Death Mask (20 page)

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.

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…coffins 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.”