by Cotton Smith
Nelson’s face was pinched to hold back emotion. “So you think this is a gang that was led by those Ranger brothers.”
“Looks that way.”
Nelson frowned. “You don’t sound convinced.”
After looking away for a moment, Carlow returned his gaze to the young Mirabile’s. “I don’t think the Roses had a gang. Others do. But I can’t give you a better answer than that.”
“Wish you’d been here earlier.”
“So do I.”
Chapter Seventeen
The two Rangers left the Mirabile ranch hurriedly. Kileen couldn’t resist pointing out that a gray horse was bad luck for everyone who saw it—and the killer would be no exception. Both Rangers were impressed with the widow’s attention to detail under such duress. Kileen decided her keen eye was a fitting reaction from the wife of a former Ranger. He also managed to indicate that she was a fine-looking woman.
Carlow ignored the remark; something more important was chewing on him mind.
“Thunder, I don’t think Tanneman and Hillis had a gang, other than Portland and Barnabas,” Carlow blurted. “I think Tanneman somehow faked his death and escaped. I think it’s him we’re chasing.”
Kileen looked like he had been hit in the face. “Meanin’ ye be that Tanneman hisself has come back? He lived once before, ye know. A shaman he were. In Persia. Long ago. Aye.”
Biting his lower lip, Carlow said, “No, he hasn’t come back from the dead. I don’t think he ever died. I think he escaped. We need to have that whole ‘death while escaping’ thing checked out better. Tell Captain about it when we wire him.”
Kileen rubbed his unshaven chin. “Ye want me to be tellin’ the fine captain that Tanneman Rose be not dead?”
“Yes. Let’s hear the details of that escape. The whole thing.” Carlow motioned with his left hand. “Tanneman’s shrewd enough to set it up, Thunder. He loved the theater. That’s about wearing costumes and changing the way you look. Think about it. It’s the only thing that makes real sense.”
Kileen’s face indicated that he didn’t believe his nephew was right. Silence was his only recourse. The idea was far-fetched. How could he tell McNelly what his nephew thought? Kileen worried the captain would away take Carlow’s badge. They rode on without speaking.
Finally, the older Irishman looked away and said, “Time, me son, let’s not be tellin’ the fine captain of your…idea. Not yet. Let’s find where this killer has gone, then we’ll know better. Aye?”
Carlow brushed the neck of his black horse and glanced at his uncle. “Sure.”
An hour past noon, Strickland was an angry town. Texas Rangers Time Carlow and Aaron Kileen eased their tired horses into a walk as they entered the agitated settlement, too drained themselves to be surprised by the gathering crowd around the bank a block away.
“Looks like some folks are riled up at the bank. They’re either giving away money or there’s been a robbery. Want to bet which?” Carlow’s light blue eyes studied the crowd ahead with only passing interest. His gaze could be gentle or intense, friendly or cold, could search a man’s soul for truth or track an outlaw through Hell.
“Aye. Be a holdup. No bettin’ from your handsome uncle o’ this fine day. Just happened it be, I be judgin’.”
“Wonder why they aren’t going after the robbers?” Carlow frowned, trying to make sense of the angry gathering. “You think this Marshal Bridgeport’s already on their trail?”
“Well, knowin’ Lark Bridgeport, he probably be not yet awake.” Kileen rolled his shoulders to ease the fatigue. His sweaty shirt and long coat strained to stay with his heavily muscled frame.
“Doesn’t sound like much of a lawman, Thunder.”
“Don’t ye be judgin’ Lark so quickly, me son.” Kileen studied the crowd, spotted a wagon team of dirty white horses at the far end of the yelling men, and pointed. “Ah, but look there. ‘Tis more bad luck it be. Ye must spit three times an’ be lookin’ for a dog.”
Carlow frowned. “There’s a dog right behind us, Thunder. More or less.”
He loved his uncle. Sometimes though, Kileen’s superstitious ways were a bit much to handle. Half the time he thought his uncle just made them up to fit what he wanted to have happen.
“Aye, so it be. Chancey, we’re glad you’re here, boy. Ye be savin’ us from a bad spell,” Kileen declared and stared back at Chance following a few strides behind. With great ceremony, Kileen spat three separate times toward the ground.
The great beast’s tail hung down from weariness, his tongue slung low between white teeth. A few people on the planked sidewalk, heading for the bank, stopped to stare, wondering if a large prairie wolf were stalking the two men. One young woman gasped and asked her male companion what they should do. The nattily dressed man told her it was none of their business and urged their brisk continuance.
In the distance, a train headed Strickland’s way. The town itself was booming with flour mills, a planning mill, three newspapers, a carriage factory, an ice plant, two foundries, doctors, lawyers and even a fire department and a flourishing theater. It was truly a focal point of commerce that had been gaining steam since the war.
The two Rangers really didn’t want to get involved in any Strickland matters, regardless of how important the town was becoming. In fact, they preferred to avoid the matters of any town. Anywhere.
“Can’t be more than two or three grays around here,” Carlow said. “No matter how big Strickland’s gotten. ‘Course he’s probably already left town. Or, more than likely, never stopped. But somebody might have seen him.”
“A back-shooter on a gray hoss be a dark trail, I fear, laddie.” Kileen slapped trail dust from his long coat, more amazed than annoyed at the puffs that came from it. “Maybe the wee people will scare him into letting see his blackguard face.”
Carlow glanced at his uncle and resisted asking if a gray horse was unluckier than a white one. “Looks easy enough, Uncle. We find a gray carrying a slinged rifle—and we have him.”
“Beware o’ the gray, laddie. Beware o’ the gray.”
Not interested in pursuing this discussion further, Carlow shifted his weight and nudged his black horse toward the group near the bank. He really wanted a few minutes of relief from the saddle while he sought information from the Strickland marshal. They didn’t expect any help from Marshal Lark Bridgeport, but they had to start somewhere. A gray horse shouldn’t be too hard to track down. Surely somebody had seen a stranger come and go on a gray horse. Nor did they expect to find the man in town. Not after three days.
“Well, guess we’d better ride over and see what’s happening. Maybe we’ll get real lucky—and it’ll be the same man,” Carlow said, not believing his own observation.
A hot meal and a little rest before continuing their search for the murderer would have been welcome, yet the young Ranger knew they wouldn’t leave the town without helping to find the bank robbers. Long black hair cascaded over his shoulders. His mustache was surrounded by an unshaven chin that only made him look more aggressive than he did naturally.
“Lucky, is it now? Never thought meself be hearin’ such from his sweet nephew.” Streaks of trail dust had settled on Kileen’s puffy face hours ago. Fresh dust from slapping his pants had recently joined the collection.
A man driving a loaded farm wagon came toward them, slowed and shouted the news that the bank had just been robbed and no one had seen the crime except those in the bank. The robber had escaped undetected. Marshal Bridgeport was on his way to form a posse.
“What did he look like? Did anyone get a look at his horse?” Carlow asked.
Pursing his lips and reining in his wagon horse, the farmer shook his head. “No, suh. Don’t think I heard. Sorry.”
Both Rangers touched their hat brims in response as the farmer went on.
Coming close behind was a creaking freight wagon. Chance growled at the passing rumble and Carlow told the wolf-dog to be quiet. The younger Ranger wondered why th
e town’s lawman was so slow. Kileen was again philosophical, pointing out that the robber might have been smart enough to wait until the marshal had been occupied elsewhere.
“We shan’t be leavin’ the fine folks of Strickland in need.”
“So these folks just want to gripe, but nobody’s trying to find out which way the robber went.” Carlow shook his head. “That’s really going to help.”
“Aye, ‘tis a worthy observation, laddie. Why don’t ye be sharin’ that wee bit of wisdom with them?”
“I intend to,” Carlow said. “Maybe, at least, somebody from inside the bank knows something.”
“Aye.”
Two miles back, the killer’s tracks had blended with others headed for Strickland. He was definitely in town or had been. Of that, the Rangers were certain. First, they planned on checking the rifles carried on any gray horses hitched to the racks and at the livery. There wouldn’t be many grays and even fewer would be carrying a rifle with a sling. If such a combination was found, it was a cinch they had their man. A black coat would be gravy. Same with the man’s gray hair.
Carlow couldn’t imagine why the killer would remain in Strickland, but Kileen advised him that he might not think anyone was tracking him. Carlow kept the thought that the killer was Tanneman Rose to himself. It had to be, although the description certainly didn’t sound like him. Maybe he had gray hair now. Did Tanneman know any German? Why had the killer yelled out something in German?
This masked killer on a gray horse was the best—and warmest—lead they had, regardless of who it turned out to be.
Outside the Strickland Hotel, a small, wiry man watched them from the porch with unusual interest. He glanced down at a pad of paper in his hand, scribbled furiously, then looked again at the two well-armed men, this time concentrating on the bigger Ranger. A strange smile entered the writer’s face.
Neither Ranger noticed the reporter as they concentrated on a sign in the general-store window. A familiar, hateful sign: No Irish. No Coloreds. No Mex. No matter how often he saw that message, it always brought a hiss from Carlow’s clenched teeth. That was followed by a knowing chuckle from his uncle, as usual.
“I don’t get it, Thunder. Guess I never will,” Carlow snarled. “How can you hate all people like that—when you don’t even know them?”
“Aye, ‘tis a puzzle of life, me lad,” Kileen said. “Folks be likin’ to hate, I guess. Easier for some. If they be any Injuns about, ye can figure the sign would be includin’ them, too.”
A squatty businessman at the outer edge of the crowd glanced back at the two advancing Rangers, then whispered something to the taller man beside him. In a hot minute, the crowd swarmed toward the two riders. Some brandished guns, while others yelled threats and encouragement to their comrades.
“Should we put on our badges?” Carlow asked, shoving his hand into his vest pocket.
“Aye. ‘Tis bank robbers they think we be. Strangers, ’tis enough we be.”
The men never wore badges on the trail; badges only served as giveaway reflections there.
“Hold it right there. You two are under arrest,” announced the squatty, pumpkin-faced businessman, trying to make his voice more forceful than normal. The result was a raspy honk.
He looked around for support and got it from some of his fellow townsmen. The closest waved a Civil War Navy Colt.
“You think you can rob our bank and just ride through with nobody noticing?” he continued, “Uhuh, boys, this is Strickland. We know how to handle crooks. Won’t the marshal be surprised when he sees what we’ve done!”
“Leave your gun be,” Kileen whispered to his nephew.
“What is this?” Carlow snapped back, his hand still in his vest pocket.
“Just a wee bit o’ nonsense.”
Everything in Carlow’s tanned face wanted to attack. Chance growled his support from near the back legs of the young Ranger’s horse.
Carlow’s earliest memories included Kileen teaching him the value of patience, particularly in a fight. It always seemed to work best when Kileen told him that Carlow’s late father, a man the young Ranger had never known, had had such qualities.
“Easy, me son, easy,” Kileen muttered, without taking his eyes off of the accusatory businessman. “Tell Chancey to stand easy hisself.”
Chapter Eighteen
“That’s enough, Chance,” Carlow commanded the growling wolf-dog behind him. He eased his right hand away from his vest and laid it on the saddle horn; his left, holding his reins, followed.
Kileen straightened his wide back, making his six-foot-two, 220-pound frame look even bigger, and cocked his head to the side. Nothing in his manner was threatening; both hands rested on his saddle horn. “Me lads, ‘twould appear ye be having’ a wee bit o’ trouble.”
“Wouldn’t you know it, a Mick. A goddamn Mick.” The crowd buzzed with supportive remarks as it drew closer to the two Rangers. “Watch out. That young one looks like a Comanche.”
Carlow couldn’t hold back a laugh. It hurt the bruised side of his face. The swelling had gone down, however, leaving only streaks of purple and yellow around his left eye and on his cheek. He’d heard that observation about his heritage before, but he was all Irish. Black Irish. The only things that weren’t Irish about him were his lack of superstition and the absence of a brogue, which had been his late mother’s doing.
Stepping alongside Kileen’s horse, the businessman grabbed the reins with his free hand; his eyebrows saluted the bold move. For the first time, he noticed the wolf-dog trailing Carlow. Chance’s snarling white teeth made the man look away and whisper a silent prayer.
“Sorry to disappoint you, mister, but I’m Irish, too,” Carlow said. “And we’re Rangers.”
“Rangers? That’ll be the day,” the squatty businessman said to the man next to him. “Border ruffians is more like…”
Thud!
Kileen’s boot exploded into the posturing man’s chin and drove him back into the stunned mass. The businessman’s thick fingers released the reins with a jerk. No one thought to catch his limp figure and he collapsed in the dirt.
A blur of color, Chance unleashed his own attack on the next-closest man, slamming into the surprised townsman’s chest and sending him sprawling. The man’s Civil War Navy Colt popped from his hand and stood momentarily at attention in the air, before thumping to the ground a few feet away. The wolf-dog pounced on his chest and stood on him. The dog’s dark unblinking eyes searched the terrified man’s face for any sign of further aggression.
The man swallowed his own vomit.
In the same instant, Carlow drew his hand carbine and levered it one-handed, with the shortened stock against his thigh. The movement was smooth and quick. Gasps followed. At the back of the group, a farmer in overalls turned and ran.
“The rest of you idiots drop your guns. Do it now,” the young Ranger demanded.
Carlow’s gun sought the head of the man he judged most likely to shoot. Most didn’t wait for the Ranger’s heated gaze and immediately released their weapons.
“You with the big hat, either use that pistol or get rid of it. I’m too tired to mess with a bunch of fools.” Carlow acknowledged the group with a slow movement of his gun barrel. “Let him go, Chance.”
A quick bark preceded the wolf-dog’s retreat. He bounced from the downed man’s stomach to his previous position beside Carlow’s horse. As the beast spun back into place, he snarled his defiance.
Glancing down at the pistol in his hand, the man in the tall-crowned hat dropped the gun as if it were heat coming from the stove.
The bearded storekeeper standing beside him, holding a rifle, hesitated.
“Ye be droppin’ the Springfield now.” Kileen directed his own just-drawn, long-barreled Colt at the storekeeper. “ ‘Tis too fine a day to be dyin’ for nothin’. Ye be uncockin’ it first, lad.”
Shaking visibly, the bearded man eased down the hammer on the single-shot rifle, bent over and carefully
laid the gun on the ground, inches from his feet.
“That be a good lad.”
Behind him, a man gagged, turned away and retched on his own boots. The men closest to him stepped away in disgust. With Kileen’s approval, both Rangers pinned on their badges.
“What the bloody ‘ell is going on here?” A clipped voice with the telltale sound of a British upbringing brought an immediate split in the group to reveal a stumpy man in a rumpled suit, fresh-collared shirt and food-spotted cravat. He was eating gumdrops from a small sack.
Marshal Lark Bridgeport’s white and brown hair was mostly covered by a hat that had once been a proud derby, but was now little more than a gathering of black. Strings of hair poked out from under it like straw from a scarecrow’s head. The bulge in his patched tweed coat, on the left side of his chest, had to be a shoulder-holstered gun.
“Well, well, ‘tis a sight for me ol’ eyes. Marshal Bridgeport hisself,” Kileen bellowed. “What are ye feedin’ the fine folks of Strickland, Lark? They be a bit riled up ‘bout strangers.”
The British lawman shook his head and motioned toward the bank, smiling without meaning to do so. “Jolly what! I say, if it isn’t the great Ranger Kileen ‘imself. ‘Ow fascinatin’ you should show up at this grand moment of our need. Our fine bank ‘as been bloody robbed. A sticky wicket, it be.”
One tall man found his courage. “Yeah, where were you when all our money was being taken, Marshal?”
Bridgeport ignored the question, walked up to Kileen and held out his hand. In his other fist was the sack of candy. Kileen grabbed his hand enthusiastically and introduced the British leader to Carlow. Bridgeport made a foppish bow and Carlow nodded.
“Would appear you have had a run-in with something, son,” Bridgeport said, his eyes sparkling.
“Aye, Lark. Ranger Carlow, he be attacked by three thugs. He whipped them all.” Kileen liked making the statement.
“Blimey! That is exceptional.”