Death Mask (7 page)

After riding for two hours toward the fast-rising sun, Tanneman Rose passed a lone shack off to his left. His tired mind took a few seconds to let it register in his thoughts. He reined up and looked back at the small building resting in a shallow ravine, almost like the place had grown from the land. It definitely looked abandoned. Probably had been a line cabin at one time. He swung the horse around and headed back.

“Aho, the cabin!” he yelled, holding his pistol at his side as he neared the building.

If anyone were here, Tanneman would kill him. Immediately. There was no reason to take any chances now. He was too close. He yelled again, but no one answered. Assuring himself that it was, indeed, abandoned, Tanneman rode his horse up to the structure and swung down. His empty canteen bounced.

A small corral, probably big enough for six horses, adjoined the shack. Unsaddling his horse, he turned the animal loose in the enclosure. The bay went to a low water trough half-filled with old rainwater. It was enough to quench its thirst and leave enough for later. Tanneman found an old bucket filled with grain shoved against the edge of the house and away from the rain. After smelling and verifying it still had food value, he brought it to the center of the corral for his horse to enjoy.

Drawing his pistol again, Tanneman went to the closed door and shoved it open. It didn’t like the idea of moving and groaned a sad reaction. He stepped inside. The one-room building danced with shadows, disturbed by his intrusion. Thick cobwebs and layers of dust confirmed a long absence. A quick inspection brought only a nearly empty sack of coffee, a dented coffeepot and two china cups, both chipped. No food. A cot lay against one wall. Across the way was a fireplace that hadn’t been used in a long time. He guessed at least a year. Didn’t matter. Heat wasn’t a concern. Sleep was—and after that, something to eat. Unfortunately, he would have to ride on for food.

He was asleep almost as soon as he hit the cot, not even getting his boots off. His dreams were wild and unsettling. The Rangers, who had arrested him, rode on fiery horses through his body. Kileen and Carlow pointed their fingers at him and laughed. Laughs that turned into curling snakes. Running through the dream was a strange wagon that ran over the snakes.

He awoke with a start three hours later. Sweat glistened on his face and arms. Listening intently, he could just hear the snorting of his horse outside. His stomach was growling with the need of food. The only water he knew of was in the horse trough. He grabbed his canteen, filled it from the trough and drank deeply, letting ribbons of water run down his chin and the front of his shirt. At first, he had thought this would be the right time to prepare himself ceremonially for his strategy of revenge. A Persian shaman would do such.

A stronger desire, however, was the demand for food. The ceremony of revenge could wait. Even in his hungered state, he studied the shack, noting it was made mostly from long planks of wood.

A few minutes later, he was traveling again. He knew of no large towns nearby, but it seemed to him there were several small communities. Clearing a long bluff, he saw a settlement and his mind jumped with a tired joy. Twelve buildings straddled the short main street. He had no idea of its name, nor did he care.

Tying his horse to the hitching rack in front of the restaurant, he went inside. Instinct made him study the restaurant’s inhabitants as the door closed behind him. There were no Rangers, at least none he knew. The five men eating looked up out of curiosity, then returned to their food.

He tried not to overeat, but his stomach cried out and he was glad to oblige. A pot of hot coffee chased down two bowls of beef stew and large chunks of cornbread. Sipping a last cup, he asked the waiter for the name of the town.

“Some are callin’ it Prairie Village,” the bucktoothed waiter replied. “Most folks around hyar jes’ call it ‘town’, though.”

Tanneman nodded to keep from smiling. “Haven’t looked around. What all’s here?”

“Not from hyar, are ya?” the waiter said. “Knew it ri’t off. Know’d ever’body ‘round.”

“Good for you.”

The waiter proudly explained that besides the restaurant, Prairie Village boasted a general store, livery, two saloons, a whorehouse, gun shop, boardinghouse, surveyor’s office and bank, drugstore and a barbershop and bathhouse.

Tanneman paid him and headed for the barbershop. An hour later, a cleaned and shaved Tanneman Rose entered the small house on the far corner of town. A woman, plain of face with weary eyes and long dark hair resting along her shoulders, gave a lifeless smile and invited him in. She brought practiced enjoyment, faster than he wished, but he wasn’t in a mood to complain.

Afterward, he paid her, opened the door and studied the surroundings. An old habit.

A one-armed peddler riding an enclosed wagon bounced along the street. The side panels proclaimed: hard goods…knives…shirts…books…clothing…medicines…horseshoes.

Tanneman was fascinated. He turned back toward the whore. “Who’s that?”

Licking her lips, she said, “Oh, that’s just the peddler. Comes around every now and then. Selling stuff. Always moving. Lost his arm in the war, I heard. Usually stopping at farms and ranches, you know. Don’t know his name. Usually comes here when he’s in town.”

She flipped her head to move and resettle her long hair. Her hand rested on her extended hip; it was her best provocative pose.

He didn’t notice and left without another word.

“Need to get a fresh horse,” Tanneman said, strolling into the livery stable. “What can you offer? I’ll trade mine.” He motioned toward the bay he was leading.

The short, bowlegged livery stable manager studied Tanneman, then his horse. “How sound is it?”

“Been good for me,” Tanneman said, “but it needs rest. I’m riding dispatch for the Rangers and I need to get to them soon as I can.”

“Rangers, huh?” the liveryman said, scratching his chin. “Thought maybe yah was runnin’ from them.”

Tanneman laughed deeply and said, “No. Just trying to help them. I’d show you the dispatch, but I’m not supposed to.” He motioned toward his saddlebags.

“Say, how come they ain’t usin’ the telegraph?”

Biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from saying something angry, Tanneman said simply, “Where they are, it isn’t.”

“Oh sure,” the liveryman said. “Kinda like here, I reckon.”

“Yeah.”

The liveryman waved his arms. “Oh, didn’t mean nothin’. Just we don’t get many strangers ridin’ through here.” He rubbed his chin. “I hear tell we might get the wire next year. Been here all my life, ya know.”

“Well, good for you.”

The livery operator beamed. “Ya know if you’re stayin’ around, there’s gonna be a bunch o’ races tomorrow. Hoss races an’ footraces.” He straightened his back. “Figure on enterin’ the footrace myself. Took third last year.”

Proudly, he explained the town would be celebrating its founding, an annual event. “Do it every year, ya know. Well, two years ago, we didn’t. Too much rain. But I think that’s the only time.”

“Sounds like fun, but I’ve got to be moving on.”

Looking genuinely disappointed, the livery operator added that a cake contest and a spelling bee were also planned. Tanneman nodded and brought the conversation back to horses.

Tanneman rode out of the livery on a long-legged buckskin horse, then stopped at the gun shop and bought a Winchester, two boxes of ammunition, a pistol belt and holster for his Colt, and a large sheath knife. An idea was forming in his head. He remembered the distinctive mask of theater, combining tragedy and comedy. A mask would be perfect. In its own way, it would be a death mask. For the men who had betrayed him.

Another stop, at the general store, took longer. He entered the cluttered store and let its smells of fresh coffee, bacon, tobacco, spices, vinegar and leather surround him. Like most such stores, it carried a little of everything. Walking around barrels and kegs of grocery staples, he examined the supplies displayed on rough-planked shelves. With a basket, he gathered a shirt, pants, canteen, leather strips, a small sack of coffee, another of beans, one of flour, a wrapped package of beef jerky, another of salt pork, eight cans of peaches, a glass jar of preserves, two pencils and several sheets of paper.

Satisfied with his selections, he moved to the lumber-and-hardware section of the store. He selected a sack of nails, hammer, chisel and twenty thin pieces of wood. Each was about eight inches wide and a foot long. After choosing the wood Tanneman grabbed a can of white paint and a brush.

“Those’ll work good for shingles,” the clerk exclaimed as he checked out. “If you’ve got roof problems.” He smiled, revealing two missing teeth, and slid his hand along the side of his head, caressing his combed-back hair.

Irritated, Tanneman caught his anger before responding. “Well, my wife, you know, she got real unhappy when the roof leaked. After that last rain.” He shook his head. “Got to keep on their good side, you know.”

“Sure do. Looks like she’s got you doin’ some painting, too.” The clerk winked and then asked, “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”

Tanneman didn’t like the innocent curiosity, but tried not to show it. “No. We live over yonder. Only been there a short while.” He motioned toward the east, hoping the vagueness would suffice. “Thought I’d give the town a try.”

“Good. Glad to have you here,” the clerk said and started to ask another question.

“Thanks now. I’ll be seeing you next time,” Tanneman said and turned toward the door with most of his purchases juggled in his arms.

“Hey, you might want to bring your wife in tomorrow,” the clerk said.

Tanneman stopped without turning.

“It’s our big day. Celebrates the founding of the town,” the clerk declared. “All kinds of things goin’ on. Contests an’ races. Everybody around will be here. Good time to meet folks.”

Turning toward the counter slowly, Tanneman thanked him and went outside to pack his purchases in his saddlebags and return for the wood. The clerk was busy helping a woman with a bolt of cloth, so the ex-Ranger didn’t have to talk with him any longer. He tied the shingles onto the back of the saddle and headed out.

By dusk, he had returned to the shack and begun creating a mask from one of the wooden pieces. He gouged eye and mouth holes into the narrow wood, and carved an indentation in the wood to allow his nose some room.

A small circle with a cross in its center was painted in white where a nose would have been. It was a symbol of the Persian shaman he had been. He had seen the mark often in his dreams. He laid the new mask on the floor to dry. He studied the hand-painted design and smiled. A circle was the symbol of reincarnation. Of completion. Of accomplishment. The lines extending from it, like a sun’s rays, represented the men he would kill. The mask itself was a symbol of death. Like a funeral mask of ancient tribes. Whenever he was conducting one of his planned revenges, he would wear the wooden mask to disguise himself. That would allow him to direct the law to someone else. Someone innocent. Someone who would pay with his own life.

He worked for hours before taking a break. Hot coffee and a can of peaches tasted good. Four hours later, he was exhausted and went to sleep on the floor in the middle of his mask making. Next to him were ten finished masks.

When he awoke, he continued to work on the masks, stopping only to relieve himself, drink coffee and eat something, usually more peaches. Finally, twenty masks were finished. Nails held rawhide strips that would hold the mask to his face; another strip came from the top of the mask and would be tied to the cross pieces. This would keep the mask steady and less likely to slip down.

Before a yellow half moon, a naked Tanneman sat before a small fire fifty yards from the shack. He chanted, waved each mask over the smoke of his fire and raised it toward the silent moon. When he was finished, he straddled the small fire and let the smoke plumes crawl up his nude body.

Holding up a mask with both outstretched hands, he yelled into the dark night. “Aaron Kileen, you will die.”

Laying the mask aside, he picked up a second and repeated his ceremonial commitment. “Time Carlow, you will die.”

With each mask, he screamed the name of one of his intended victims. “Julian Mirabile, you will die. Pig Deconer, you will die. Waddell Johnson, you will die. Wilcox Cline, you will die. Marshal Timble, you will die. Leander McNelly, you will die.”

Stepping away from the smoking fire, his shoulders rose and fell. He felt like the shaman he had been so many years before. Yes, he was the same man. He could sense it throughout his entire body. He had reconnected with his soul. From a distant tree, an owl saluted his determination. Tanneman smiled; the owl was definitely a reincarnated being. He was certain it was his late brother Hillis. The large bird’s feathers reflected gold and red from Tanneman’s fire.

“Hillis, it is good to have you here.” Tanneman saluted. “Do you know where Portland and Barnabas are?”

He was ready. Revenge would be his. Sweet revenge. All it would take was time—and his own brilliance. Carefully, he prepared, on a sheet of paper, the list of men who would be killed.

Morning brought the sounds of a creaking wagon outside. Tanneman Rose jumped from the cot and grabbed his new Winchester. My God, has the law already figured out my escape? he asked himself as he hurried to the door.

He peeked through the barely opened door and saw the peddler’s wagon outside. In its seat was the onearmed peddler from yesterday. He was a heavyset man in an old suit and barely shaped fedora. His age was difficult to gauge, probably in his forties. A chestnut horse with two white stockings and a bay pulled the wagon and appeared happy to stop.

From what the prostitute had told him, the man traveled from town to town, ranch to ranch, farm to farm, selling goods. Why was he here?

“How may I help you?” Tanneman opened the door. His rifle was clearly visible.

“Wal, I am certainly sor-ry, suh,” the peddler responded in a high-pitched Missouri drawl. “Didn’t think nobody was hyar. No suh, I didn’t.” He waved his right arm. “I, uh, have stayed hyar. Before. I’m sorry.”

In that moment, Tanneman Rose made a decision. Becoming a peddler would be a perfect way to move about the region without raising suspicion. The perfect transformation. The perfect theater. The wagon had been sent to him for the fulfillment of his plan. He had dreamed it.

“I’m just doing the same. Come in and I’ll get us some coffee on,” Tanneman invited.

Eagerly, the peddler lashed his reins around the brake stick and climbed down.

Tanneman fired twice and the Missouri peddler coughed and collapsed next to the right front wheel. The two horses were too tired to get excited and instead looked around for something to graze on. Calmly, Tanneman walked to the wagon and fired again into the unmoving body.

His inspection of the covered vehicle revealed that every inch was packed with goods, from ready-to-wears to sewing patterns, from boxes of needles to thread and thimbles. Even pairs of black silk gloves and green gauze veils were shoved into a box. Three pillows and two worn blankets occupied a small corner. Several loose books sat on top—two on poetry, one of Shakespeare’s plays and three old school editions. A large box contained a wide assortment of bottled medicines, mostly home remedies of Epsom salts, cod-liver oil, opium, paregoric, camphor and snakeroot. Other items included folded linens, small mirrors, coils of rope, bridles and two saddles, pots and pans, boxes of tobacco, horseshoes and bullets, a heavy knife-sharpening wheel, a box of knives and a few revolvers from the War of Northern Aggression.

Laughing at his luck, he decided to develop the disguise he would wear as the peddler, using the dead man as a model. The spirits wanted him to prepare his transformation. A pillow from the wagon became stomach padding, held in place around his waist with long leather strings, also from the peddler’s wares.

What to wear? He decided on the peddler’s own worn suit coat of gray woolen heritage, a wrinkled string tie and his battered hat. There was no need to change his pants or boots; both would work. His own shirt, taken from the earlier road traveler, would also be fine. Besides, the peddler’s was bloody and sported bullet holes. Everything fit well enough for his purpose, especially when he wore the pillow.

He walked around the small room, working on a limp he decided would add to his new persona. A cane from the wagon would help the presentation. As he practiced, he imitated the Missouri accent and high voice of the peddler. He wouldn’t attempt to be the man literally, but the transformation required mannerisms, and it was easy to imitate something he had already seen or experienced.

Then Tanneman inserted tiny rolls of paper from his paper pad between his lower jaw and cheeks on the inside of his mouth. With one of the mirrors from the wagon, he checked his idea. The effect made his face more full, but wasn’t particularly comfortable. Strips torn from a towel, also taken from the wagon, would work much better. He shoved them into his coat pocket.

“ ‘When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows.’” He again muttered one of his favorite Shakespeare passages. His shrill laugh bounced around the room.

After testing the approach, he decided it made sense to present himself as one-armed as well. The coat sleeve was already pinned in place; he only had to work with his arm to decide the best way to conceal it. Keeping it curled inside his shirt, under his coat, worked well. It would be an easy way to hide a handy gun.

Looking into the mirror, he rubbed his unshaven chin and decided growing a beard would be a good way to hide his face. He smiled at the idea of such a transformation. This was more of the wonder of theater.

The man who had raised him and his brothers—Highland Griffin—instilled this love of the stage, of make-believe, in him. Neither Hillis nor Portland cared anything about performing. Barnabas had tried, from time to time. This gift of becoming someone else had carried the ex-Ranger to considerable wealth—and he had tried to make his siblings wealthy, too. Until they were foolish enough to get killed.

Certainly he had accumulated far more riches than anyone could ever earn prancing about in some threadbare costume on a makeshift stage, constantly moving from one forgotten town to the next, as their foster parent had done all his sad life.

Far more wealth than wearing a Ranger badge, for that matter. Actually, he had seen being a Ranger as a role to play, between bank robberies.

The idea of a beard simmered in his mind. It was limiting. He needed to be able to change disguises, to transform. A fake beard would be necessary. Stopping at a theater in one of the bigger towns would be a priority. He smiled. Of course. The theater.

He had never known his mother, but suspected she had been one of the dancers in the traveling troupe. He had also deduced that Highland Griffin was their real father, although the gentle man had never admitted it.

Definitely, black hair would enhance his transformation. It would make things easier if he wore it that way all the time. He would have to find some black hair dye.

Satisfied with himself and the next steps he must take, he walked toward the doorway. A spider meandered across the floor. His first instinct was to step on it, but then he reminded himself that he had been a spider in another life. After his life as a Persian shaman.

“Go along, fellow,” Tanneman said. “I know what it’s like. I was there, too.”

He straightened and the thought that this might be Portland occurred to him. Or was it was too soon? His own past-life recall on that point was sketchy. Some of it, he admitted to himself, was painful. Most, though, was quite pleasant. But he had no sense of how quickly he had returned. He scooped the spider into one of the empty peach cans, with the help of the brim of his hat.

A mask served as a temporary lid while he looked for something bigger and better to hold the spider. Finally, he chose to dump the preserves into another empty peach can. A handful of grass and one of dirt were added to the jar, so the spider would have a nice place to stay. Then he moved the spider from the peach can to the jar. Small holes in the lid ensured air. He carefully carried the jar outside and placed it on the wagon. He was certain it was Portland, reincarnated.

After placing his masks inside the wagon, he dragged the dead peddler into a ditch that worked its way across the land, aided by a sometimes creek. He wrapped the bloody scalp in a towel for later disposal. Whoever found the body would blame Indians. Minutes later, he rode away on his buckskin toward Prairie Village. He would return for the wagon after he robbed the settlement’s bank. With the excitement of the celebration at hand, no one would pay attention to the bank. The trick was to get there before it closed for the day.