Death Mask

by Cotton Smith

  “Bridgeport asked me to help him arrest the lynch mob,” Carlow said reluctantly. “Actually Mrs. Waulken did the first asking.”

  “Good, me son. Good. This ye…should be doin’. We were a party to his arrest, aye, we were,” Kileen said. “Afterward, ye can wire…the good Captain. Tell hisself what has happened…and ask for…some more Rangers…to go after the…Rose Gang.”

  It wasn’t the time to tell him about McNelly’s wire. Or that the captain was certain Tanneman Rose had escaped and was behind these murders. That could come later. The news would only worry his uncle.

  “May I help you, señor?”

  The question startled Carlow and he looked up to see a woman with bright brown eyes and an easy smile. Her black hair was bound by a nurse’s cap and her figure was covered in a light gray dress and white apron.

  She was Mexican. She was beautiful.

  Jerking off his hat, Carlow explained his presence, his words jolted by her stunning appearance. His hair brushed against heavy shoulders.

  “I, ah, I’m Time Carlow. This is…my uncle. We’re, ah, Rangers.”

  “Mariah, me nephew this be,” Kileen weakly waved his hand in Carlow’s direction.

  “He ees spoke of you, Señor Carlow,” she said. “I am Mariah Sanguel. I am his nurse.”

  All Carlow could think of was the lusty Angel Balta. He wondered if the same thought had occurred to his uncle. A quick glance at Kileen answered that question. It had.

  She walked over to the foot of the bed, gazed at Kileen and said, “You ees sleep now. That ees bueno.” She looked up at Carlow. “Many hombres no strong enough to live from thees.” She smiled again. “Señor Kileen weel live.”

  Carlow felt his uncle’s head. It was clammy, yet sweaty.

  “Lucky me be, son. ‘Tis a fact ye have to be admittin’.”

  “Ze bullet went through. Eet hit no bone,” Mariah offered. “No close to hees heart.”

  Looking up, Carlow asked, “Has the doctor seen him?” He decided that sounded like he was questioning her judgement and added, “I mean…”

  “Dr. Morrison has treated heem—and give us orders. After he sleep, we weel give him water—and some broth.” She pointed toward a table where two medicine bottles stood sentry. “Theen, he weel have some more medicine. Si.”

  “Get some sleep, Thunder. I’ll be back to check on you.”

  Carlow turned away and saw Kileen’s coat lying on the nearby chair. He reached into the pocket, retrieved the badge and pinned it on Kileen’s bed, adjacent to his pillow. He had never seen his uncle wounded badly. From Carlow’s lips came a blessing in Irish that he had learned from his mother—and his uncle.

  “Aye. The Waulken lady, ye be sure she be doin’ all right. A fine lady she be,” Kileen said and added, “Me lad, a dream me be havin’. Tanneman Rose be ridin’ through it.”

  Carlow nodded and stepped away. As he left, Mariah touched his arm. “You must tell me, Señor Carlow, por favor. When he come in, he asks if three persons have made ze bed and tells us not to put hees hat on ze bed—and not to put hees boots under it. And we had to move thees bed so eet faces the west, not the north. Do you know why he wants thees so?”

  Her eyes examined Carlow’s face and he felt dirty. Involuntarily, he brushed his coat with his hands, then chuckled. “Well, my uncle, he’s kinda superstitious. Ah, he thinks it’s bad luck to put a hat on a bed—or boots under it.” He shook his head. “An’ a bed that faces north, well, it’ll bring nightmares. If three people make a bed, it means someone is going to die within the year. I think that’s how it goes. I don’t always get his superstitions straight. There are a bunch of them.”

  “Oh, I see. I have an aunt who ees so. Et ees most…ah, funny.” She reached out and touched his sore left cheek. “You ees been hurt.”

  “It’s all right. Looks worse than it feels.”

  “You must have ze doctor look at thees.”

  Not wanting to leave, but knowing he should, Carlow told her the marshal and his deputies were waiting for him, and he must go.

  “I’ll be back. After supper,” Carlow said. “Will you be here?” The crimson at his neck was growing.

  She bit her lower lip and ran her fingers along the raised cast-iron foot of the empty bed they were passing. “I weel be here. ‘Til midnight et ees.”

  “Good. Thank you for all you’re doing for…my uncle,” Carlow said. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  She smiled, said she must check on her other patients and walked in the other direction. Just before reaching the next occupied bed, she looked back.

  Carlow was watching. He smiled and she returned the intimacy. Their eyes flirted.

  Walking out, he passed a bed holding a young boy with his head wrapped in linen strips. The boy’s mother sat beside him; her face was gray from lack of sleep and worry.

  “A-are you a R-Ranger?” a small voice asked.

  Carlow stopped as the question reached his tired mind. He turned and smiled. “Yes, I am. Ranger Time Carlow. What’s your name?” He walked toward the bed.

  The boy of eight or nine with wide blue eyes sat up, leaning on his elbows. His eyes were bright with interest. Even the boy’s mother appeared energized by the youngster’s sudden attention.

  “I-I am D-Duval Jonas,” the boy said. “I h-hurt my head. Y-yesterday.”

  The woman quickly explained the boy had been kicked by a horse and had actually been unconscious for three days. He had regained consciousness just a few hours ago.

  “How is your friend? I saw him come in,” the woman asked, softly.

  “He’s going to make it,” Carlow said with more confidence than he felt. “And Duval? How’s he doing?”

  “Good, I think. Now that he’s awake—and back with us. Praise the Lord.” The woman bit her lip.

  “That’s good to hear,” Carlow said, then frowned. “Well, Duval, you listen to your mother—and the doctor.”

  “I will, sir.”

  “I know you will.”

  They talked for a few minutes, with the boy doing most of the talking, as if feeling a need to make up for the lost time. Carlow listened intently, occasionally glancing up to see where Mariah might be. It was the first time he hadn’t thought of Ellie. He knew he should be going to help Bridgeport, but he wasn’t in a hurry and told himself that it was all right.

  “You’re going to arrest the men in that lynch mob, aren’t you?” the woman finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded approval. “Has the bank money been found?”

  “No, ma’am, it hasn’t,” Carlow acknowledged. “Likely the man who shot Ranger Kileen has it. He tried to make it look like Mr. Waulken did it. I’m going after him, after the lynchers are arrested.”

  Duval leaned forward and pointed. “What kind of gun is that? I’ve never seen one like that!”

  Patting the hand carbine, the young Ranger explained that it was a Winchester with the barrel and stock shortened.

  “What’s that on the stock? Is that an Indian mark?”

  Carlow smiled. “Actually, it’s an old Celtic symbol. Irish. For victory.”

  “And you have a revolver, too!” the boy exclaimed. “Isn’t that a Colt?”

  “Yes, it is.” Carlow realized he had been stalling. “Duval, I gotta go, but I’ll see you again.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Near the entrance, Carlow saw a man talking quietly to one of the hospital’s administrators. He heard the name “Kileen” and decided to see what was going on.

  He vaguely recalled seeing the small, wiry man outside the hotel when they had ridden in yesterday. Like then, he had a pad of paper in his hand and took notes as the two men talked.

  “Pardon me, couldn’t help overhearing you mention Ranger Kileen’s name,” Carlow said, stepping up to both men. “You look like a newspaper man. Are you?”

  Smiling slightly, the small man said, “Not quite. I write for Harper�
�s Bazaar. On assignment out west, so to speak. I live in New York. Ever been there?” He glanced at the administrator, who quietly excused himself and left.

  Carlow didn’t answer his question. “You’re interested in Ranger Kileen for what reason?”

  Carlow’s tired mind jumped to Kileen’s secret about his real last name. He had a hunch that was what this interest was all about.

  “Well, I’m not sure it’s any of your business, sir.”

  “Look, I’m tired. That’s my uncle who’s lying in there, all shot up,” Carlow said, his dark eyes snapping. “Don’t play games with me. Why are you interested in Ranger Kileen?”

  Swallowing, the reporter explained that he was certain Kileen was actually a former bare-knuckle prizefighter named Thunder Lucent from New York. He said the big man had killed a man with his fists and then disappeared. That had been years ago. His readers would be interested in the tale and the irony of the Irishman becoming a Texas Ranger.

  Carlow listened, trying hard not to let his temper rise. When the reporter finished, Carlow asked, as quietly as he could manage, “What’s your name?”

  “Ah…Ronald James Pierson, sir,” the reporter replied, surprised at the question.

  “Well, Ronald, I’m sorry to tell you that the Ranger in there grew up in Missouri,” Carlow said.

  “And you know this how?”

  “I’m his nephew. We lived close by, then moved to Texas,” Carlow continued. “His nickname, ‘Old Thunder’, was given to him by his fellow Rangers because he liked to burp loudly. Sounds like an interesting coincidence to the fellow you’re looking for. But just that.”

  “Oh. I was so sure,” Pierson said, looking down at his notes. “Maybe I’ll do a story on this lynching. That was really something.”

  “That’s your decision,” Carlow said. “Just didn’t want you writing something incorrect about my uncle.” He looked at the man. “I wouldn’t understand.”

  “Well, thank you. Thank you. I appreciate that.” Pierson glanced at his notes, not wanting to engage with Carlow’s glare. He wanted to ask how the young Ranger had gotten the bruises around his left eye, but didn’t think it was a good idea.

  “Sure,” the young Ranger said and headed for the door.

  Outside the hospital, he called to the waiting Chance and they walked toward the marshal’s office. Mariah’s sweetness settled into his mind, along with the boy’s injury and his promise to return. That would be easy. He wanted to see Mariah again. For an instant, Ellie pushed into his mind, but she became Mariah. The reporter popped into his mind again and he decided to ask Bridgeport to reinforce his story about Kileen growing up in Missouri. The New York incident had occurred a long time ago, but still, he didn’t want somebody coming for his uncle—either lawmen or relatives of the man Kileen had beaten.

  As he strolled down the planked sidewalk, a heavyset man in suspenders and baggy pants rushed from the general store.

  “Ranger? May I have a word?”

  Carlow stopped and turned back to face the nervous man. “Of course. How may I help you?”

  Chance was barely a trot behind.

  Hitching up his pants to make them settle better around his ample waist, the townsman looked left and right and whispered, “I just wanted you to know I had nothing to do with that awful lynching. Nothing.” He glanced at Chance, shivered, and looked back at Carlow.

  “I see. Were you there? At the jail this morning?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t want trouble,” the agitated townsman said. “Just my money.” His eyebrows danced with the words.

  Carlow folded his arms. “I see. What did you think was going to happen? With that mob?”

  The townsman scratched his head, then placed his right hand over his mouth and spoke through it. “I, ah, I don’t know. Rightly. I just, ah, went along. Some friends of mine wanted me to.” His hand went to his forehead and rubbed it.

  “If I were you,” Carlow growled, “I’d give myself up to Marshal Bridgeport. Might help.”

  “What do you mean?” The man’s face glowed crimson.

  Carlow hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt. “Well, for starters, you boys killed an innocent man, assaulted an officer of the law and beat up a woman.”

  “That’s not quite what happened,” the townsman protested. “You make it sound…terrible. That German stole our money. Every cent I had was in that bank!”

  “I’m sorry for your loss, but Mr. Waulken didn’t rob the bank.”

  “You arrested him,” the townsman gulped, color retreating from his face. “You have all kinds of evidence. A gray horse. That fancy rifle. Even that wood mask. I heard all about it. My God! What else do you want?”

  Carlow wanted to ask the man how he knew this information, but it didn’t matter. He dropped his arms to his sides.

  “Well, I figure you’ve also already heard about his alibi, mister, or you wouldn’t have stopped me.” His eyes locked with the man’s eyes and wouldn’t let go.

  Waving his arms, the townsman asked in a rushed voice, “What makes you think that cowboy was telling the truth? I hear they were in it together.”

  Carlow cocked his head to the side. “Lynching is murder, mister. For any reason. Pure and simple. I gave you a suggestion. Do what you want.” He turned to his wolf-dog. “Come on, Chance. We’ve got work to do.”

  Carlow resumed walking with Chance bounding behind him.

  “Goddamn you! You should be looking for our money!”

  The curse sought the Ranger’s attention, but he continued on to the marshal’s office. Around him the town seemed to be busying itself in a rush to forget the morning’s awfulness. The combined marshal’s office and jail was crowded as he joined the three other lawmen standing inside.

  Entering, Carlow saw Marshal Bridgeport, the stuttering Deputy Payne and the other deputy, Joe Roth. Six empty cells lined the back walls. The marshal’s desk, although heavily scratched, was quite neat. Only a few papers occupied the right corner; the rest of the desktop was empty. In the corner of the room, a black stove was working to keep a coffeepot ready. Above the stove was a framed photograph of the governor.

  On the adjoining short wall was a rack of rifles and shotguns. Barred widows sported heavy wooden shutters that could be closed from the inside and braced. Two wall lamps had been recently cleaned and quietly awaited their next usage.

  Roth was confident as Bridgeport introduced him to Carlow. Like the Ranger, he wore two handguns, with one carried handle forward and the other with the handle to the back.

  “Glad to meet you, Ranger,” Roth declared as they shook hands. “Sounds like you boys had a rough morning.” His pockmarked face broke into lines around his eyes and mouth. “Sorry I missed it. Another gun might’ve made the difference.” He pushed back the brim of his hat. “How’s your partner? Heard he took a bad one.”

  “He’s feeling poorly, but he’ll live, I reckon. Be laid up for a while, though.” Carlow didn’t like the man; he wasn’t sure why, but he didn’t like him.

  Bridgeport grabbed several gumdrops from the sack on his desk and popped them into his mouth. “Arrest warrants I ‘ave, for eight.” He pointed to the only papers on his desk. “There were more, but that’s all I can recall.” He rattled off the eight names.

  Carlow wondered if the marshal was deliberately forgetting some important civic leaders—or friends—who had been part of the lynching. There had definitely been more than eight men there.

  “Would you care for a gumdrop? Have a wet? Ah, hot tea? It’s fresh. Made it myself.” Bridgeport motioned toward the sack, then the stove. “Wish we had some wad…ah, some cake…to go with it.”

  “No, thanks. How do you want to handle this?” Carlow said.

  “I took the liberty to wire Ranger ‘eadquarters, told them what ‘ad ‘appened and received approval for you to ‘elp us. It’s there.” He pointed to the smaller sheet of paper beside the warrants.

  Carlow walked over to the desk and read the te
legram, half angered at the lawman’s audacity, half glad to have the authority made clear. There was no indication in the wire that McNelly had received his own report. He laid down the paper and said nothing.

  Putting two more gumdrops in his mouth, the British marshal announced he wanted Carlow with him; one of his deputies would cover the back door of whatever building was involved. The other deputy would remain at the jail to guard the men as they were arrested. Joe Roth hitched his double gun belts and volunteered to go with Bridgeport and Carlow; Payne was quite satisfied to remain behind.

  Meanwhile, across town, six men spat their anger at the turn of events in a hastily called meeting above the lumber company.

  “What the hell does Bridgeport think he’s doing?” Ira Samuelson bellowed. “He should be out looking for our money—not arresting good and true men. We were trying to help, that’s all. Just trying to help.”

  “We weren’t the only ones.” Turner Omallden, the man who had stopped Carlow earlier, added his own feelings. “That damn Irish Ranger told me I should give myself up. Can you believe that?”

  The six men continued their angry accusations, then became silent as the futility of the exchange became apparent.

  “Well, I’m not running. That’s for damn sure,” Samuelson said. “I’ll sit in my office—with my shotgun—an’ just wait for the bastards.” He shook his head affirmatively for emphasis.

  George Tyler, a tall man who owned the town’s gun shop and held aspirations of becoming mayor, stood and faced the others. “There is a simple way out of this.”

  He paused for dramatic effect, waiting for their eager questions. His temple pounded with the eagerness he felt. Pulling on his suitcoat, he licked his lips and gave the answer they were waiting for.

  “It’s simple. We get the town council to fire Bridgeport—and we hire a marshal, ah, more suitable to our town’s needs,” Tyler said in an even voice that carried only a hint of his Eastern upbringing. “Someone who will spend his time looking for our money.”

  “Makes good sense to me,” Samuelson agreed. He always seemed taller than he actually was; his dominating voice was the major reason. It could take over any room, any conversation. He loved the sound of it.