by Cotton Smith
Looking around, Tyler took Samuelson’s expression for agreement from all of them. He loved being in control of a room. “I’ll go to Dickersly and get him to have a quick town meeting. We can have this thing done by midday.”
“You think Dickersly will go for that?” James Concannon asked. The small man with an impeccable manner of dressing ran an insurance, real estate and loan business. He adjusted his silk cravat so it sat well under his pinstriped vest.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Tyler’s eyes flashed, matching the anger in his voice.
Concannon pulled on his French-cuffed sleeves and took his time in responding. “Don’t you plan on running against him in the next election? Ol’ Wilford Dickersly might like the idea of you—and some of the rest of us—out of the way. Or, at least painted with judicial stain.” He held up his fingers and counted the offenses against them. “Assaulting an officer of the law. Attacking an innocent woman. Destruction of public property. We broke that door something awful.” He blinked his eyes and finished, “And, of course, we hanged an innocent man. That, my friends, is murder.”
Taken by surprise by the argument, Tyler could only ask if the businessman had a better idea.
“No, I don’t, George,” Concannon answered, looking around the room. “But I think we should be prepared for him to reject the idea.”
Omallden asked if it made sense to go and talk with Judge DeVere; Tyler reminded him the feisty judge had warned them not to take the law into their own hands.
“What if Bridgeport—and that Irish Ranger—come before you get that meeting put together?” The question came from a round-faced man in a bowtie. He owned the barbershop and bathhouse.
“If that happens, Davis, I suggest you go peacefully,” Tyler said. “All of you. Don’t make a fuss. After all, the town has a right to defend itself. And that’s what we were doing. We can deal with this in court if we have to.”
“Who are you going to get for the new marshal?” Omallden asked.
“What about Hires Quireling? He can handle himself,” Tyler stated.
“Do you think he’d take it?” Omallden asked. “I thought he was busy working on that little ranch he just bought.”
Tyler smiled. “I happen to know that he could use the money. No reason he couldn’t do both.”
Samuelson stood and shook his fist. “By God, you’re right. I know what you’re saying, Concannon, but we’ve got to try.”
Taking the pipe from his mouth, the gruff owner of the lumber company asked, “What about the others who were in this? There were fourteen of us altogether, I think. Yeah, fourteen.”
“Well, they had a chance to come to this meeting and didn’t,” Tyler pointed out. “I think Peter Wisson is going to run. That’s what I heard.”
The meeting quickly settled on the idea of getting a new marshal and began to break up. As the townsmen returned their chairs to the table on the far side of the room, Tyler added one more thought.
“It would be helpful, I think, if that cowboy understood the situation.” Tyler smiled.
“He’s in my saloon. Or was,” the bearded saloon keeper said. “I’ll talk to him.”
“I’ll go along with you,” Samuelson said.
“Excellent,” Tyler acknowledged. “I’ll go see the mayor and get this nonsense behind us.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
It was past noon when Bridgeport and Carlow reached the law offices of Wilford Dickersly, mayor of Strickland and a respected elder statesman of the region. Chance took his waiting position in the shade of the building. The British lawman had decided it would be politically smart to inform the town’s titular head of the upcoming arrests. Actually, it had been Carlow’s suggestion and Bridgeport had eagerly accepted it.
Deputy Joe Roth was accompanying James Concannon to jail; the immaculately dressed businessman had immediately coughed up the names of six other men in the lynch mob, seeking leniency for his cooperation. Bridgeport assured him it would be duly noted. After dropping off Concannon, Roth was to find Judge DeVere and get the additional warrants.
Bridgeport and Carlow stepped into the small office, which contained two walls of bookcases jammed with books, pamphlets and magazines.
“Afternoon, Marshal,” Dickersly said warmly. “I understand you’re shaking up our fair town and arresting some leading citizens.”
Wilford Dickersly stood up behind his desk and held out his hand. His desk was packed with papers and files whose location only he seemed to understand. The mayor’s shirt was rumpled, as were his pants. A too-small vest hung open. His bald head was offset by massive, mostly white sideburns and matching eyebrows. An easy smile matched his twinkling eyes. He was short, chunky and considerably older than Kileen or Bridgeport, but Carlow thought there was something about the friendly appearing man that read tough.
“Blimey, don’t know about that,” Bridgeport said, and shook the mayor’s hand, “but we’re trying to bring law and order back to this fine community, wot.” He explained what they were doing, with some British military slang thrown in for emphasis.
The mayor smiled and glanced at Carlow, who grinned.
“Good day, Mayor. I’m Ranger Time Carlow.” The young Ranger held out his hand.
“Oh, sure. Your Ranger partner was shot this morning,” Dickersly said, shaking hands with gusto. “How is he?”
“Thanks for asking,” Carlow responded. “He’ll make it, I think. Going to be a while though.”
“I’m very sorry this happened. Especially in our town,” Dickersly said. “Please let me know if I can be of help in any way. The hospital care is, of course, a city expense.”
Carlow thanked him for the generosity.
Dickersly turned his attention back to Bridgeport. “Had a visit from George Tyler.” The mayor’s smile waned slightly. “He wanted me to call a meeting of the council. To fire you.”
“George Tyler’s on my list. Eight I know for certain and ‘ave warrants for their arrest. Just learned there be six more. Their warrants will be in our ‘ands soon.” Bridgeport waved the sheet of paper. “We not be firing into the brown, ya know.”
Carlow guessed the British army expression had to do with firing at a group without having a specific target.
Fiddling with the top papers on his desk, the older leader spoke evenly without looking up. “I know, Lark. I told him there would be no such meeting. No such firing either. That you were doing what needed doing.” He looked up into Bridgeport’s face. “Lark, the town’s going to be split on this. Money talks. While some folks will understand your approach, a lot more are going to be upset that you’re arresting good townspeople, while our money goes unsought and unfound.”
His voice rising slightly, Bridgeport described what had happened. The immediate arrest of Alben Waulken and the evidence found at his place. The subsequent enlightenment by a neighboring cowboy, who indicated the German farmer had been set up. Sadly, they had no clues, other than the likelihood that Kileen’s sniper had probably been involved in the bank robbery.
“Can I assume no one on your list of townsmen had anything to do with the shooting of the Ranger?” Dickersly asked.
“That’s correct, Mayor,” Carlow answered. “The shooter was from out of town. I have an identification and plan to go after him as soon as the lynchers are arrested. There’s a good likelihood he’s connected to the murder of an old friend of ours, a former Ranger—as well as the bank robbery. It appears he set up Mr. Waulken. Very well, I’m sorry to say.”
“May I announce that to the newspapers?”
“Sure.”
“Does this…outlaw…have a name?”
Carlow chuckled. “He does. Tanneman Rose. He was a Ranger until we caught him robbing banks with his brothers. His brothers are dead now. Tanneman broke out of jail and is trying to kill all of the men who put him there.”
“I see,” Dickersly said. “Why didn’t you suspect him right away—instead of going after Mr. Waulken?”
Slightly annoyed at the question, Carlow explained they had just learned of the jailbreak and faked death. With that, Dickersly pronounced his understanding of Waulken’s arrest. Changing the subject, he suggested the lynchers be held for the circuit judge, instead of requiring Judge DeVere to have to do this distasteful job. A new judge, replacing the murdered Judge Cline, would be appointed soon. Dickersly also pointed out that finding a local jury that would convict them might be difficult.
Bridgeport agreed with both observations, but indicated if the jury didn’t convict the men, he would resign.
“Don’t tell anyone that, please,” Dickersly said. “This town needs your strength, Lark.” He turned to Carlow. “What do you think are the chances of catching this killer—this Tanneman Rose, Ranger?”
“I don’t intend to stop until I do,” Carlow spat.
“I believe you, son.”
Carlow wanted to ask the man not to call him “son,” but didn’t. The mayor was a man to stand with, and his opinion of Marshal Bridgeport was beginning to change. The British lawman had tenacity.
Holding out his hand again, Dickersly said he would be informing the newspapers of the plans and that it might be helpful in the long run. An informed citizenry was an important asset, he pronounced, and asked to be kept abreast of their progress.
Hunching his shoulders, Carlow said, “Got a thought you boys might want to consider about all this.”
“I’m listening.”
“Blimey, me, too.”
Carlow pushed his hat back on his forehead. “Well, nothing we do is going to bring Mr. Waulken back. And putting all these bastards in jail isn’t going to help Mrs. Waulken either.”
Dickersly leaned forward, folding his arms.
“Why not make all of them fix up the Waulken place? The barn, the house, the corral, all of it,” Carlow said. “Make them tend her crops. Say for five years.” He paused. “And each of them has to give her a hundred dollars.”
“I like it.” Dickersly nodded. “Helluva lot better than the other way.”
“Mrs. Waulken would ‘ave to agree,” Bridgeport added. “She may want them punished, instead.”
Carlow pulled on his gunbelt. “Thought of that, too. They work for her. She’s in charge. Anybody who bows out, you put him in jail.”
Dickersly laughed and said, “I suggest you get them rounded up first…before telling them.”
“Makes sense. You need to talk with Mrs. Waulken first, anyway.” Carlow headed for the door with Bridgeport a step behind.
They stepped out of the office and a shot rang out, splitting its way into the side of the building a few feet away. Bridgeport dove to the ground. As Carlow dove himself, he grabbed Chance and pulled the wolf-dog to him for safety.
A second shot spit into the planked sideway below them.
“Blimey, it be Ira Samuelson,” Bridgeport said, drawing his pistol.
“Let me handle this, Marshal,” Carlow said, and told Chance to wait.
He stood. Another shot spit into the building wall behind him.
“Get down, boy! The blooming wog’ll shoot ya.”
“I don’t think so, or he would’ve already.” Carlow stepped off the sidewalk into the street. “He’s real brave when it’s fourteen to one.”
People were scattering for places of safety. A buggy with an almost out-of-control horse ran past him and toward the far end of the street. In several buildings, people were staring out their windows from behind curtains or glimpsing the action through barely opened doors.
With his hands at his sides, Carlow walked toward Ira Samuelson, who stood on the sidewalk across the street.
An agitated Samuelson yelled, “Stay where you are—or I’ll kill you.”
“You’ve already killed one innocent man today.”
“I mean it.” He fired another shot from his Henry carbine. The bullet thumped into the dirt street in front of Carlow.
Walking directly at him, Carlow looked into Samuelson’s eyes, expecting a change in his gaze to warn him if the businessman decided to try to shoot him.
Samuelson levered his gun and brought it to his shoulder. “I mean it. I’m not going to jail. I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, Mr. Samuelson. You’ll have a fair trial,” Carlow said evenly.
Samuelson hesitated, then fired again. This time the bullet soared past Carlow’s head.
Carlow stopped. “Mr. Samuelson, you are under arrest. Drop the gun.”
“No! No! I won’t!” Samuelson yelled and tried to lever the gun again, but this time Carlow was next to him as the man completed the loading action.
“Give me the gun.” Carlow yanked it from him, pushing the barrel down and away from both of them. The new bullet slammed into the sidewalk at their feet.
Across the street, Dickersly had joined a nowstanding Bridgeport.
“That boy is pure guts,” the mayor said under his breath.
“Blimey, I’d say!”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Just outside of town, Tanneman Rose reined up beside his peddler wagon and the other wagon horse. The brown horse raised its head from grazing, acknowledged the appearance of its wagon mate and returned to eating. A small stream meandered through the narrow wash and continued on to its destiny. The location was perfect for leaving the wagon; anyone riding by on the main road wouldn’t see it.
An idea was forming in the former Ranger’s mind, one given birth by not knowing for certain whether or not Kileen was dead. The perfectionist in him was uncomfortable leaving Strickland with that uncertainty. He didn’t like leaving Time Carlow alive either. Second chances were difficult to come by. Especially when it came to killing Rangers. And especially those two.
By the time he swung down, he knew he was going back, as U.S. Deputy Marshal Jubal Winchell. Wouldn’t take much to get ready, he told himself. A badge from his costume trunk could be put on later. He switched to a flat-brimmed hat, in case someone had seen him from a distance earlier. His suit was fine, but he changed the silk cravat to a blue one. The belt gun at his waist was also fine. He added a knife and its sheath to the belt.
For the first time, he realized one of his fake eyebrows had fallen off. He cursed. That should never happen. Never. Forcing himself to be calm, he decided to switch from the thick mustache to a dark goatee and fake eyeglasses, and leave his natural eyebrows as they were. It took him several minutes longer than usual, as he rechecked the fake hair around his mouth to make certain the glue was holding properly.
While he waited for the glue to dry, he checked on his spider. At first it wasn’t moving, but the spider wiggled around after he shook the jar.
“Come on, Portland. You can do better than that,” he said. “I’m going in to kill Kileen. Who knows? He might show up as a spider, too. A big one.” He laughed long and loudly.
After switching his saddle to the second wagon horse, he decided to harness the first animal to the wagon. It would make his transformation into the peddler a littler quicker if necessary. Neither horse was the kind a lawman or an outlaw would ride. Longlegged, swift steeds were the preferred choice. He would buy another horse at the livery and explain that his regular horse had been shot from under him, coming from Fort Worth. Having an extra horse gave him options, if he needed them. It had worked before.
Before riding away, he remembered his saddle sheath was carrying the Sharps. A quick switch put a Winchester in his boot and the big gun was hidden in the wagon. He grinned. No one was as careful as he was. He touched his necklace under his shirt and chanted.
Two hours later, U.S. Deputy Marshal Jubal Winchell reined up at the Strickland Livery. He put on his badge just before stopping. There was no need to alert the town that another lawman had appeared, especially with a curious Time Carlow around.
A bald man with wide suspenders holding up his filthy pants looked up from sweeping.
“Can I he’p yuh?” Punky Elliott, the livery operator, asked, leaning on the broom. “Lawman, ain’t yuh?
”
Tanneman, as Winchell, swung down, shook his head and pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Lost my horse. Damn good one. Shot from under me. Coming from Fort Worth.” He brushed imaginary dust from his coat. “I’m U.S. Marshal Jubal Winchell. I’m in pursuit of Bobby Joe and Lifton McDorn. Brothers. They’re wanted for murder and train robbery. In Missouri.” He hitched up his gunbelt. “Been after them…for too damn long.” His voice was deep. Crusty. Authoritative. “Any strangers come into town today? Hard-looking boys. Well-armed.”
“Not that came through hyar,” Elliott explained. “ ‘Course, the stage came in a while back. Strangers there. All o’ them.”
Tanneman shook his head. “No. They’d be riding. Good horses.”
“Yeah, heard o’ them boys. Did they…ambush yuh?”
“Yeah. Guess I was lucky,” Tanneman said. “Bought this fella from a farmer nearby. Best he had.”
“Yeah. Farmers ain’t got need for fast hosses. Jes’ so they kin pull a wagon.”
Without any prompting, Elliott told him about the morning’s incident and the recent bank robbery. Tanneman asked if the town’s money had been secured yet. The operator spat a thick brown stream, cursed and said no, but he thought the Rangers would be helping to find it.
“Don’t believe in banks,” Elliott pronounced. “Keep my money in a secret place.”
“Good for you.” Rubbing his chin, Tanneman asked, “Rangers, you say?”
Elliott eagerly told about the two Rangers seeking the killer of a local rancher and helping to find and arrest the bank robber. He told about the lynching and the arrests that had followed. He said the big Ranger had been shot and taken to the hospital, but didn’t know the Ranger’s condition, except he’d heard he was still alive.
“Hmm, anybody see this shooter?” Tanneman asked, looking stern. “Sounds like something the McDorn brothers would do.”
“Not that I know of. Marshal Bridgeport might know somethin’. He an’ his deputies been real busy, though,” Elliott answered, shaking his head. “But that other Ranger, the young one, he’s goin’ after the shooter.”