Death Mask (17 page)

After an hour of hard running, Carlow and Kileen eased their horses into a land-eating lope that led them past sunset and into the night. To save the weary wolfdog’s legs, Carlow had carried him across the saddle. Chance seemed to enjoy the transportation and licked Carlow’s hand.

The trail of the man who had robbed the Strickland Bank was too warm to stop. Even in the growing darkness, hoofprints told a story fairly easy to follow. They were headed directly for the forest Bridgeport had mentioned. The British lawman and his posse were coming behind them, or so he had promised. Neither Ranger was interested in waiting. Carlow figured a bunch of trigger-happy volunteers behind them could be more trouble than the outlaw or outlaws ahead of them. Bridgeport had assured the Rangers that he would only bring men who had fighting experience, except for the teenager who had volunteered. The British lawman didn’t have the heart to turn him down.

In an unnecessary statement, Bridgeport had said the Rangers didn’t need to wait for them to catch up; the posse was more for the town to feel good about itself. He had full confidence in the Rangers apprehending the robbers and returning the bank’s money. Carlow realized he was trying to set them up to take the blame if the money wasn’t recovered.

Curling in and out of a mile-long string of cottonwoods lining a struggling creek, the two Rangers passed a spongy swale of slick wet grass and slipped over three broken hills. The bank robber’s trail was clear, even in the pale moonlight. Rather than a hurried escape, it appeared to be a planned one.

“Aye, ‘tis an old man’s thinkin’ that our lad’ll be stopping at that cabin Lark be tellin’ about,” Kileen volunteered, motioning toward the north.

“Looks like it,” Carlow said. “Looks like he’s the man who lives there, doesn’t it?” He rubbed his hand along the tired wolf-dog’s back. “What would a man like Bridgeport be doing out here—to discover such a man and such a place?”

“Doin’ his job, me thinks.”

“Do you think he really sent a messenger after the posse?” Carlow peered into the hillside ahead, trying to determine if any of the shadows belonged to a man.

“I’d be sayin’ so. Ol’ Lark, a strange one he may be, but I’ve never known hisself to lie.” Kileen took a flask from his coat pocket and downed a long swallow. “Leastwise, not when it be counted.” He made no attempt to offer the small container to Carlow and slipped it back into his pocket.

“So when do you think we can expect the posse to catch up with us?” Carlow asked sarcastically, removing his boots from their stirrups, allowing them to hang free for a few minutes to let his legs relax.

“Me not be knowin’.” Kileen wiped his mouth with the back of his huge hand. “Many o’ them lads be rediscoverin’ the wonders of home an’ hearth, I reckon.” He motioned toward the dark shapes that were the forest ahead of them. “Hmmm, on me sweet mither’s grave, this be a place where the wee people be livin’.”

“Do they ride gray horses?”

“Don’t ye be foolin’ with your sweet ol’ uncle, laddie.”

Looking around, Carlow said, “Thunder, do you think the Captain was certain about Tanneman’s death? I still think he’s alive—and behind all this madness. Nothing else makes sense.” He rolled his tired shoulders and glanced at Kileen. “I don’t know who we’re following, but Tanneman’s got to be involved. I’m sure of it.”

Kileen’s drained face twitched. “The captain hisself wouldn’t be sayin’ so, if it weren’t.” He looked around. “Of course, Tanneman Rose be a dreamer. Return in another form, he might be.” He bit his lower lip. “Ye know, the Navajo, they talk of the skinwalker. A witch who can change into a crow. Or a wolf. Or a man.” He shook off the idea as a shiver rattled through his shoulders.

“If he’s dead, Thunder, he’s dead. I think he’s alive—and setting up innocent men to throw everyone off track. There’s no Rose gang and you know it.”

They rode through the man-high rock passage and saw the small cabin resting on the flattened open land.

“Rein up,” Carlow said in a hushed voice.

“What?” Kileen reached for his holstered gun.

“I’m thinking we’d better expect a guard along here somewhere.” Carlow stopped his black horse. “Easy, Shadow. Whoa.”

Kileen frowned but did the same, watching the younger Ranger slip from the saddle and lift Chance down. Immediately, he began removing his spurs. Dismounting himself, Kileen secured his reins to a branch, keeping the horse’s head tight enough that it wouldn’t attempt to graze. He did the same with Carlow’s black. After a swig from their canteens, they poured water into the crowns of their doffed hats and offered the refreshing liquid to their mounts.

Chance rubbed his nose against Carlow’s leg. The young Ranger poured more water into his hat and gave it to the tired wolf-dog. He patted the fierce animal on the head, ordering him to wait with Kileen and told his uncle to stay where he was until he gave the all-clear. Carlow would go on ahead and see if a sentry had been posted. Or maybe he would see the man they sought. For the first time, both men noticed the new full moon in the darkening sky was heading toward its full circle.

“Much to be wary about with the moon, me lad, ye be knowin’ that.” Kileen motioned with his head. “Don’t be pointin’ at it. The man there gets angry—at bein’ pointed at.”

“I can understand that. Don’t like being pointed at either,” Carlow said with a grin.

“ ‘Tis a good time to be killin’ the pig.” Kileen rubbed his unshaven chin. “When the moon is becomin’ her full se’f, makes the f ryin’ bigger.” He took a long breath as if preparing himself for a most serious statement. “ ‘Course, the moon in her full can make a man crazy, ye know. Best not to tempt her.”

Facing the yellow orb, Kileen tipped his hat and uttered, “Lady Moon, I hail thee.” He repeated the phrase two more times and added, “Me father—and your mother’s—would go outside the house and bow nine times to the new moon. Aye, he did so every time.”

Carlow looked up, half a grin on his tanned face. Many Irish he knew had tendencies to believe in, or at least talk about, things beyond their control, but Kileen was certain of every one of them. Sometimes, Carlow wondered how his uncle made it through the day with all the interlocking and contradictory superstitions he followed. Silently, he thanked his mother again for making certain such tendencies hadn’t made their way into his thoughts.

“Touch your money. In your pocket, son,” Kileen continued, still looking into the dark sky. “Turn your smallest coin upside down. ‘Twill make sure ye do not run out.”

“Stay here until I give a holler.” Carlow laid the second spur over his saddle horn. He hesitated, then thrust his hand into his pocket. There would be no rest until he followed his uncle’s superstitious counsel.

“That’s a good lad. Make a wish now. Keep it a secret and it will be given ye.” He added, “A blade, not a bullet.” Kileen wanted to caution him about being careful, but knew it would sound like he didn’t have confidence in his beloved nephew.

“I want him alive,” Carlow announced. “We need to find out if he’s Mirabile’s shooter. Who knows? We might even find Tanneman here. Wouldn’t that be something?”

“Aye. May be more than one, laddie. ‘Member Lark speakin’ of a possible second robber.”

“I remember.”

In seconds, Carlow had disappeared into the darkness surrounding them. Even the bright moonlight couldn’t find him. Kileen shook his head at the swiftness of his young protégé. “Aye, the strike of the Celtic warrior, he be gifted with,” Kileen muttered. He thought about taking another swig of whiskey, then decided not to.

Drinking on duty was not allowed, but Captain McNelly had never paid any attention to Kileen’s indiscretions. Probably because Old Thunder could outfight any three or four Rangers put together. Except for Carlow. Ranger Time Carlow might be young, but his reputation for battle savvy had already outstripped all but Kileen and one or two other veteran state lawmen.

An owl saluted the big Irishman as it glided through the night. Kileen watched the wide wings and tried not to think that the Comanche thought the bird was a ghost. Could it be somehow related to Tanneman? He shook his head to drive away the thought.

“Ye be lookin’ out for me nephew now.” Kileen looked at the moon and growled, then pulled his pistol and tapped the barrel three times against the trunk of a nearby oak.

Both horses’ ears twitched toward the sound to assure it was not harm coming. He tried to think about Angel Balta and her warm body, so he wouldn’t worry about his nephew. Patience was a trait hard earned by the big man. Hard earned. One he had diligently taught his nephew, or so he told himself.

He looked down at Chance sitting quietly. “Shannon, me be countin’ on ye to watch over me nephew.”

Chance cocked his head to the side and stretched his head out on his legs.

Nearly soundlessly, Carlow worked his way through the trees, alternating his attention on shadows ahead and on the ground for anything that would make noise if stepped on. His tracking skills were more the result of the guidance given by a Mescalaro Apache years before, than that of Kileen’s teaching. Carlow and Kayitah had become friends after the young Ranger whipped three white men who were beating on the Apache in a nameless town along the western edge of Texas.

Later Kayitah had been shot down by the U.S. Cavalry in an attack on a small village, and Carlow had sought his body for proper burial. With Kileen’s support—and McNelly’s—the army unofficially allowed him onto the site of the pitiful massacre. Carlow’s best friend, Shannon Dornan, had joined him. Less than a year later, Dornan had died and Carlow had been badly wounded in the Silver Mallow Gang’s ambush.

Breathing through his teeth to avoid the sound giving away his advance, Carlow patiently studied the forest as he darted from tree to tree. He could see well, even though the forest cloak lay heavily on the land. Moonlight knifed its way through most of the branches, providing shards of yellow seeking gray rocks and downed branches. Night sounds filled the dark, a good sign that no one waited. And so far, he couldn’t see anyone on guard.

Strings of smoke from the cabin’s chimney were caught in the cloudless sky as if weaving the handful of aggressive stars together. The yellow light gracing the inside of the cabin yielded two shadows. Carlow stopped behind a fat tree to determine his next move. To his left were a weathered barn and a hog pen. It would make sense to determine whether or not the gray horse they followed was in the barn.

He crouched beside a fallen log and watched a jackrabbit scurry away. Ahead of him was a thick maze of trees, rocks, dead branches and hardy weeds surrounding the barn. No sign of any outlaw sentry was evident from this angle. Carlow knew it was unlikely there would be, until he had completed at least a half circle. He hoped Kileen would remain where he was and not get anxious, for this would take longer than he had expected. But to do it any other way would be to invite a bullet. Slowly, he worked his way to the barn’s doors, past a buckboard and a pen of softly grunting pigs. A favorable embrace of moonlight indicated the doors weren’t locked, only shut.

Waiting longer would only increase the likelihood of the shadows in the cabin being suspicious, so Carlow drew the Colt from his sidewinder holster and shifted it to his left hand. He leaned over and, with his right, pulled the war knife from its sheath in his Kiowa legging. If necessary, the silence of the blade would be preferable to a gunshot.

He darted forward, but didn’t see a rusty hoe left from tending the field and he kicked it into the barn. Carlow froze in place. Would it arouse whoever was in the cabin?

If the noise had any effect on the cabin’s inhabitants, it didn’t show. Finally satisfied his mistake hadn’t changed anything, Carlow slid inside the barn and let his eyes become accustomed to the even darker situation. His gaze took in a gray horse, then the wooden mask, black coat and Pedersoli rifle. He walked over to the horse, which was still saddled and sweaty. The two cows and a brown horse in the adjoining stables looked like they could use some grazing time, but that wasn’t his concern.

Heavy footsteps interrupted his examination. Carlow thought it must be Kileen, but a smart man was always careful. He stepped back into the shadows with his Colt ready in his hands. If this wasn’t his uncle, he would first try for a quiet surrender. He fingered the sharp blade in his right fist. Firing would be a last resort.

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 strength 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.