Death Mask

by Cotton Smith

  The stench of damp urine on his coat and shirt filled his nostrils. He had to assume someone would come after him. That someone would be Time Carlow. Of all the Rangers, Tanneman feared the young gunfighter the most. He was certain Carlow had been a Roman commander in a previous life.

  Swinging his mount to the west, Tanneman headed for his peddler’s wagon. The chestnut following struggled to keep up. If he moved quickly, he should be able to create the right picture for the young Ranger when he came. So he could kill him. Easily.

  Anger swelled again as he galloped across the prairie with his wagon horse running as fast as it could. He hated Kileen and Carlow—and he hated failure. The need for perfection gnawed on him and drove him.

  As soon as Tanneman reached the wagon, he removed the saddle and bridle from the bay and slapped the animal on the rear. Startled, the horse whinnied and began to run. He was certain the road itself would not reveal that he had left town with two horses. There were too many tracks of horses and wagons.

  He tossed his saddle gear into the wagon and covered them with blankets, then began work to become the peddler again. His urine-stained clothes were quickly hidden in the back of the wagon, along with the empty gun belt. His goatee was replaced by the peddler’s beard, and then he finished the rest of his transformation. He swore at himself again at the realization that one of the heavy eyebrows was missing. He would have to go with his own until he found more among his disguises. Now was not the time to look.

  It took a few minutes, but he found another handgun, checked the loads, shoved it into his waistband and mumbled a Persian prayer, really just jibberish he had decided was from his previous life.

  Quickly he harnessed the two horses and placed the reloaded Sharps behind the wagon seat, where it could be easily reached. Only then did he put on his coat, keeping his right arm inside his shirt and coat so it looked like it had been amputated. His fingers curled around the butt of the pistol.

  It would be so nice to kill Time Carlow. With a snap of the reins, Tanneman headed out of the ravine, making certain his new tracks covered the bay’s brief stop.

  It would merely look like he was coming to town, as he had done before. How was a slow-witted peddler to know tracks were important? He chuckled.

  One more chance at Kileen, that’s what he wanted. One more chance. But he wouldn’t press it; killing Carlow would more than make up for it. He had already decided that after killing Carlow, he would reenter Strickland as a peddler. Nighttime would be a good time to go to the hospital. This time he would silence that fool boy first. And that Mexican nurse, if she were around.

  A half hour down the road, he saw Carlow advancing. The young Ranger had his hand carbine resting over his saddle; his wolf-dog moved ahead of him easily.

  Tanneman took a deep breath. Would Carlow suspect him? See through his disguise? No, he reminded himself. There was no reason for the Ranger to suspect the peddler. None at all. He would see what he expected to see. Like everyone else.

  Carlow watched the peddler’s wagon approach. The wolf-dog growled and he told Chance to stay near him and be quiet. The beast obeyed, but kept baring his white teeth.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Chance. Be quiet. I get it.”

  Carlow reined up and held up his hand. “Afternoon, sir. I’m in pursuit of a man. Black hat. Goatee. On a bay. Did you happen to see him?”

  “Wal, I sur nuff did, suh,” Tanneman said in his best Missouri drawl. “He dun went by me sumthin’ fierce. A while back, it were. I jes’ was fixin’ to head to town.”

  “Where was he headed?”

  Tanneman’s hand tightened around his hidden gun, then changed his mind. The pistol was for an emergency only. Trying to shoot through his coat was too risky. Certainly he could clear the gun, but that would take longer. Too long against someone like Carlow with his hand carbine in readiness. Tanneman wanted to kill him outright, not just wound him. An injured Time Carlow would be a nightmare.

  Tanneman pointed behind him. “Reckon thataway, suh.” He paused and declared, “Got sum tobaccy. Chewin’ an’ see-gars. Real cheap.”

  “Not today, thanks,” Carlow said, nudged his horse into a lope and rode past.

  Tanneman reached behind the seat for the Sharps. He took a deep breath. No. He needed to have a clear shot at the Ranger, not some hurried attempt. Time Carlow was known for his ability with a gun. Some said the young Ranger was better than he was.

  The sharp crash told him what he had done before he saw it. The spider jar was shattered, slammed by the butt of his rifle as he retrieved it. He saw the spider move away from the wad of dried grass.

  “Oh. Oh, Portland. I’m sorry. So sorry.” He looked around for something else to put the spider in, but it had disappeared. His shoulders shook. “Oh well, enjoy the wagon.”

  He returned his attention to Carlow and climbed down from the wagon. As soon as his boots hit the ground, he knew it was too late. The young Ranger had disappeared into the wash where he had camped. Would he suspect something? Tanneman told himself that was unlikely. All anyone could tell from the wash was that a wagon had been there and that a rider had come through and ridden on. Not even an Apache could read anything more. Besides, Carlow would be in a hurry to catch up with the rider in front of him. That would make him careless.

  Should Tanneman turn the wagon around and go after him? Or wait for Carlow to come out of the wash? He didn’t like either idea. The Ranger would be suspicious if he rode back, even if he announced his approach with a loud question. Carlow would see the wagon before a clear shot was possible.

  Go back to town! Yes, go back to town and, this time, finish off Kileen. It was a perfect idea. No one would pay any attention to him as the peddler. No one ever did. He would be gone before anyone knew what had happened. Then he would plan his next move: to kill Carlow. The young Ranger would be following that horse for hours, maybe days. Eventually the animal would turn toward Strickland, of course, but it might meander for a while after deciding it didn’t need to run anymore. He laughed shrilly. Had he dreamed such a strategy? Of course he had.

  Climbing back into the wagon, he shoved the rifle back among the other merchandise and wondered if he should look for the spider. Not now. He would look for Portland after he was finished with Kileen. Portland would enjoy hearing that news.

  Tanneman snapped the reins and the two wagon horses responded with a trot, then a rough canter. Nightfall was gaining control of the land. The marshal’s office was definitely the center of activity as his wagon rolled into town. It looked like a gathering of townsmen had spilled out onto the boardwalk. Light from the marshal’s office painted their strained faces.

  He chuckled to himself.

  As he walked his horses through town, a woman yelled at him from the sidewalk.

  “Peddler? Oh, peddler! Please stop.”

  He was annoyed by the distraction, but reined in his horses.

  “Yes, ma’am, kin I be of service?”

  The woman straightened her hat and walked away from her husband toward the wagon.

  “Peddler, do you have any large pots? I can’t find what I’m looking for anywhere in town.”

  Tanneman bit back his irritation. “No, ma’am. Dun solt all my big pots. Sorry. Got some tobbaccy for your husban’.”

  The woman halted and shook her head. “No. I’m looking for a large pot. Can’t believe I can’t find it. I’ll just order one from the catalog.” She spun on her heels and returned to her husband without another word to Tanneman.

  Relieved of the distraction, he continued across town, heading for the hospital. His hidden hand gripped and regripped the Colt resting in his waistband. He stopped the wagon at the rail and gathered a gunnysack from behind the seat. He shoved several small items into it. If he were stopped, he would explain that he was making a delivery for the young Ranger who had purchased candy for the Irishman. He shoved a towel inside the bag as an afterthought; it would help muffle the gunshots.

&nbs
p; As he approached the hospital door, a bearded gentleman in a top hat stepped from the shadows. Tanneman hadn’t noticed him before. The bearded man’s suit and shirt were wrinkled. He leaned on a cane with his left hand; his right was cradled behind his back, in a courtly pose. Tanneman guessed he was the hospital administrator—or possibly a doctor. The decision was a simple one: kill the fool now or kill him when he left.

  “Good evening, peddler…where are…you going? It is…getting late.” The voice was stilted and slow. Eastern, perhaps.

  The top hat’s brim was just wide enough—and pulled down enough on his forehead—to shove darkness across most of the bearded man’s face. Tanneman avoided his face anyway.

  “Evenin’ suh. I be bringin’ sum sweets to the wounded Ranger inside. His young friend bought them from me—to give him. That be all right?” Tanneman said in his Missouri drawl.

  “That is…nice. You will…have to find…your own way. Only a few…on duty…right now. Eating supper…you know,” the man said without moving out of the shadows.

  “‘Course. I shouldna haff trouble,” Tanneman said. “If’n I do, I’ll come back an’ maybe you-all kin he’p me.”

  “Well, I am not…supposed to…leave here,” the man said. “Someone tried…to kill…the big Ranger today. In my…hospital, no less. Deputy just…went to get…some supper, so I am…standing in…for him.” He waved his cane. “Not sure…what I can do, though, I haven’t…a gun. Don’t believe…in them…you know.”

  “Oh my! Did ya git ‘im?” Tanneman waved his arm.

  The man shook his head and touched his beard. “Oh no. He got…away. Say where…did you see…that young Ranger? He went…after him.”

  Tanneman knew he should have expected this. He pointed toward the south. “He came past my wagon. Outside o’ town. Said he were a’chasin’ someone—an’ asked me to bring his friend this candy. Paid me cash money.”

  “I see.”

  Tanneman was anxious to go in, but knew it was smart to act like he wasn’t.

  “I’ll jes’ be a minute, suh.”

  “Did you forget one of your eyebrows?” The gentleman raised his cane and poked it into Tanneman’s stomach. His voice was changed. Hard. Challenging. Tanneman knew that voice.

  The words jolted Tanneman more than the cane. His left hand went to his face instinctively, then dropped, and he stared at the shadowy figure before him. Time Carlow! How could that be? He was riding in the other direction.

  “You’re under arrest, Tanneman. For the murders of Judge Cline; District Attorney Johnson; our friend, Ranger Pig Deconer; and for a fine juryman in San Antonio. Probably more. And for attempted murder of my uncle.” He lowered the cane as his right arm swung forward. A short-barreled Colt in Carlow’s right fist was aimed at Tanneman’s midsection.

  “Wha…suh, ya must have me mistaken for another,” Tanneman blurted, trying to regain his composure. His hidden hand tightened around the Colt in his waistband.

  “Wasn’t sure it was you. Out on the road,” Carlow said. “Had a hunch you’d come here. If I was wrong, I was going to start on the trail tomorrow. Your disguise is real good, Tanneman. Real good. Now it’s over.”

  “Suh, I am not this Rose fella ya be expectin’.”

  “Unbutton your coat real slow,” Carlow demanded. “I’d better see that hidden hand opened. Palm up. With nothing in it.” He motioned with his gun. “After I left you, I hurried back. The boys at the theater were nice enough to lend me all this.”

  Orange flame erupted through Tanneman’s coat. A split second behind, Carlow’s Colt roared three times.

  Tanneman’s gun fired again. He groaned and toppled to the ground.

  The young Ranger stepped next to him, yanked open his coat and pulled the gun from Tanneman’s stiffening fingers. His top hat rolled off his head and bounced on the dying ex-Ranger.

  “I-I’ll b-be back…to k-kill you,” Tanneman whispered and his head sank to the side. “Hillis…P-Portland…B-Barnabas…where are you? I’ve got the mon…” His eyes lost their light.

  Carlow staggered. It was over. He heard footsteps coming from inside the hospital. His hand was crimson where he held his side, and then he fell.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Time Carlow awoke.

  He was lying in a hospital bed next to Kileen. He shook his head to clear it of the cobwebs. What had happened to Tanneman Rose? Was he on the run again? Carlow looked down at his stomach; it was wrapped in fresh bandages. His clothes and gunbelt were lying on a table a few feet away. Even his discarded leggings, weathered hat and long coat, taken off for his disguise, were there. The top hat, beard and evening coat were nowhere in sight.

  “Time, me son, ‘tis good to see you with us again. Been almost two days,” Kileen said, watching him from a prone position. His voice was weak, but definitely joyous.

  Carlow blinked his eyes to clear them more. His left eye seemed as clear as the right.

  Standing at the foot of Carlow’s bed was Duval Jonas, so happy to see the young Ranger awake that he couldn’t remain quiet any longer.

  “Hi, Ranger Carlow. I’m Duval Jonas. Remember?” the boy said.

  “Well, I sure do, Duval. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, Ranger. I helped when that awful man tried to kill…Ranger Kileen,” Duval recited and pointed at the big Irishman.

  Carlow bit his lip. “I know you did, Duval. Thank you for being so brave.” He looked over at Kileen. “What happened to Tanneman?”

  “Doin’ no more bad, me son,” Kileen said softly. “He be dead. You shot him. It be over, me son.” He crossed himself, shivered and decided not to say anything about the possibility of Tanneman returning.

  From the far end of the hospital came a loud stomping as Marshal Bridgeport strutted down the aisle with a sack in his hand. He stopped between the beds of the two Rangers.

  “Brought you blokes some candy. Toffee. Absolutely delicious,” Bridgeport announced and set them on Carlow’s bed, helping himself to a large chunk.

  “The doctor said you were lucky. Tanneman’s shots were off, probably because he was firing through that bloody coat. Hit you on the side. Just the side,” the British lawman declared. “You lost a lot of blood, though.” He looked over at Kileen. “You’ll be up and around before this big bloke is.”

  “I’m all right.” Carlow sat up. Dizziness reached his head and he lay back. “Well, real soon.” He realized what the British marshal had said, and looked over at Kileen and said, “He said I was lucky.”

  The big Ranger smiled thinly. “Aye.”

  “Sure. Sure.” Bridgeport turned toward Kileen, then back to Carlow. “Found a list in that madman’s coat. A list of bloody revenge. Even had Captain McNelly’s name on it.” He shook his head. “Guess what we found in the peddler wagon? A bunch of wooden masks and a trunk of disguises. Wigs. Beards and the like.”

  He straightened his chin and announced proudly, “And the bank’s money. All of it.” He folded his arms and pushed up his chin. “That’s not all. There’s another whole trunk of the queen’s gold and currency in there, too.” He shook his head. “Found a big spider. Looked like Tanneman had kept it in a jar. My deputy squashed it.”

  “So that’s where the gold be—from the other banks,” Kileen said. “Me knew it weren’t no gang.” His smile at Carlow took a lot of his energy. “Ye should be knowin’ that seein’ a spider be good luck. Never be killin’ a spider, though. Never. ‘Tis room for ye an’ he. An’ never be cuttin’ down its web.” He shook his head for emphasis and took several breaths to help him finish the thought. “When I was but a wee lad, a lady told meself that such should not be done. Me be findin’ a web in our barn…an’ I knocked it down. One o’ our horses went lame. Aye. ‘Tis true.”

  Smiling, Bridgeport leaned against Carlow’s bed. “How did you come onto this Tanneman Rose bloke being the peddler?”

  “Should’ve guessed earlier,” Carlow said. “When I saw him on the trail…ah, w
henever it was…I remembered him saying something about Rangers being with you at the Waulken place, the night we arrested Mr. Waulken. There’s no way he’d know we were Rangers…unless he knew us. But it didn’t hit me until then.” Carlow licked his lower lip. “Punky said the U.S. marshal was riding a chestnut with white stockings when he came to town. One of Tanneman’s horses matched that description.” He stopped to regain his breath. “Still…I wasn’t sure. Him being onearmed and all. So I rode past and curled back into town. Figured on waiting to see what happened when he thought I was out of the way.” He took a deep breath. “If he didn’t come, I was going to start out again.”

  “Ah yes, and gathered some bloody props from the drama folks, it seems.”

  “Yeah. They were most helpful. One lady wanted to come along.” He hesitated. “Thought it would help me get close without him running again.”

  “Too bloody close.” Bridgeport glanced over at Kileen and nodded. “There are some people waiting outside, to see you both. Mrs. Waulken, Mrs. Mirabile and her son.”

  “Ah, ‘tis a kind thing they be doin’,” Kileen said.

  Bridgeport took another piece of toffee and rolled it around in his mouth. “Oh yeah, there’s a reporter out there, too. From New York. Says he talked to you before, son. Wants to interview you both.”

  “Tell him to write about Mrs. Waulken. She’d make a good story,” Carlow snapped.

  Bridgeport slapped his hand down on the bed, shrugged his shoulders and grinned at such a reaction, and said, “Blimey, I almost forgot. Everyone likes your idea about the lynchers helping out. Even Mrs. Waulken. I think she bloody well is looking forward to managing the lot of them.”

  Carlow tried to sit up again, this time moving slowly. “Where’s Chance?”

  Bridgeport explained the wolf-dog and Carlow’s horse, as well as Kileen’s, were fine and in the stable.

  After finishing her duties across the room, Mariah hurried toward them, realizing Carlow was awake. She moved past Bridgeport, close to Carlow’s bed, and smiled at him.