Death Mask (9 page)

Carlow cut off the shadows in his mind that wanted to remind him of the last time he had ridden from this place. He had thrown away his Ranger badge and their bloodstones, swearing to kill the town mayor. The mayor had arranged for the Silver Mallow Gang to slip into town. He shook his head to clear the awful memories.

Ahead, the trail looked familiar. Gray rock formations and low hills greeted him like old friends. Even the loose rock and silt on the trail sang a gentle song as his horse moved through them. In such places, it was easy to understand why his uncle believed in faeries, druids, banshees and leprechauns. Who really knew what lived in such a land? It was along here that Chance had joined him. A mystery, perhaps. Or just serendipity. He looked back at the shaggy beast working his way along behind him.

“Hey, bud! This is where we met. Remember?” he called out.

Chance’s ears perked up and the wolf-dog cocked his head.

Spotting a small spoon of open land among the rocks and boulders, he said, “Let’s take a breather, Chance.”

It wasn’t a question. He reined up and swung down. Shrugging his shoulders, Carlow told himself it was to let his horse—and Chance—have a breather before going on. The real reason was to regather his nerve before seeing Ellie again. What if she had forgotten him? What if…

He settled against a rock to relax. The reins remained gripped in his fists, leaving plenty of room for the animal to graze the few sprigs of grass and weeds that had found their way to life. Out came Ellie’s last three letters. Communication between them hadn’t been easy, as he was constantly on the move. Her letters would arrive at Ranger headquarters and wait until he either returned from an assignment or was in a town long enough for the letter to be forwarded. He had read them many times. His own responses were infrequent. He dared not read his latest unsent letter, afraid he would decide it wasn’t worthy of presenting to her.

Carlow’s eyes focused on her closing salutation, “Fondly,” and wondered if that were really true. Didn’t people often write things they didn’t really believe? However, when he compared her last letter to one written two years ago, there was a marked difference. He hadn’t seen it before. Or hadn’t wanted to. Her last letter was more formal than the others and she made a reference to finding some friends in Bennett and that this was adding much to her days.

Friends? What kind of friends, he wondered. Hadn’t she lived in Bennett a long time? She hadn’t mentioned any such friends when he had last seen her. That had been well over a year ago, when he had taken some time to ride in. Oh well, she had probably just been looking for things to tell him.

Standing and brushing himself off, Carlow returned the letters to his saddlebags. He couldn’t resist taking a look at the locket and unfolded the white cloth that held it. Next to it was the beaded sheath knife.

He whispered, “It’s almost as pretty as she is.”

A taut growl and Chance was running. Carlow’s hand went to his hand carbine. Then he saw a large hare bounding across the trail with the wolf-dog in full pursuit. He chuckled and released his grip on the gun.

After returning the jewelry to its place in his saddlebags, Carlow smiled and called out to his animal, “Come on, Chance, leave that fella alone. We’re going to Bennett.” He swung into the saddle.

From somewhere behind a boulder, the wolf-dog yipped and followed. Carlow studied him and decided the hare had escaped.

“Next time, huh?”

The closer they got to his hometown, the more Carlow wondered what kind of welcome he would receive. Not from the townspeople, who had rejected all of them because they were Irish. He didn’t expect much to have changed. His concern was about Ellie Beckham, the young widow he had met in Bennett. He could see her in his mind’s eye. Feel her last kiss, the touch of her hand in his, and her eyes dancing with his.

Would she welcome him like Angel had welcomed his uncle? He hoped so. Would her son remember him?

That night, a few miles from San Antonio, Tanneman Rose conducted the same ceremony he had performed at the line cabin, waving each mask over his small fire and chanting into the night. Each time, he made a circle in the dirt around the fire, then added lines in all directions coming from the fire. The moon. He had decided his earlier life had included worship of the moon. So he should, too. Each time, the spider in its jar was given a place of honor near the fire. Occasionally, he considered going to Portland’s ranch and retrieving the shrine he had built. It had always comforted him. Barnabas had liked it, too.

So far, he had been able to secure several flies to add to the jar, for the spider to eat. Usually, he did it by leaving a dab of the preserves on the wagon seat, then grabbing some of them when they attempted to fly away. It became a game; he was quick with his hands and knew it.

Midday found Tanneman, disguised as a peddler, driving his wagon slowly down the main street of San Antonio. He was filled with arrogance. No one knew it was him. No one. Turning to the spider jar, he spoke of his feelings.

“Portland, I wish you were here—as yourself. You’d like this. Very much. It’s the town where they killed you. Yeah. And tried to send me to prison.” He looked over as he rode, noting the bank. “There’s the bank. Across the street, yeah there, that’s where those bastards waited for us. And there’s where you and Barnabas hid.” He snickered. “Don’t you love it?” He looked again at the jar. “I’ll kill that bastard judge, and that fool district attorney. Maybe I’ll rob the bank. Maybe. We’ll see. I don’t need the money.” He looked again at the street, watching a passing freighter.

He pulled up alongside the Duvall Livery and offered the filthy-haired livery operator a free square of tobacco. It was accepted eagerly.

“Looks like thar’s a lot a’goin’ on,” Tanneman said in his Missouri drawl.

After biting off a large chunk of the tobacco, the operator told him a trial was taking place. Tanneman smiled. Just as the newspaper had said.

“Yas suh, got Judge Cline hyar—and that other fella, Johnson, he’s hyar, too,” Michigan Duvall declared, licking his front teeth with his tongue. “Big dispute ov’r some grazin’ land. East o’ hyar. Milo Henry—and sum other fella. A stranger. From Ohio, I think.” He spat to the side, disappointed at the color and thickness.

Tanneman resisted the desire to explain who Waddell Johnson was. Duvall said the judge always stayed in the Gleason Hotel and Johnson always boarded at the Horman boardinghouse on Second Street. Warming to the conversation, Duvall said an ex-Ranger had escaped from jail last week. He explained about the posse finding him and the deputy dead, then said a wounded Ranger was recuperating in a hacienda near the edge of town. That would be Pig Deconer, Tanneman realized.

Tanneman thanked him and left. Duvall would be a good choice to take the fall for the crimes, he decided. Tanneman rode through town, stopping once. A plaindressed woman wanted to know if he had any books. She finally chose a poetry volume and two schoolbooks. After settling his wagon and one of the horses outside of town, he returned, riding the brown. He had removed his beard and unpinned the coat sleeve. He had shoved one of the masks into his saddlebags and belted on a handgun, placing another in his waist-band.

In an alley a block from the boardinghouse, Tanneman waited as patiently as possible. His saddled horse stomped its feet and snorted anxiously. A handful of grain from the ex-Ranger’s pocket settled the animal into a quiet wait. Tanneman, too, was hungry and chewed on a piece of hardtack he had brought along. Under his coat was a wooden mask. He wasn’t worried about his clothes giving him away, should any witnesses happen to see him. It was too dark and they were nondescript anyway.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Waddell Johnson came strolling toward the boardinghouse from a nearby saloon, after a nightcap to follow his meal at the next-door restaurant. He was in a happy mood, whistling to himself as he walked with his hands in his pockets, and greeting three couples cheerily as he passed.

Wearing the wooden mask, Tanneman stepped in front of the surprised attorney and fired his pistol three times. All three bullets hit Johnson’s left shirt pocket. The district attorney grasped his heart, stumbled and fell face forward.

As the three couples watched in horror, Tanneman fired in their direction. He wheeled and ran into the alley where his horse waited. Jumping into the saddle, he rode toward the end of town, turning into an alley between two long rows of buildings and disappeared into the night.

At the other end of town, Ranger Pig Deconer stepped out of a small restaurant, full and sleepy. He stretched his arms, holding a cane. His leg was improving, he told himself. A slow walk to the hacienda where he was staying would refresh him, he decided. Being sidelined like this was terribly boring. His fellow Rangers were on assignment somewhere. All except him. He rolled his shoulders to rid the tiredness within him as he limped along. Nodding to an older man and woman passing, Deconer stretched again and paused, hearing something next to the hacienda.

In the alley, a man in a black hat and long black coat and wearing a wooden mask emerged from the shadows and fired a double-barreled shotgun into the Ranger’s stomach. Deconer half turned, trying to pull his pistol, then collapsed. The masked adversary disappeared into the alley as swiftly as he had appeared.

The man and woman, who had just passed Deconer, hurried back, frightened, but determined to help. Breathing hard, the woman excitedly said, “Is he…?”

“He’s dead,” the squatty businessman said, kneeling beside Deconer. “According to this badge, he was a Ranger.” He swallowed his fear. “The killer, he had a mask. A wooden mask.”

Her face taut with worry, his wife placed her hands on her face. She closed her eyes. “It was dreadful. Will he come back? Oh, I think I’m going to faint.”

Just outside the last row of small huts and old haciendas, Tanneman Rose howled his joy at these first two acts of revenge. It was as sweet as he had hoped. The only thing better would have been to kill Kileen and Carlow, but that would come. Patience. Patience. It was his destiny. He rode toward a series of rolling hills where he had left his wagon. Methodically, he crossed the names of Deconer and Johnson off his list. His dreams that night were about spiders wearing masks.

The murders were the talk of San Antonio the next day. Everyone knew the key detail: killers wearing wooden masks. Some thought it had to be wild Indians. Others were certain it was revenge by someone the district attorney and the Ranger had put in jail. No one could provide the peace officers with any additional details. None of the hoofprints in either alley were distinctive.

Dressed as a goateed businessman, Tanneman tied his horse to the rail and checked into the Gleason Hotel, presenting himself as J. William Jilles of the Indiana law firm of Jilles and Torkkle. He was in town to evaluate a possible real estate investment for a client. He declined the bellhop’s offer to carry his valise.

“Where would be a good place to eat, my good fellow?” Tanneman asked the bucktoothed clerk.

“Oh, definitely the Colonial. Right across the street. Next to the bank,” the clerk said, licking his tongue over his exposed front teeth. “Judge Cline eats there all the time.”

“I see—and who is this Judge Cline? I’m not familiar with the name.”

Eager to impress, the clerk explained that the judge was in town for a trial. That he always stayed in the hotel when he was in San Antonio, in the same room. Room 246. Shaking his head, he explained about the murder of the district attorney and said he supposed it would delay the trial, but he hadn’t heard yet.

“I’m sure Judge Cline will let me know what his plans are.” The clerk straightened his back, trying to look important, and ran his fingers through long, greasy hair. “Everybody is pretty upset about these killings. Weird. The guys had on wooden masks. Can you believe that? Jumped right out of the alley and shot Mr. Johnson. Dead. Then did the same to a Ranger.”

“My goodness! Is it safe to walk the streets?” Tanneman asked, his false eyebrows arching.

The clerk quickly assured Tanneman that he thought the killings had something to do with the trial and were not random acts. After further conversation, the clerk told Tanneman that he would be on duty all night. He even showed him a long-barreled revolver he kept under the check-in desk. Whispering, he said he usually got some sleep in the first room off the lobby; management didn’t mind as long as he was available for any guest service in the morning.

“I always keep it unlocked, you know, in case somebody needs something.”

“That is comforting to know.”

Taking the key to room 412, Tanneman climbed the stairs to his room, noting where the clerk said he slept. The ex-Ranger had changed his mind; the clerk would be the one arrested for the murders. He might still set up the livery boy if he could get an opportunity to kill Marshal Timble. Inside the room, he opened his valise, took out the spider jar and carefully placed it on the lone dresser.

“What a great day, Portland. Today the fool Judge Cline gets his just desserts. Vengeance is so sweet.”

He pushed his valise, which contained a mask, a hunting knife in a weathered leather sheath and his peddler beard and hat, under the bed. At the cracked mirror, standing over the dresser, he rechecked his fake goatee and eyebrows. The pistols in his waistband and under his vest were not visible.

“‘He was ever precise in promise keeping.’” Tanneman recited a line from
The Merry Wives of Windsor
and let his mind wander to the first time he had realized that he had lived other lives. It had happened in a theater, of course. He had been fourteen and watching a touring company rehearse that very Shakespearean play. Hillis and his other brothers had been outside playing, but he had wanted to watch the performance.

One of the ladies in the troupe had sat down behind him; she was not in the act being rehearsed. In a handful of gloriously memorable statements, she had convinced him that he had lived before. In fact, she was the one who had suggested he was once a shaman of ancient Persia. That was also the day he had entered into manhood under her gentle guidance in an unused storage room.

He smiled and headed out. Still lost in sweet memories, mostly of the woman’s lovemaking, Tanneman marched onto the far sidewalk and bumped into a townsman walking toward him. As the man stutterstepped backward, his fedora popped from his head and spun to the boards.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going,” the ex-Ranger declared, stepping back and leaning over to pick up the hat.

The surprised man had been a juror in his trial. Tanneman recognized him immediately; the townsman frowned and tried to place the stranger who had just collided with him. “Don’t I know you…from somewhere?” Terrace Allen, a watchsmith, asked as Tanneman returned his fedora.

“Sorry, I don’t think so. I’m J. William Jilles of the Indiana law firm of Jilles and Torkkle. Just came to town to investigate a real estate opportunity for a client,” Tanneman said in a tone that carried as much of an Eastern accent as he could muster.

He didn’t like the situation, but knew he had to play it out. To do anything else was tantamount to admitting his identity and shooting his way out of town.

“Oh.”

Tanneman patted him on the shoulder. “That happens to me often. Guess I just have a familiar face.” He smiled. “Hope it’s a friendly one.”

“Of course. Of course. My mistake.”

Watching the man walk on, Tanneman tried to quiet himself. He wished he hadn’t used the name and occupation he had used earlier. Saying something about the law might trigger the man’s memory. Why was he surprised at such an encounter? There were twelve jurors somewhere in town or close by. He watched the man enter a small watch repair shop; Allenburg Clock & Watch. That made it worse. Allen, or whatever his name was, would be a perfectionist. Keyed to tiny details.

Tanneman ate little of his lunch; his appetite was gone. In his mind was the growing thought that he must deal with the former juror before the man remembered where he had seen him. How? Where? The best idea was to wait until dusk, just before the store was closed, and kill him then. There would be plenty of time to kill Judge Cline afterward. He smiled, but his nervousness grew.

He spent the rest of the day in his room. It was the safest place to be. From the window, he could see the Allenburg shop with its tiny single window and finally decided not to wait until dusk. He could eliminate the man and be gone in minutes. The only trick was to enter without Allen realizing who it was. Ah, the challenge of the theater. Immediately, he was reenergized and pulled his valise from under the bed.

A half hour later, he left the hotel, crossed the street and slipped into the alley next to Allen’s shop. There he put on the full beard and the old hat used for the peddler. A scarf around his neck covered his shirt and necktie. A limp would add to the transformation. He removed his pistol from his coat pocket; the barrel was now wrapped with a hotel towel, which was tied in place with a leather thong. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the silver watch from his vest and gripped it tightly in his left hand. His right held the gun behind him.

This part of the sidewalk was clear of people; most were usually on the other side of the street where the general store dominated. He decided the watchmaker had chosen this location because it would have been cheaper to rent because of the lower traffic.

“
Guten Tag
!” Tanneman said, shouting a German greeting and holding up the pocket watch with his left hand as he limped inside.

Terrace Allen adjusted his glasses and looked up. It had bothered him all day that he couldn’t place where he had seen the fellow from this morning. He was sure that he had. Somewhere.

“Trouble with your watch, eh? Let me have a look,” Allen said, smiling as best he could. Being friendly wasn’t natural to him; working on watches was. It was a smile he had worked on.

The German-speaking stranger walked closer, swung the pistol forward from behind his back and fired. Twice. The muffled shots sounded louder to Tanneman than they would outside.