Death Mask (6 page)

“What’s the matter, boy? Coyote wanting water?”

He looked up to see eight mounted Comanches on the ridge twenty yards to the west. They seemed as surprised as he was to see others. It was definitely a war party, with their painted faces, thick chests, arms and legs. Plucked eyebrows added to their fierce appearance. Although short and stout, they were most graceful on horseback. Magnificent horsemen, Carlow thought, and fierce fighters.

“Thunder, Julian, we’ve got visitors.”

“Aye,” Kileen responded, already moving beside their horses; his rifle, cocked and ready. “Next to our hosses, I be. They’ll be takin’ a likin’ to ‘em, me thinks.”

“I’m ready,” Mirabile said, stretched out where he had slept, his Spencer rifle cocked. His revolver lay next to him, along with his bullet belt.

The apparent war leader carried a Henry rifle; its stock was decorated with studs and feathers. His face was painted in vertical stripes, alternating between red and yellow. His right arm was similarly painted. So were his leggings. He wore a wolf’s head as a headdress, its skin draped down his back.

The others carried bows and arrows and lances shortened for horseback warfare. A warrior with his entire face painted black had a long-barreled revolver resting in his stud belt. Another carried a Springfield rifle, adorned with eagle feathers. Two of the lances held fresh scalps. Silver conchos, tied feathers and strings of cloth decorated their long black hair. One wore a white woman’s dress and a white man’s fedora, obviously the spoils of a recent raid.

“Stay, Chance. Stay,” Carlow said as he grabbed his hand carbine, levered it into readiness and said to Kileen, “I’m going to motion for them to water their horses. Keep your rifle down. Maybe we can keep this from being a shooting affair.”

“Aye. ‘Tis a good idea. But if ‘tis a fight the lads be wantin’, ye take the striped lad first. I’ll be takin’ the fine lad with the black face. Julian, you take the boy with the fine Springfield there. After that, I’ll go to the boys on the left. You two take the right. An’ we’ll meet in the middle.” Kileen chuckled, in spite of the situation.

Carlow took a deep breath to ease the tension. He lowered his gun and waved toward the water.

“
Paa.
”

It was the Comanche word for “water.” It was also the only Comanche word he knew that would help. He couldn’t think of “friend” so he made the sign for it, then gave the sign for “drinking water.”

The war leader eased his horse forward two steps, halted and raised his rifle in one hand. He shouted something Carlow didn’t understand, but he repeated his words and the sign.

“What’s that boy a’jabberin’?” Kileen asked, not taking his eyes off the warriors.

“Don’t know. Hope it was ‘good morning.’” Carlow looked down at Chance, who was hunched, his teeth bared. “Steady, boy. Maybe they’ll water and go.”

Mirabile frowned. “That’s a big risk.”

The war leader spoke again to the other warriors and they began to descend one at a time to the pond to water their horses. He remained where he was, watching Carlow.

“They might try something after they water. Think they’ve come a long way. Our horses must look mighty good,” Carlow said.

“Sweet Jaysus. So do our guns, me son.”

“You call it, Time,” Mirabile squinted down the barrel of his gun.

After the seven horsemen had watered their horses and returned to the ridge, the leader nudged his pony toward the pond. He looked up at Carlow and smiled.

Smiled! Carlow didn’t know at first how to react. He nodded and forced a smile. Was it a trick to make him think they wouldn’t attack? His fingers tightened around the hand carbine.

Suddenly, the warrior in the dress screamed a throaty cry and charged his horse toward Carlow. The others held their mounts, watching; the war leader looked up from watering his horse. His face was unreadable.

From his position by their tied horses, Kileen yelled, “Switch. I’ll take the lead bastard hisself. Ye dispatch the lady a’comin’.”

“Wait.”

Carlow didn’t move as the warrior galloped down the ridge toward him, waving his lance and screaming.

“Not long, me son.” Kileen aimed his rifle at the headman. “Not long.”

Holding the cocked hand carbine at his side, the young Ranger’s eyes locked onto the rapidly advancing Comanche.

Chance growled.

“No, Chance.”

From the pond, the war leader yelled and the warrior reined his horse to a skidding stop. The pony’s hooves slammed into the hard earth; the warrior shoved his legs forward to maintain his balance and waved his lance over his head. Grinning, he came to a complete stop five feet from Carlow. Raising his gun, Carlow touched the brim of his hat with the weapon, in a salute, and returned it to his side.

The other warriors grunted their approval. The warrior nudged his horse closer and slowly raised his lance. Carlow knew what was coming. Counting of a coup. The bravest act a warrior could do: touch an armed enemy and return.

“Naugh,” Carlow barked, shaking his head and pointing his gun at the warrior.

The move might be a mistake on his part, but he didn’t like the idea of the warrior forcing some kind of ritual submission on him. The warrior glanced over at his leader, who motioned with his head for him to return to the others.

“Aiieee!” the warrior shouted, wheeled his pony and galloped back up the ridge.

Minutes later, the eight disappeared as quickly as they had come. Carlow told Kileen to keep watch while he and Mirabile saddled the horses.

“We’ll eat while we ride. They might change their minds and come back,” Carlow said, grabbing a piece of bacon and pushing it into his mouth. He took another and held it to let it cool before giving it to Chance.

“I’ll be havin’ me coffee first, lad. No damn redmen be stoppin’ me from it,” Kileen said as he filled his tin cup, added some whiskey from his flask and savored it.

“That sounds good to me,” Mirabile said, holding out his own cup. His hand was shaking. “Maybe I won’t ride off by myself until we get closer.”

“Pour me one, then the rest on the fire. The coffee, not the whiskey.” Carlow grinned.

Late that evening, Tanneman Rose selected the deputy who would help him escape. Peter Gaggratte didn’t know it. Yet. It was one o’clock in the morning. Gaggratte was alone, sitting at the marshal’s desk, his boots propped on its scratched top. He was examining an itch on his forearm. Another deputy, Henry Stevenson, sat outside on a bench. The two men would be relieved early in the morning.

Tanneman said, “Got three thousand dollars waiting for you. A day from here. All you have to do is ride with me there. It’ll look like I broke out and you chased me. You’ll be a hero…for trying so hard.”

He didn’t expect anything to happen right away. It was best to let the idea seduce the guard. Three thousand dollars would go a long way for a man with a wife and four kids. A long way.

That morning before leaving his post, Deputy Gaggratte strutted over to the cell. “You think I’m some kinda fool? You ain’t got no money. None close anyway.”

Tanneman said, “That’s where you—an’ the Rangers—are dead wrong.” He stood and looked around to make certain no one was listening. His voice lowered. “An hour’s ride. South.” He looked around again, like a deer at a stream. “It’s the money from our first bank job.”

“How do I know you’re not makin’ this up?”

“Look, we ride out at night, you behind me all the way. With your gun. If it’s there, we split it. If not, you bring me back. And you’re a hero. Either way, it’s good—for you.” Tanneman folded his arms. “No one will know. I’ll tell you how.”

“I’ll think on it.”

“Well, you’d better make up your mind quick. When those soldiers get here, there won’t be a chance.”

“I don’t see how I get away…with it.” The guard’s voice was little more than a breath. “And what about Henry? He’s outside whenever I’m on duty.”

“It’s easy,” Tanneman said. “You give Henry a bottle of whiskey. Take the money for it from my stuff in the drawer. You know where it is. In fact, keep the rest of it for yourself. I’m sure your family could use it.”

Trying to keep from smiling, he continued, “When Henry’s asleep from the whiskey, we walk out. Together. Tomorrow night. Easy as that. You’ll need horses waiting. In the back.” He paused and continued, “If you don’t want to do it, I understand. I’ll find someone else. Just thought your family could benefit from some extra money.”

The next day Tanneman was taken to the burials of his three brothers. Marshal Timble told him it was something Kileen had asked them to do. The ex-Ranger chuckled and chanted softly at the grave site. Gripping his hands together in front of him, he let his mind become the shaman he had been in another life. It was something he had developed over the years. None of his brothers had ever understood its meaning. Barnabas had said he did, but he had been a fool. Of course, the chant was something he made up. Rather, he told himself that it was a ritual coming through, hidden in his brain. The ritual would guide him toward making his escape, guide his words and actions.

“That’s enough, Tanneman. We’ll head back now,” Marshal Timble said, adjusting the shotgun in his arms.

Tanneman hated the raw-faced man. The ex-Ranger took a deep breath and said, “Of course, Marshal.”

“What the hell are you doing anyway? Praying?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

That evening Gaggratte took his post and the marshal left. Near midnight, Peter Gaggratte opened Tanneman’s cell. They walked into a dark night with only a handful of stars watching, passed the drunken deputy and made their way silently to the back, where two horses were already saddled and waiting. A filled canteen dangled from the saddle horn of Tanneman’s horse.

“We did it! We did it!” Gaggratte said, barely able to contain his excitement. “Aggie will be so happy. We’re going to buy some land. Raise some beef.”

Tanneman hushed him as they rode out.

“How far is it to my money again?” Gaggratte asked with a huge smile.

“This way.”

An hour outside of town, and a half mile off the main road, Tanneman Rose dismounted near a rather large cave overlooking a creek that showed little interest in keeping its water moving. Three cottonwood trees stood as sentries. He remembered the place as one that he and Hillis had used to hide from a posse.

Gaggratte pulled alongside him.

“There it is, my friend.” Tanneman pointed.

“In that cave? There?”

“Right. You’ll need a candle and matches. Like I said,” Tanneman said, dismounting and tying his reins to a branch.

“Got ‘em.” Gaggratte jumped from his saddle, tied the reins to another branch and immediately went to his saddlebags. It was awkward holding his rifle and looking for the materials at the same time.

“Let me help.” Tanneman smiled. “Step back.”

“Sure. Sure. They should be right there,” Gaggratte said, so excited he couldn’t keep from jumping. “Oh, my, will Aggie be happy. She’s the one who told me to do this, you know.”

Tanneman’s face darkened. “No, I didn’t know. I told you not to tell anyone.”

“Well, Aggie’s not going to tell anybody. She’s my wife.”

Finding the candle and matches, Tanneman turned from the saddlebags and held them out. “Here you go. Maybe I should go in there first.”

Gaggratte frowned. “No. I don’t think so. You just might not bring it all out.”

“Now why would I do that?” Tanneman held back a smile and motioned for the guard to enter the cave. “Better light the candle out here. It’s dark in there. You’ll need to go in…oh, about twenty feet. Off to your left. Saddlebags are under some rocks. You can’t miss it.” He paused and added, “Remember now, we’re going to split it. Might be more’n six thousand in there.”

Gaggratte propped his rifle against his leg and popped a match against his belt buckle. His too-eager movement took away the flame. A second match produced a better result. After lighting the candle, the excited guard disappeared into the dark fissure. Immediately, Tanneman looked around, found a sizeable rock at the edge of the creek and climbed above the cave entrance.

After a few minutes, Gaggratte came to the cave’s entrance. “I got it! I got it!”

Tanneman slammed the rock into his head and the guard crumpled. The dust-covered saddlebags flew toward the creek.

“Stupid fool,” Tanneman said, pulling the rifle from Gaggratte’s body. Blood was working its way down to the creek bed. Tanneman retrieved the saddlebags and left them near the waiting horses.

A shot from Gaggratte’s gun to the guard’s head made certain he was dead. As if nothing had happened, Tanneman sat beside the body and repeated the chant that was becoming his own ritual, grasping his jaguar necklace. He stood and looked around. If he could find a crow, he would kill it and drink some of its blood. He had decided this was a tradition of his previous life. To kill a crow would grant him success over his enemies.

The shaman’s great gift was the ability to transform himself into an animal, he had decided. The gift had been passed on to him in his ability to transform himself as necessary. It was too dark to see much of anything, especially a crow, he decided. More important, for now, was to complete the rest of his plan.

After a drink from the stream, Tanneman mounted his horse and took the reins of Gaggratte’s. He laughed. The next thing to do was to “kill” himself. The ultimate transformation. But he had to do it quickly, before anyone came to the jail and realized there had been an escape.

Quickly, he returned to the main road, riding his horse and leading Gaggratte’s. He reined up beside a long gully snuggled parallel to the well-traveled path. It was the first of a line of slopes and arroyos that stretched out for a half mile, broken by several clusters of trees. This was a good place for an ambush. He needed someone to become
him
in death. If not, he would ride on until someone suitable was found. He didn’t expect any posse until after the morning shift of lawmen arrived.

He tied the two horses well off the trail in a shallow ravine that was two over, so they wouldn’t give away their presence and alert anyone. Lack of sleep was pushing its way into his mind, but he couldn’t let that deter him. The next step in his plan was the one that would stop any Rangers from seeking him. He would stage his own death.

“ ‘When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.’” Tanneman muttered one of his favorite passages from the second act of Shakespeare’s
Othello,
letting both of his hands swing dramatically toward an imagined audience. His shrill laugh turned the horses’ heads toward him, their ears cocked for understanding.

Discovery of his escape would not be too far away. Still, it was vital to be patient.

“Patience, ah, the wondrous virtue,” he said. “Something I learned centuries ago.” He laughed, then heard something.

Yes, someone was riding on the road. Probably headed for town. He crouched behind the rocky incline. Good. The rider was alone. But even in the dark he could tell the horseman had light-colored hair. That wouldn’t do. Patience. Two more riders passed and he was beginning to wonder if he should ride on and stage his “death” later.

A half hour slid by and he almost dozed. The noise of a rider brought him alert.

From his concealed position, Tanneman fired. The horse reared in fright as the man threw his hands in the air and fell from the saddle. Tanneman quickly fired a second shot. The startled horse stutter-stepped and stopped, its ears alert. Speaking softly, Tanneman gathered the reins. Faint blushes of rose lined the dark sky.

He carried the body back to where Gaggratte had died and tied the three horses to nearby trees. Without wasting motion, he stripped off the body’s clothes and put them on. The dead man was slightly taller than Tanneman, but the clothes would do until he could buy some. A bonus was discovering the man was carrying a small wad of gold certificates and a short-barreled Colt, but no extra bullets. The gun was more important than the money—for his special presentation.

False dawn was strutting across the sky as Tanneman dressed the body in his own shirt and pants, then built a small fire. The light of a new day took away any real concern about it being seen. Reluctantly, he placed the jaguar necklace around the dead rider’s neck. The spirits would understand. He dragged the body onto the flames, pushing the dead man’s face into the hot flames. The crackling sound made him queasy, but it was necessary. That was the final touch. No one would be able to identify the body. Tanneman left it as if
he
had died and fallen there.

Even though Tanneman didn’t want to do so, the guard’s rifle had to be left at the scene, placed carefully near Gaggratte. Tanneman left the guard’s handgun in the man’s hand. He fired both guns three times each, with the noses next to the ground to muffle the sound. His boot covered the holes with new dirt.

To the posse eventually coming, it would appear that the guard and Tanneman had killed each other in a wild fight. No one would examine the body of “Tanneman” closely; it would be enough that the breakout had been solved. Gaggratte would be treated as a dead hero. He laughed. It was the ultimate in theater. After removing the saddlebags, he turned his horse and Gaggratte’s loose and encouraged them to run. They would return to town—or be found by the posse. He strapped both sets of saddlebags and the canteen onto the third horse, mounted and rode away, giggling.

His next projects would be to kill the men who had brought him to this: Judge Wilcox Cline; District Attorney Waddell Johnson; Marshal Timble and all the Rangers who had been involved, including Captain McNelly. All would die. It was time to bring his previous self into full bloom; the Persian shaman had been known for his transformations and his masks.

His shrill laugh echoed through the quiet land.