Death Mask (5 page)

Once inside the jail cell, Tanneman Rose was left handcuffed and would stay there until a cavalry escort arrived with a prison wagon to take him to Huntsville. He settled down somewhat, chanting softly in a language no one understood.

Kileen said it was Persian; Carlow said it was gibberish intended to make people think it was Persian. The Rangers left him in Marshal Timble’s care and went to the telegraph office to report in.

Carlow outlined Tanneman’s guilty sentence and the resulting gunfight with his two brothers.

Mirabile sent a separate wire, resigning.

“‘Tis time for a retirement lunch, me lads,” Kileen boomed as they left the telegraph office. “A proper way to see our friend off to his new ways.” He pointed at the restaurant across the street.

“You know, I’d like that,” Mirabile said, checking his pocket watch. “Then I’d best be riding. It’s a ways to the ranch. I’ll camp somewhere along the way.”

Nodding, Carlow glanced across the street, where the undertaker’s assistants were already moving the bodies. He grimaced and looked away. It was like his uncle to talk about eating at such a moment. However, he didn’t have a better idea and it would be good to sit down with Mirabile before he left. The three of them had been good friends, and for a long time, in the case of Kileen and Mirabile.

At the restaurant, Kileen grandly ordered for them: a bottle of whiskey, rare steaks, potatoes and apple pie. In that order. As soon as the bottle and three glasses arrived, Kileen poured a generous glass, passed one to each Ranger and raised his own.

“A toast to you, Julian,” Kileen announced, holding up his glass of whiskey. “May you live as long as you want, and never want as long as you live.”

Both Carlow and Mirabile laughed and all three clinked their glasses. More toasts followed, from all three. Soon, their meals were served and eating took the place of talking and toasting. In spite of what he had expected, Carlow ate well, enjoying their gettogether. On finishing a second piece of pie, Mirabile looked at his watch, shook his head and declared he needed to be going.

As they strolled out onto the sidewalk, the telegraph operator came running across the street, waving a piece of paper.

“Ranger Kileen! Ranger Carlow! A wire from Captain McNelly.”

Striding up to them, the lanky operator ran his free hand through his slicked-back hair and held out the paper with the other. His right eye blinked, as it often did without his knowing.

“Well, that be fast. Let’s be readin’ the fine captain’s orders.”

Mirabile excused himself and headed for the livery to get his horse. He rolled a cigarette as he walked. His horse was already packed for the trip home.

Carlow took a look at the note and yelled out, “Julian! Wait. Looks like we’ll be riding out with you.”

The slump-shouldered Ranger stopped and turned, pulling the lit cigarette from his mouth. It was obvious he was happy to have the company.

“Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Captain wants us to go to Portland’s ranch. Now,” Carlow declared. “We’ll need to tell the marshal…and the judge.”

“Aye.” Kileen slapped him on the back.

Their orders were to ride to Portland Rose’s ranch immediately and look for the bank money taken from previous holdups. A search warrant was to be obtained from Judge Cline. Afterward, they were to check in by wire with McNelly in Bennett and get their next assignment. He was en route with a force of Rangers to stop a gang of Mexican rustlers working the border. If the stolen money was found, Kileen and Carlow would arrange for its return. If they weren’t successful, they would join him. They were also to advise Deconer that he wasn’t on the Ranger payroll until he was ready to ride. Ranger policy. Actually state policy, to save money.

“Rather be riding with the captain,” Carlow said. “We aren’t going to find anything at Portland’s. Tanneman’s too smart for that.”

“ ‘Tis our duty to find that money, me lad. ‘Twas Rangers who stole it,” Kileen said, motioning toward the marshal’s office. “Hisself the captain be worryin’ Tanneman’s gang might get there before we do.”

“Thunder, the only gang Tanneman had is dead. All three of them.” Carlow stepped off the boardwalk. “Anyway Tanneman’s not going to let boneheads like Portland and Barnabas handle that kind of money.”

“ ‘Tis the captain’s orders.”

At the marshal’s office, Kileen and Carlow advised the marshal they were leaving, but didn’t tell him where they were going. Carlow had suggested to his uncle that it would be wise not to share that specific detail.

From the cell, Tanneman held on to the bars and said, “Heading to Portland’s, are you, boys?”

“No,” Carlow snapped. “Heading for the border. The captain wants to stop all the rustling down there. Got Mexican gangs using the border for safety.”

Tanneman smiled evilly. “Looks like one of my brothers got pretty close, Time.”

“Not as close as I got.”

“You bastard!” Tanneman screamed.

Marshal Timble pledged to keep a two-man watch until the wagon came in the next couple of days, rotating his deputies and himself. One deputy would be stationed inside the jail and one outside, at all times.

Satisfied, Carlow turned to go to the door. Kileen walked over to Tanneman’s cell.

“ ‘Tis sorry I am that this is the way it must be,” he said. “Ye will see your brothers’ burials, I promise.”

“Well, ain’t you a real sweetheart, Kileen,” Tanneman said. “You ride on. One of these days I will kill you. You an’ that smart-ass nephew of yours.” He spat at Kileen between the bars.

Kileen let the spittle slide down his cheek. He turned away, then spun back and spat into Tanneman’s laughing face. After leaving the jail, Kileen and Carlow got supplies from the general store and left with Mirabile. They checked again on Deconer, who was resting in a hacienda; his thigh wound was slow in healing and he wasn’t yet able to walk. He didn’t take his removal from the Ranger payroll well and wanted to go with them, but knew he wasn’t ready. None of the three Rangers talked after leaving Deconer and getting their horses. Leaving a fellow Ranger—and a friend—behind was never easy.

“Thunder, we don’t know exactly where their ranch is,” Carlow said as the town disappeared behind them and they slowed their horses to a walk.

“Aye, not so. Tanneman told me about it. Some months back, it be. Not far from Bennett, it be. A wee north.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

Winking at Mirabile, Kileen looked over at his nephew and said, “Ye not be askin’.” His jack-o’-lantern grin followed. “Some time seein’ Angel an’ Ellie we be takin’, too.”

“There’s a lot of land…‘a wee north,’” Carlow said and grinned back. “Julian’s ranch, for example.”

“Aye. We’ll be askin’ folks as we go.”

Changing the subject, Kileen asked, “Do ye be thinkin’ Tanneman be put away for the good?”

Carlow took so long to respond that Kileen asked again, “Would ye be thinkin’ his previous life—as a Persian mystic—be helpin’ him?” Kileen crossed himself.

“No. I was thinking he would try to escape,” Carlow said. “I was wondering if we should’ve stayed until the army came.”

“Turn hisself into a small animal, he might,” the big Irishman declared. “That necklace he wears—of jaguar teeth—that be from a time he was a big cat.”

It was Mirabile’s turn to look at him. “Come on, Thunder. You know that’s not possible.”

Kileen’s face indicated he thought it was.

The threesome rode silently, Kileen and Carlow thinking ahead to how close to Bennett they would be after checking out the Rose ranch. Mirabile looked forward to seeing his wife again—and this time, staying at the ranch for good. Kileen was already savoring the idea of a reunion with Angel Balta, the infamous Mexican woman bandit. Carlow was thinking of Ellie Beckham. He glanced back at his bulging saddlebags. Among his supplies were a special brooch for her and a beaded sheath knife for her son, Jeremiah. They had been purchased in San Antonio.

“Oh, tell me ‘tis not so,” Kileen blurted and reined his horse to a stop.

“What?” Carlow said, drawing his hand carbine.

Mirabile was in the middle of rolling a cigarette and dropped the makings in surprise.

The big Irishman pointed to a dead crow almost in the center of the trail.

“It’s a dead crow, Thunder,” Carlow said, reholstering his weapon.

Mirabile shook his head in relief, brushing off the tobacco shreds.

“Aye. ‘Tis bad luck. A sign of death, me lad.”

With that, he made his nephew get down to pluck a feather from the crow’s tail and stick it in the ground.

“Good, me son. Now ridin’ around it we go. All o’ us. Three times.”

Carlow cocked his head. He might have been Irish, but he had none of their superstitious nature—or their lyrical brogue, thanks to his late mother, Kileen’s sister.

“We’ve got riding to do, Thunder.”

Mirabile frowned, but said nothing.

“Three times around, me lads. Three times around.”

Carlow griped all the way through the little ceremony, but Kileen only smiled, as did Mirabile. The land ahead looked flat, but was broken by hills, canyons and sudden arroyos. White rock decorated most of the ridges. Prickly pear and mesquite added their own touches. In the distance, an occasional ranch house disturbed the wildness.

Dusk found the three lawmen camping near a half-dead pond that badly needed rain to restore it to glory. But the remaining water was clear, not brackish like so many small pools and springs in the region. The appearance of mesquite had alerted them to its presence. Mesquite usually meant water. Two downed cottonwood trees, a wobbly pecan tree and a few lonely willows were solemn testament to high winds and the lack of consistent water. A batch of buffalo grass thrived near the pond. Around them the prairie was highlighted with mesquite, prickly pear, catclaw and alkali. If it was grazing land, there wasn’t much for cattle to work with.

The Rangers stayed far enough away from the pond that animals seeking water wouldn’t be scared away. That was Carlow’s idea.

Kileen rolled his shoulders to relieve the fatigue and took a swig from his flask. He offered it to Mirabile, who enjoyed a long pull and returned it. Carlow declined. After returning the flask to his pocket, Kileen yanked the saddle from his tall horse and studied the rising moon.

“ ‘Tis a wanin’ moon. Matters of importance should nay be done durin’ a waning moon. Nay, should not. Should be waitin’ for a new moon.” He rubbed his chin. “Vegetables are to be gathered while the moon is on the wane. Wood be cut best when the moon finds herself below the horizon.”

“Any problem with us gathering mesquite? For a fire?” Carlow teased and nudged Mirabile with his elbow. “Or rubbing down our horses?”

“Nay. ‘Tis no problem.”

“I’ll help get us some wood,” Mirabile said.

Soon a small fire cut into the growing dark. They built it in a narrow hollow where the glow was not likely to clear the land. After cooking, the men doused the fire. This was Indian country. Small bands of Comanches and Kiowas mostly. No use taking unnecessary risks. At night a fire could be spotted a long way away.

Bitter hot coffee washed down a pan of salt pork and beans with a little hardtack. Chance shared Carlow’s meal, enjoying the meaty morsels tossed his way. With so little grazing about, they gave their horses grain from the small sacks each Ranger carried. Afterward, they walked the horses to the side of the pond where the water appeared to be clearest, then tied them up for the night to sturdy branches of the downed trees. Carlow knelt beside the pond and rubbed the bullet burn on his cheek with the cool water. It felt good.

Weary from the riding, the Rangers stretched out, using their saddles for pillows. Only their boots and gunbelts were removed. Their weapons were cleaned and reloaded, including their saddle guns. Of course, Kileen reminded his nephew not to use the thirteenth bullet when reloading his hand carbine. Carlow licked his lips and didn’t respond. Mirabile lit a cigarette, then decided the tiny light could be seen a long way off and rubbed it out on the ground.

Settling into bed, Carlow reread one of Ellie’s letters, using a small candle for light. He cupped his hat around it so the tiny flame wouldn’t be seen from any distance. Chance nestled next to him, his head resting on Carlow’s stomach.

Kileen watched and said, “Even if we not be findin’ the money, we must be making a ride to Bennett afterward. The captain be wantin’ to know. Aye?”

“I’d like that,” Carlow replied. He blew out the candle and made certain his hand carbine was next to him and cocked.

A weary Mirabile said, “Hell, why don’t you boys wander up my way afterward? Bertha’d be glad to see you. She’s a helluva cook, you know.”

“Sounds good to me. How ‘bout you, Thunder?” Carlow asked.

“Aye. Bertha be a most wonderful cook. We be doin’ it.”

Carlow shifted to get more comfortable. The silver crest he wore on a silver necklace slid outside his shirt. It was the only material thing remaining of his mother. She had told him it had belonged to his father. Kileen had told him it was the symbol of a Celtic warrior. He stuffed it back inside his shirt and shut his eyes. No image of his father ever came and now images of his mother were blurred. His solid chest and well-muscled arms were well hidden within his coat. They had helped him win many fistfights as a lad and some as a Ranger. Not as many as his uncle, of course. Few could match that.

Minutes passed.

Carlow was almost asleep when Kileen said, “Me lads, do ye be thinkin’ there be a Rose gang still about? Some be sayin’ ‘tis so.”

“Don’t know, Thunder,” Carlow said, and yawned to reinforce his disinterest in talking more. “Don’t know. Could be. Might find them at Portland’s ranch, but I doubt it. Let’s get some sleep.”

“Not my problem anymore,” Mirabile said and rolled over to sleep.

“Aye. Don’t be starin’ at the moon. She not be likin’ it.”

“I won’t. Got my eyes closed.”

Carlow was up first and had coffee on and bacon frying when Kileen awoke. Mirabile was still sleeping. Chance’s growl jolted the young Ranger from his morning reverie of cooking.