left as Bridgeport solemnly escorted the German widow away. As ordered, Deputy Payne stayed with the undertaker and his helpers.

  From the shadows of a nearby building, a man watched and wrote in his small notebook.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A wire was waiting for Carlow when he entered the cramped telegraph office wedged into the corner of the town’s lumber store. The wire was from Captain McNelly. That didn’t surprise him. It was typical of his leadership.

  The message did. McNelly had been as suspicious of the reported escape death of Tanneman Rose as Carlow had become.

  While the telegraph operator watched silently, Carlow read the lengthy telegram.

  ALERT TO KILEEN AND CARLOW…STOP…BELIEVE TANNEMAN ROSE ALIVE AND RESPONSIBLE FOR KILLINGS IN SAN ANTONIO…STOP…FOLLOW-UP ON DEATH REPORT REVEALS LIKELY ESCAPE…STOP…FACE OF MAN IDENTIFIED AS TANNEMAN BURNED AWAY…STOP…FELL IN CAMPFIRE…NO RECOGNITION POSSIBLE…STOP…ONLY HIS NECKLACE FOR PROOF…LOOKS LIKE CAREFUL SETUP…STOP…BELIEVE DEAD GUARD BRIBED THEN KILLED…REAL DEAD PERSON LIKELY FARMER WHO DISAPPEARED SAME NIGHT…STOP…DO NOT BELIEVE THERE IS A GANG…STOP…ARRESTED MAN FOR MURDERS OF JUDGE AND OTHERS LIKELY INNOCENT…STOP…WATCH YOURSELVES…STOP…ADVISE OF SITUATION…STOP…MCNELLY.

  “That’s the longest one I’ve gotten since them Injuns killed Custer. Way up north,” the operator observed. He wanted
to ask about the wire, but knew he shouldn’t.

  Carlow looked at him, saying nothing.

  “Is everything all right, R-Ranger? I-I heard the b-big Ranger got shot. He gonna make it?” the operator asked. He wasn’t sure why he was frightened, but he was. Something in the young Ranger’s eyes.

  “Ah…sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, sir,” Carlow finally said. “What did you say?”

  “It was n-nothing. Just made a comment about the day. That’s all.”

  Carlow wrote out the message he wanted sent to McNelly, placed a coin on the table and left for the hospital.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Bright shards of late-morning light cut through the tiny hospital room where Kileen lay. Originally a fine home built by a wealthy lumberman, the building hadn’t changed much since wounded soldiers, on both sides, had been treated within its walls during the War of Northern Aggression. The smell was unmistakable—an odor of death, medicine and stale air. Carlow hated it. It reminded him of his near-death wounds two years earlier, when his best friend had died in that terrible gunfight in Webster.

  Carlow studied his uncle, looking for signs that the big man was, indeed, sleeping and not dead. Kileen’s breathing was shallow and the agile Ranger slipped beside him to check his pulse. It was there. The young Ranger shut his eyes and prayed silently.

  The big man stirred; his eyelids fluttered and he was awake.

  “Hi, Unc. How are they treating you?” Carlow said, as confidently as he could muster.

  “Holy mither of Mary…me be…hurting, son. But shot before meself has been,” Kileen muttered, barely more than a whisper. “What be happening…to our prisoner?”

  Carlow explained and the older Ranger shut his eyes for a moment and groaned. Carlow told about the cowboy witness and the big man’s shoulders rose and fell.