by Cotton Smith
“Good. Has he left yet?”
“No, that’s his black horse. A fine one, I’ll tell ya. The other Ranger’s hoss ain’t livery slop neither.” Elliott said and rubbed his bald head. “He’s a tough one, that young Ranger. Has a wolf for a pet. Can you believe that?”
“A wolf?”
“Looks like one to me.” Elliott spat a thick stream of tobacco juice. “That Ranger boy bin a’helpin’ Lark with the arrests o’ folks who dun the lynchin’. Kinda a wild day. Ira Samuelson even did some shootin’ at him an’ Lark. Heard tell the Ranger jes’ walked ov’r to Ira, slick as ya please. No gun in his hand or nuthin’. Tolt Ira he were under arrest an’ took his gun away. Jes’ like that. Somethin’ to watch, I reckon.” He spat again, not pleased with the texture this time. “With all that a’goin’ on, reckon your two brothers could’a slipped in real easy like.”
“Sounds like it.”
Patting the man on the back, Tanneman said, “Say, I’m going to need a good horse. Got any to sell?”
“Sure do. Got three that’ll take yuh anywhar.”
“I’d like to take a look.”
The livery operator disappeared into the barn and quickly returned, leading three horses: a tall bay; a black with three stockings and a lineback dun.
“How much for the bay?”
“Haff to have thirty dollars for ‘im.” Elliott patted the bay’s neck.
As he felt in his coat pocket for money, Tanneman said, “Say, I’m pretty sure I put a bullet in one of those McDorn boys. Is there a hospital in town?”
Elliott gladly described the location.
A few minutes later, Tanneman switched his saddle and bridle to the new horse and headed for the hospital, leading his wagon horse on a rope. From the livery operator, he had learned Carlow was now with the local marshal in his office and jail. Perfect. He couldn’t help smiling. How gifted he was. It was amazing. From practice he had learned well that people saw what they wanted to see. It was the gift of disguise passed on from his previous life. Only the eyes were impossible to hide—or change. They carried eternity, he felt, and were unique to each person. He glanced over at the spider jar, but decided he wouldn’t be able to tell if it had Portland’s eyes or not.
Right now the only people who knew him in Strickland were Kileen and Carlow. Soon that big bastard would be worm meat and the young one would follow when Tanneman got the chance.
At the marshal’s office, twelve of the lynch mob had been arrested and were now being held in the jail, two to a cell. The remaining two lynch mob participants, George Tyler and Ernest Clay, had left town. Several townspeople said they had left together.
From the farthest cell, Turner Omallden yelled, “Don’t get too cocky, Lark. We’re gonna be oughta here—an’ you’re gonna be out a job.”
Jeb Tatem banged his fist against the bars of his cell. “You’re going to be sorry, Bridgeport. Real sorry.”
“I’m going to gather supplies, check on Thunder and then head out—after his shooter,” Carlow said. “Or do you need me to go after those last two lynchers?”
“I thank you, but we can get them without Ranger ’elp,” Bridgeport noted and reached into the sack on his desk for the last of the gumdrops.
Carlow declined Bridgeport’s offer of the candy.
“Joe will go after them—as soon as ‘e’s ready, right, Joe?” Bridgeport popped two gumdrops into his mouth. “I figure they’ll head for Clay’s father’s ranch.”
“On my way.” Deputy Roth walked over to the rifle rack and took down a Winchester.
“Cartridges in the lower desk drawer,” Bridgeport said. “I want them both back ‘ere. Alive, you ‘ear?”
Roth grinned at Carlow and left.
A few minutes later, the cowboy who had provided Waulken’s alibi stepped gingerly into the marshal’s office. His spurs clanked on the wooden floor and he seemed unnerved by the noise. He yanked off his weathered hat and pushed his yellow hair back on his head. The sun had not touched his forehead above his hat.
“Marshal, thought I’d better come to see you,” he said, nervously glancing at the men in the cells. “I was wrong about seein’ Alben Waulken yesterday mornin’. I’m sorry, but it was the day before.” He waved his hand to indicate the change in days. “Yeah, it were the day before.” He returned his hat to his head and started to back out of the office. “Sorry I couldn’t be of help.”
“Aye, an’ which of the fine gentlemen behind me did ’elp you come to that change of thought?” Bridgeport asked, leaning against the desk.
The cowboy looked for a moment at the cells, then back at the marshal. He didn’t meet Bridgeport’s gaze, staring instead at the desk itself.
“Ah, nobody told me nothin’, Marshal.”
“Bloody lie, wot.”
Carlow folded his arms. “You know, whether Waulken was innocent or not has nothing to do with the crimes these boys are charged with.”
The cowboy looked like he was going to cry. “Don’t know nothin’ about that, Ranger. Just wanted to set things straight as far as my seein’ was concerned.”
Waving his hand at the man, Bridgeport disgustedly told him to leave.
“You know, we have other evidence to prove Mr. Waulken was innocent,” Carlow declared, and looked at each man in the cell. “He was set up by another man. Mr. Waulken would’ve been set free, if you boys hadn’t been so damn eager to take the law into your own hands.”
Both Bridgeport and Payne looked surprised and the cowboy wasn’t certain how to respond. Finally, he regathered his courage and left without speaking.
“Why didn’t you tell us that when we came to the marshal’s office, Ranger?” Omallden said, standing against the cell bars.
“I did. You weren’t listening. Too busy yelling threats at your marshal here.”
The twelve men behind bars looked like they had been struck with whips.
“I’ll see you later, Marshal,” Carlow said. “I’ll write out my statement—for the court—in case I’m not back in time.”
Bridgeport shook his head in agreement, sat down at his desk and asked Payne to go get some candy from the general store.
Outside, Carlow felt the tension of the past two days hit him hard. Lack of sleep was piling onto his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he decided to get some sleep before starting. Being tired was a good way to make a mistake. Kileen’s horse would go along as his second mount. He reminded himself to include in his letter to the court that Waulken had been afraid of horses and couldn’t have ridden to town and back on the gray horse. Or on any horse.
There was no proof, of course, but he felt it was owed to Margareitte Waulken to make that statement. He was certain she was telling the truth. He was also certain one or more of the lynchers had scared the cowboy into changing his story.
After purchasing supplies and eating some jerky, Carlow headed to the livery to leave them for tomorrow and check on his horses. Chance trailed him happily. All he had to go on what was what the dress store lady had told him. A gray three-piece suit. A red tie. A gray bowler and thick mustache. The man had headed south. It wasn’t much, but it was what he had. It was the closest the Rangers had been to Mirabile’s killer, he was certain of that. McNelly’s wire had convinced him of what he had suspected: Tanneman Rose was alive and behind all of this madness.
“Punky, I’m going to leave these here until the morning. I’m riding out then. That all right?” Carlow said.
“Hi, Ranger, yah just missed that U.S. deputy marshal. He sure liked your hoss,” Punky Elliott said from where he was throwing hay into an empty stall.
Carlow laid down his supplies in the corner and stood up. “What do you mean, Punky? A United States marshal was here?”
“Oh, sure nuff, he was. Handful o’ minutes ago.” The livery operator spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Came in on some farm hoss. A chestnut with two stockings. His’n had bin shot by some owlhoots he was a’chasin’. You prob’bly know who t
hey was…if’n I could ‘member their names.” He scratched his rear end. “Seems like it were some brothers. Maybe.”
Carlow slipped the bridle onto Shadow’s head and felt more tired than ever. “What was his name? The lawman.”
“Don’ ‘member that neither.” Elliott spat again, evaluating the thickness of the stream. “Bought a longlegged bay off’a me. Good belly. Run forever.”
With some prodding from Carlow, Elliott described the mysterious lawman as wearing a gray suit and a wide, flat-brimmed hat. He was a little taller than Elliott, and thinner. Had a goatee and wore a fancy gunbelt.
“Where was he headed? I just came from the jail,” Carlow said.
“Well, he was gonna check out the hospital. Thought he’d put lead in one o’ them boys he was a’chasin’,” Elliott pronounced, proud of his attention to detail.
“Maybe I’ll see him over there. Going to check on Thunder…ah, Ranger Kileen.”
“Sure nuff.” Elliott spat again.
The livery operator didn’t notice Carlow was already running toward the hospital. He didn’t like the sound of this. A federal lawman would have checked in at the marshal’s office first. A courtesy, if nothing else. He was afraid of who it might really be. Tanneman Rose.
Chapter Twenty-nine
At the hospital, Tanneman reined up outside the gray building and swung down, tying both horses to the rack. Touching the brim of his hat to a passing couple, he went inside. He was pleased with himself. It was almost too easy. He would ask for the wounded Ranger and when no one was looking, Tanneman would kill him with his knife. He would be gone before the death was even discovered.
A stern nurse coming his way was the first step.
“Afternoon, ma’am. I’m United States Deputy Marshal Jubal Winchell,” he said, smiling and tipping his hat. “In town after some outlaws. Wanted to see Ranger Kileen, if I might. He’s an old friend.”
“Of course.” Her stern facade vanished in response to his smile and she indicated which bed the wounded Kileen was resting in.
He thanked her and headed that way.
Duval Jonas, the young boy with the head injury, saw him walking by and yelled out, “Hi, Ranger. Are you a friend of Time Carlow and Thunder Kileen?”
Tanneman spun in his tracks, fighting his mind for control. Such an announcement was the last thing he needed, but there was nothing he could do about it. He forced himself to smile and said, “Well, good afternoon, young man. What’s your name?”
The chair scooted beside the boy’s bed was empty and Tanneman guessed one of his parents had been there recently.
“I’m Duval Jonas. Ranger Carlow said he would be back to see me again.”
“Well, I’m sure he will, son.”
The boy pointed at the badge. “Is that a Ranger badge?”
“No, it’s not. I’m United States Deputy Marshal Jubal Winchell,” he pronounced. “I’m in town trailing some outlaws. Heard about Ranger Kileen and wanted to see him.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you,” Duval said. “Do you want me to go with you? The nurse says I can get up now.”
Trying to remain composed, Tanneman thanked the boy and said that he would prefer to go by himself. Obviously disappointed, Duval Jonas muttered his understanding and lay back on his bed. The disguised former Ranger moved away quickly, hoping for no more interruptions.
No one was in sight as he reached the foot of Kileen’s bed. The big Irishman was sleeping. He looked little different from the last time Tanneman had seen him up close. That had been the day Kileen and the other Rangers had escorted him to jail. Kileen, Carlow and Mirabile. The three lawmen had changed his life forever. The sight of them was burned into his mind. They raced through his dreams.
He smiled. Mirabile—and Deconer—were gone. Now Kileen. Then Carlow and McNelly, then it was done, except for some pissant jurors and that clown marshal. Tanneman’s demons would be satisfied. He touched the necklace under his shirt and mumbled. The thought of their reincarnations bothered him and he shook his head to remove the thought. He would know them, he assured himself—even if they came back as spiders or owls or horses. He would kill them again. His chuckle was louder than he wanted.
The big Ranger stirred and mumbled something in his sleep. His hands rested on his stomach above the blanket. Tanneman slipped around the bed until he was next to Kileen. A part of him wanted to wake Kileen up so he would know who was killing him, but that wasn’t smart. A quick slice across Kileen’s throat would end it once and for all. He withdrew the shiny blade, adjusted it in his hand for easy cutting and slid it toward Kileen’s neck.
“Good-bye, Aaron, you miserable bastard,” he snarled through clenched teeth.
“Hey! What are you doing? You said he was your friend!” Duval yelled.
The boy was out of bed and running toward Kileen’s bed and Tanneman. “Hey! He’s trying to kill him! Help! Help!”
Drawn by the boy’s alarm, Mariah Sanguel appeared from behind the temporary curtain that closed off another bed. In her hands was a filled bedpan.
“Eet ees a keeller!” she screamed, then ran toward Tanneman and threw the urine in the pan at him.
He stepped back as the yellow liquid slapped against his face and chest. She followed her liquid assault with a blow to his face with the empty pan.
Kileen awoke disoriented from Tanneman’s cry and saw the disguised former Ranger poised to kill him. The Irish Ranger’s left fist backhanded Tanneman, driving into his groin. The Irishman’s right fist followed to the same location. Both blows used all the strength he could muster. Fresh blood seeped onto his hospital gown as he fell back, exhausted.
Staggering from the awful pain in his groin, the burning in his eyes and Mariah’s continued blows, Tanneman dropped his knife and grabbed for his holstered pistol in a wild attempt to finish the job he had started.
Mariah slammed the empty pan onto his gun hand as he attempted to clear the holster. He screamed in pain and his gun flopped against the bed and slid to the ground. Dropping the pan, she leaned over and grabbed the fallen revolver. Tanneman cursed and pushed her out of the way. She bounced against the bed and fell to the floor, still holding the gun.
He ran, desperate for freedom.
Bravely, Duval stepped in front of him and stated, “You’re no lawman. You tried to kill Ranger Kileen.”
Cursing, Tanneman slammed the boy into the foot of the closest bed and raced on.
After him came a determined Mariah with his revolver in her hands, not daring to shoot in the hospital.
Pulling himself up, the boy yelled after her, “Get him, Miss Mariah. He’s not a lawman. He’s a killer.”
Tanneman cleared the hospital door, his mind a whirl of fear. He jumped on the bay, yanking free the reins and the lead rope of the wagon horse, and spurred the new mount away. The chestnut followed, its gallop barely keeping up with the long-legged bay.
Mariah cleared the hospital door and saw him escaping. With both hands, she cocked the gun, aimed it and fired. She missed and cocked the weapon again. But he had already disappeared down the closest alley. Gasping for breath, she ran after him, reaching the alley only to see that it was empty.
Hurrying toward the marshal’s office, she saw Time Carlow running toward her from the other direction and waved the gun in the air. The young Ranger was by her side quickly.
“What’s the matter, Mariah?”
“A killer…he try to keel…your friend. Beeg Thunder. He had a…big knife…and thees gun.”
His face revealed the question before it came.
“Your uncle…he ees…all right,” she said. “He hit…thees keeller…in the…ah, private area. I heet heem with a bedpan. Threw ze night’s waste at heem.”
“Which way did this man go?” Carlow asked.
“He rode down that alley.” Her voice sagged. “He ees gone.”
“How did you get his gun?”
She explained what had happened, includi
ng the boy’s alarm. She described the man as best she could, including the badge on his coat lapel.
It had to be Tanneman.
Carlow spun and headed away, biting his lower lip to keep his emotions from spreading onto his face. Tanneman Rose had almost killed his beloved uncle. Then Carlow stopped.
Mariah shivered and dropped her hands to her sides. Her lips quivered. Carlow turned back and brought her to him. She whimpered, and her fear burst into his shoulder. He held her shaking body as she sobbed out the emotion.
His own tired mind whirred. Tanneman’s quick return to Strickland meant he was confident. So far, he had a right to be.
Mariah’s gentle hand against his chest sent the threat scurrying for the corners of his mind. She looked up into his eyes.
“I am sorry, Señor Carlow,” she whispered. “I do not mean to cause you ze embarrassment of such public…display.”
He chuckled and wiped the last tear working its way down her cheek. “Thank you for saving my uncle’s life. And holding you makes for a wonderful day.” He brushed away more dampness. “I only wish the circumstances were different. I’ve got to go after him.”
Neither noticed two women walk past them, smiling and talking again only after moving out of earshot.
Mariah held up the gun. “Here ees gun.”
She smiled softly and backed away slightly. “Oh, please be so careful…please. Come back to…us.” Mariah shivered and dropped her hands to her sides.
“Take care of Duval—and my uncle—’til I get back,” Carlow said quietly. “I’ll tell the marshal what has happened. He’s awfully busy right now, but he’ll send over a deputy to stand guard when he can.”
“Si.”
Chapter Thirty
Tanneman Rose cleared a shallow hill, eased his new horse into a walk and looked back at the small shapes that were Strickland. A Texas sun had taken charge of the day and was pushing everything toward cover. He looked down at his empty holster and cursed. At least he was still carrying a Winchester.
