Death Mask (11 page)

Every man in the smoke-stale saloon turned to look as the young Ranger stepped inside. Bad memories of growing up here lurked in every corner of the large room, ready to rush at him. The place had changed since he had been in it as a kid. Certainly it looked a lot smaller.

He knew most of the men—and yet knew none of them. Not really. He reminded himself that few would consider him a friend. Most would be happier if he weren’t there—the saloon or in the town. For an instant, he wanted to run. For another, he wanted to shoot at the large mirror behind the long bar. But he did neither, forcing himself to keep walking.

A new Corao owner had placed the emphasis on gambling. Two faro tables, a large roulette wheel and a cluster of card tables controlled the main area. All were filled with customers. Card games occupied three other tables. A pool table was also busy, as was the bar itself. Painted women served drinks and offered other services upstairs.

A loud victory cheer roared from a square-faced businessman playing cards at the closest table. The bearded man in a flat-brimmed hat next to him said to shut up and deal.

“Hey, Mick, who yah after this time? Got us a new mayor. You can have him, though. He’s no good,” the businessman yelled and looked at his table companions for approval.

Chuckles supported his claim.

Next to him, the bearded man added his own salutation. “Yeah, get rid of Longworth for me, will ya? I’d like to own that general store.” He slapped the back of the man to his left.

Nervous snickers mixed with an occasional guffaw, but Carlow paid no attention as he walked to the bar. Two men saw him coming and left, leaving a wide space. He eased next to the bar and laid his heavy gunbelt on it. The blond-haired bartender pushed his spectacles into place and moved toward him.

Pushing his tongue against the side of his mouth, the bartender asked, “Should I put your guns…with the others, sir?”

“That’s the law, isn’t it?” Carlow growled. But the last time he had given up his guns in a saloon, it had proven a dangerous step. State lawmen were exempt from any local ordinance concerning weapons anyway. Giving up his guns was an idea he had gotten from Kileen, simply to show a town courtesy. He still liked it in spite of the risk.

“Whiskey. Irish, if you’ve got it.” Carlow motioned toward the underside of the bar and laid down a coin.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” The bartender carried away the gunbelt as if the guns might jump at him at any moment.

Swallowing his nervousness, the bartender returned with the requested whiskey and a glass. He popped the cork from the bottle and poured. “It’s our best, sir. Finest Irish.”

Carlow laid down a second coin and asked the bartender for another glass. “Join me, will you, in a toast to Bennett—and yesterday.”

“Gladly, sir.”

The bartender poured himself a drink. Carlow mumbled something in Irish and held out his glass to clink with the bartender’s.

“To Bennett, Texas. May she always shine,” Carlow said.

“To Bennett, Texas.”

Smiling, the bartender downed his glass and said, “How about another, Ranger? This one’s on the house.”

“Thanks. Then I’d better be going. Got a long ride ahead of me.”

At the far end of the bar, a well-dressed man in a tweed suit and narrow-brimmed hat asked his friend, “Who is that? Don’t remember seeing him around.”

The thick-mustached friend pulled on his ear and explained the situation, adding, “You weren’t here then.”

“Guess not.”

Next to them, a cowboy yanked his hat harder onto his head, gulped the rest of his beer and said quietly, “I’d walk real careful ‘round that fella. He’s the one got Silver Mallow. By himself. Over in Presidio, it was.” He examined the empty mug, as if expecting it to somehow be refilled. “His uncle is a Ranger, too. Big fella. Nobody messes with him neither.” He wiped his hand across his mustache. “Pretty sure he killed eight Mallow Gang owlhoots while they were in the jail. Our jail. Yeah, eight. That was after the gang shot up the three other Rangers guarding them. He was one of ‘em. A night from Hell it was, yes sir. Proud to say I helped the big Ranger drive those bastards out of town.”

He ran his forefinger around the rim of his empty mug, hoping his tale would bring the offer of a refill from the listeners. “Didn’t have anything to do with the killing of those in jail, though.”

From the northern corner of the saloon, a big cattleman named Connor Atkins stood and walked toward Carlow. His hard face was twisted by hate and reinforced by whiskey. A full beard hid most of his pockmarked face and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face. His wide shoulders and heavy arms spoke of a man used to having his own way. Atkins’s eyebrows argued with each other. Both fists were clenched and held at his sides.

Unaware of the advancing man, the young Ranger sipped his whiskey, letting its heat drive away some of the agony of Ellie’s rejection. It hurt as badly as anything he could ever remember. But the hard-nosed discipline built into him would not let the false sense of the liquor lull him into more of it. He would check with the telegraph operator to see if new orders had arrived, then ride out and make camp somewhere. He would head for Angel’s in the morning. If Kileen and Angel wanted to spend more time together, he would ride on. Somewhere.

A heavy hand gripped Carlow’s right shoulder.

“What’d you come back for, Carlow?” Atkins demanded, his dark eyes reddened by the smoke of the saloon and hours of drinking.

Without turning, Carlow replied, “Heard the Corao had good Irish whiskey. Who wants to know?”

The grip tightened.

“I want to know. The Roses are my cousins. Heard tell you boys shot ‘em all down in San Antone,” Atkins snarled; his thick eyebrows collided in the middle of his forehead.

“News about outlaws travels fast,” Carlow said without turning around.

“An’ Thomas Wittlock is my friend.”

“I’m sure he appreciates that. Whoever he is,” Carlow said, taking another sip of his drink.

“Turn around an’ look at me, dammit,” Atkins said, pulling on Carlow’s shoulder. “You can’t come waltzing into this town and try to steal his wife.”

Carlow finished his drink and set it down on the bar. “Go back with your friends, mister. It’s been a long day and I don’t have any interest talking about things I don’t know anything about.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“Didn’t call you anything,” Carlow said.

Atkins yanked Carlow backward, spilling him onto the floor. Carlow’s head hit the floor and stunned him. The big man swung a heavy boot at Carlow’s unmoving head. Blinking away the daze, the young Ranger grabbed the man’s lunging boot with both hands and shoved it upward.

Jolted off balance, Atkins thudded to the floor, his hat flying toward Carlow.

The young Ranger gathered himself and knelt, trying to shake off the rest of the dizziness seeking control of his head. There wasn’t much time, as the bigger man was surprisingly agile and already rising to his feet. Carlow lurched forward and upward from his kneeling position, unleashing a ramrod blow into Atkins’s face with the top of his head. The big man’s nose crunched and blood splattered on both of them.

Someone grabbed Carlow from behind as he stood. Instinctively, Carlow slipped out from under the grasp, spun and slammed his left fist deep into the stomach of the surprised, bald-headed cowboy in a floppy hat. A right jab to the same area was a blur. The second adversary staggered, grabbing his midsection for breath that wouldn’t come. Carlow followed with a left uppercut to the man’s jaw that snapped his head backward.

Flailing his arms, the cowboy reeled. Carlow drove his right fist into the cowboy’s stomach. The cowboy’s legs wobbled and he toppled over, face-first.

A savage blow to the side of Carlow’s head staggered him. A third man, a stocky, thick-chested cowboy, followed his sneak attack with another blow that pounded the left side of the Ranger’s face. Carlow swung wildly, not striking anything, but it bought him a few seconds to clear his head. The stocky man came at him again, fully cocking his arm and intending to knock the Ranger out.

Sudden fear rattled through Carlow. This wasn’t some attempt to run him out of town; these men intended to maim or kill him. Recovered, Carlow pushed the blow away with his right arm and delivered a powerful left cross to the cowboy’s unprotected chin, followed by a devastating right hook to the same area. A tooth flew from the man’s mouth, followed by spurts of blood. The stocky cowboy went down like he had been dropped by a buffalo gun.

Atkins was back on his feet, pushing away the baldheaded cowboy still holding his stomach with both hands. The saloon was tensely quiet, except for a drunken businessman who kept yelling, “Kill the Mick bastard!”

Carlow’s left eye was already swollen and nearly shut. His eyebrow was split and bleeding. He turned to face Atkins and knew he could not go down, no matter how many came at him. To do so meant permanent damage. A kick could blind him. Or break his back.

Confident, Atkins strutted toward Carlow. “Gonna make you sorry you ever came back to Bennett, you Mick sonovabitch,” the big man roared. “You’re gonna find out what happens to men who come to town and try to steal our women.”

“Well, partner, you obviously have me confused with somebody else,” Carlow snapped, “but go ahead. I’m looking at you this time. Your two friends have already tried.”

As Atkins began a roundhouse swing, Carlow drove his boot into the big man’s groin. The pain exploded through him like a lightning bolt. Atkins leaned over to try to ease it and Carlow clubbed him in the back of the neck with his fists doubled together.

Atkins grunted and collapsed, slamming against the floor of the saloon. His head bobbed and was still.

Carlow spun toward the bald-headed cowboy, who shivered and raised his hands in front of himself. His mouth was red and full.

“P-please…no more. No more,” he muttered, waving away his intention to continue the fight, then moving his hands back to the ache in his stomach.

Carlow turned toward the second cowboy, being helped to his feet by two customers. The cowboy was too groggy to stand; his legs wobbled and he sat back down, his head bouncing against his chest.

“Get up, you bastard. What’s the matter? Don’t you like to fight a man who’s facing you?” Carlow snarled and looked up at the two would-be helpful customers. “Maybe one of you would like to step in? Or both. Come on, all of you. Come on.” He wiped away the blood from the cut over his eye, trying to manage its flow away from his eyesight. His uncle had long ago taught him the art of boxing and it had kept him safe more than once. But Ellie’s rejection reentered his thoughts and made him even angrier.

Bursting through the saloon doors came Mrs. Jacobs, holding her shotgun. Her flinty gaze took in the scene and a small smile followed.

“What are you doing in here, ol’ lady?” a voice challenged.

“Yeah. You shouldn’t be in here.”

The rest of the saloon was silent. Her reputation with a shotgun was well known.

Mrs. Jacobs straightened. “Ranger Carlow, are you all right? I see three men can’t take a Ranger.” Her smile became a grin.

“I’m fine,” Carlow said, glancing at his raw and bleeding knuckles, then touching the side of his face.

“Figured you were. I appreciate you comin’ by to see me earlier,” Mrs. Jacobs continued. “A friend came and said you were being attacked by this fool Atkins and two of his thugs. That’s all Bennett needs. More foolishness.” She looked around the room. “On behalf of the town, please let me apologize for their behavior.” Her eyes stopped on a councilman.

“Yes, dear Mrs. Jacobs, you are right,” the councilman said, standing slowly. “Ranger, we respect what you Rangers do for Texas—for us. Thank you. Thank you very much.” He motioned toward the awakening Atkins. “I believe Marshal Ballis should handle this from here.”

Carlow looked over at the bartender and motioned for his gunbelt. “That’s not necessary. I won’t be pressing charges.” He accepted his weapons from the whitefaced bartender. “It’s clear Bennett doesn’t like Irish Rangers—and I will oblige the town by leaving.” He turned to Mrs. Jacobs and thanked her for caring.

She smiled and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Time. Ellie should have waited.” She patted him on the arm and added, “Bennett is proud of you.”

As he belted on his gunbelt, an acne-spotted young man came into the saloon and stopped. He was surprised at the scene. Finding his voice, he declared, “Ah, Ranger Time Carlow, sir.”

“Yes?”

“I have a telegram for you. Just came in. From Captain McNelly.”

Carlow wasn’t surprised. McNelly tried to keep his men informed. The operator assistant worked his way through the tables and handed the folded wire to the Ranger. Carlow thanked him and tipped him a coin. The saloon was gradually returning to its normal state. Atkins was helped to a chair; his two henchmen were largely ignored.

Staring at the young Ranger, the telegraph runner hesitated, then said, “Y-you’re bleeding, sir. Around your eye. It’s…swollen…sir.” He glanced around. “Are you all right, s-sir?”

“I’ll be better when I leave this town,” Carlow snapped, looked at the assistant, and said, “That’s not correct. Bennett is a fine town. I grew up here.”

“I-I know that. Y-you’re a l-legend around here.”

Carlow smiled and the assistant hurried out.

Opening the paper, Carlow read:

RANGERS KILEEN AND CARLOW…STOP…PROCEED AT ONCE TO MIRABILE RANCH…STOP…MAKE HIM A RANGER AND RIDE FOR SAN ANTONIO…STOP…JUST GOT HERE WITH FORCE…STOP…RANGER DECONER JUDGE CLINE PROSECUTOR JOHNSON KILLED HERE…STOP…ROSE JURYMAN KILLED…ONE KILLER IN WOOD MASK ARRESTED SO FAR…STOP…LIKELY ROSE GANG GOING AFTER MEN CONNECTED TO HIS ARREST…STOP…FARMER AND WIFE KILLED OUTSIDE OF TOWN…STOP…DO NOT KNOW IF RELATED…STOP…EXPECT MORE GANG TROUBLE…STOP…WATCH YOURSELVES…STOP…MCNELLY.

After staring at the paper, Carlow returned it to his coat pocket and stepped outside. Behind him, the chatter was reinvigorated as customers gathered around the three striken men, each with a version of what had just happened. Mrs. Jacobs was a step behind.