Death Mask (19 page)

Carlow was uncertain how to respond. Of course, most criminals claimed their innocence. There was nothing new in that. But there was something in her voice, in the way she talked, that made him wonder.

“Well, Mrs. Waulken, how do you think they got there?”

She stared into his face with a quiet resolution about her. “
Der
man who did those awful things put them in our barn—to make
mein
husband
der
one
du
arrest.”

“I see.” Carlow wasn’t sure how else to respond. He was too tired to work at it. He didn’t even want to ask her about Tanneman Rose. Not now. Maybe in the morning. When he could reason clearly. It was probably just a dumb idea anyway, like his uncle thought.

“
Du
think about this,” Margareitte continued. “
Mein
husband
ist
afraid of horses. He does not ride
der
horse. Ever. He had
der
bad…ah, accident, as a boy. In
der
old country. Ah, Germany. He
nicht
ride since then. Only use
der
wagon. Like tonight.”

Before Carlow could respond, a weary Kileen came through the door.

“Ma’am, there be a place for ye to sleep now,” he said in his gentlest voice. “Blankets be there. No pillow, I be sorry to report, but I rolled up one o’ the blankets. Real tight an’ nice.”

Margareitte studied his craggy face, smiled thinly and accepted his held-out arm.

“
Danke,
” she murmured and looked back at Carlow. “Please to be remembering vhat I haff told
du. Ja
?”

Nodding politely, Carlow said, “I will, ma’am. I promise.”

“
Guten.
That vill bring
der
freedom to my Alben. I am certain.” Her smile was gentle, like that of a mother addressing her son.

With that, she disappeared inside the jail, holding on to Kileen’s arm.

Walking over to his horse, Carlow stroked the mount’s neck. His mind didn’t want to work, only to sleep. Was Waulken’s wife just making up an alibi? Who wouldn’t try to save a loved one? Or was someone behind this? Was that possible? Was it Tanneman Rose?

Chance jumped down from the wagon, bounded over and rubbed Carlow’s leg. The tired lawman leaned over and scratched the wolf-dog’s ears. “Yeah, it’s been a long day, my friend. A long day.” His hanging cross fell out of his shirt again and he pushed it back.

Kileen came out of the door. “Me lad, Marshal Bridgeport suggests we be sleeping here for what’s left of the morn. In another of the empty cells it be.” He motioned with his huge right hand. “Hisself says we can be leaving our hosses here—and the wagon. Take them to the livery we be—after we get up.”

“I was wondering if you and the marshal were going to leave the Waulkens alone?” Carlow asked. His shoulders rose and fell. “I’m not going to leave Shadow and Chance here on the street. Shadow deserves to be unsaddled and rubbed down. Some grain. Water, too. I’ll take him over the livery. I can sleep there, Thunder.”

“Oh. Well, if that be your choice.”

“It is.” Carlow studied his uncle. “An’ you will be sleeping with Margareitte Waulken.” A smile slipped onto his weary face.

His neck reddening, Kileen coughed and said angrily, “Ye be careful about your wordin’, me lad. Lark an’ me be guardin’ the prisoner.”

Carlow swung easily into the saddle. “Don’t let any birds inside.”

It was a tease about the superstition that a bird coming into a house was a sign of impending death.

“Don’t ye be jokin’ o’ such,” Kileen blurted. “Your sainted mither—God bless her sweet soul—herself not be likin’ such words from her only son.”

Leaning down, Carlow yanked free the reins of Kileen’s horse. “I’ll take your horse, too.” He straightened himself in the saddle. “Just kidding, Thunder. Didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Me knows ye didn’t, me son. A bit edgy I be,” Kileen said, almost in a whisper. “Thank ye for takin’ me hoss.”

Carlow swung his great horse away from the post, with the reins of Kileen’s horse in his left fist. His shoulders rose and fell, and then he told Shadow to stop.

“Ya know, Mrs. Waulken told me her husband was afraid of horses,” he said, suddenly feeling more tired than ever. “Never rides, except in a wagon. Like tonight.”

Kileen licked his lips, felt for the flask in his pocket, then dropped his hand to his side. “How did that bleemin’ gray—and the other stuff—be gettin’ into his barn?”

“Good question, Thunder. Wish I knew. Maybe Tanneman set this whole thing up. Think about that.” He nudged his horse into an easy trot, leading Kileen’s tall mount. A whistle to Chance brought the wolf-dog eagerly following.

The older Ranger watched his nephew ride away. He loved the young man as if he were his son, maybe more. Down deep, it pleased him Carlow wasn’t superstitious like he was. It reminded him of his sister, Time Carlow’s late mother. In their younger days together, in Ireland, she had always been scolding him about his irrational ways, then giving him a soft kiss on his cheek.

But the younger man’s comment about Waulken churned his exhausted mind. Something about this arrest wasn’t right. Or maybe it was too right and he was just too tired. He wiped his nose with his coat sleeve and headed toward the jail. The earliest blush of dawn was flirting with the town. Somewhere an owl hooted and Kileen shivered.

It was barely past nine when Aaron Kileen came lumbering into the livery, yelling for Time Carlow to wake up.

“Wake up, me lad! Wake up. There be trouble at the jail,” he shouted as he hurried toward the bed of hay where the young Ranger lay sleeping. Chance was sprawled out next to him.

“What time is it?” Carlow asked, stretching his arms and yawning. His wolf-dog was immediately on all fours, watching the young Ranger for his next movement.

“ ‘Tis late enough. A lynch mob be gatherin’ outside the jail,” Kileen said. His suit and shirt were more wrinkled than usual, from sleeping on the marshal’s office floor. “Marshal Bridgeport be alone. Hisself an’ his bleemin’ shotgun.”

“Won’t charge yah for the night. Just for the day,” the livery man shouted from another part of the stable, as he tossed a pitchfork of hay into an empty stall.

“Thanks. Appreciate that.” Carlow stood up, brushed himself off and buckled on his gun belt. He glanced at Shadow quietly eating from a bucket of oats; Kileen’s horse was similarly occupied. “Stay here, Chance,” he said, then remembered the wolf-dog hadn’t eaten since gobbling a stick of beef jerky near the Waulken farm.

“Wait a minute, Thunder.”

Pushing his hat on his head, Carlow hurried to his saddlebags, still tied to his saddle resting on the stall fence. Retrieving two big pieces of jerky from one bag, he tossed them to the appreciative animal. For the first time, Carlow noticed his uncle was carrying a shotgun, one of Marshal Bridgeport’s.

“Should I get my Sharps?” Carlow asked, waving toward his saddle resting over the stall where Shadow stood.

“No. Let’s go.”

“Give my dog some water, will you?” he yelled as he turned toward the livery door.

“Is he a wolf?” the livery man shouted back.

“Not today.”

“Hurry, me lad,” Kileen yelled as he exited the livery, waving the shotgun.

Running to catch up, Carlow’s concern about the innocence of Alben Waulken pushed its way into his just-awakening mind. Drawing the sawed-off carbine as he hurried, the same questions bounced again into his thoughts.

What if somebody truly had set up the German farmer, leaving all that incriminating evidence? Certainly a recluse like Waulken was an easy target. No one in town would likely speak for him. How could they prove—or disprove—Margareitte’s claim that her husband was afraid of horses? What if they tried to force the German immigrant to ride a horse? What if he refused?

Coming alongside his hard-breathing uncle, Carlow said, “Thunder, I think Alben Waulken might be an innocent man. Tanneman’s behind all this. He has to be. We’ve got to check out his attempt to escape from prison. I’m betting he faked his death somehow. I don’t believe there is any gang. I know I keep saying it, but it’s true. I know it.”

“Aye. Be leanin’…the same way meself.” Kileen tried to smile and talk between gulping for air. “But right now…stoppin’ these folks…we must be doin’.”

Down the street they ran, with Carlow easily outdistancing his out-of-breath uncle. He wasn’t certain if Kileen’s remarks meant he was beginning to think Waulken was innocent or that Tanneman was alive. Right now, neither mattered.

In front of the jail, an angry gathering was taking on a life of its own. Furious men yelled at Marshal Bridgeport to bring out Waulken. Their demand was a fierce litany in the gray morning. A few weapons were raised in the air for emphasis. The town itself was awakening to the uproar. Those watching safely from windows and doorways silently approved of the crowd’s desire—or, if not, were afraid to speak out.

Neither Ranger saw a bay horse tied in the alley across the street from the jailhouse. No one noticed a man lying on the flat roof of the two-story J. A. Mosedain Dry Goods and Clothing building next to the alley. In his hands was a Sharps carbine. The barrel moved from Carlow to Kileen and back again. Lying beside him on the roof was a wooden mask.

The younger Ranger was moving too fast to be a good target; Tanneman knew he would have only one chance for now. Kileen would be the better choice. He smiled. How fitting, to kill the one man who believed his stories of reincarnation.

Below the barely visible nose of the gun was a sign proclaiming the name of the establishment, as well as additional information: Dressmaking a specialty…Hats and Caps and Boots and Shoes.

“Break this up! Go home. Alben Waulken is an innocent man,” Carlow yelled as he burst into the crowd and shoved his way through to the door, swinging his hand carbine to emphasize the order. He wasn’t certain about the latter statement; it just came out.

“
You
go home, Mick. We want our money. If that German bastard doesn’t tell us where it’s hidden right now…we’re gonna hang his ass.” The voice came from somewhere in the middle of the crowd, emboldened by anonymity.

Others joined the challenge, making certain, however, they weren’t close to the advancing Ranger. Carlow joined Bridgeport, standing with a double-barreled shotgun, in front of the closed jail door. The young Ranger nodded his support, levered his gun into readiness and pushed two townsmen back with his free hand.

“Jolly well good to ‘ave you with me, son,” Bridgeport said.

Carlow ignored the slight. It was different when Kileen called him son. Waving his gun, Carlow yelled a fierce command that had the men looking at each other for a decision.

Kileen reached the outer edges of the mob and took a deep breath to reclaim the wind lost in his hurrying. He bent over with his hands on his knees to ease the aching loss. As he bowed, a heavy shot rang out, startling the mob into absolute silence.

Kileen half spun, straightened and fell facedown in the street.

Hearing the shot, Carlow saw his uncle fall and yelled, “Oh no!”

Frantically, he pushed and shoved his way back to the downed big Ranger. “Oh no, Thunder…Thunder…Uncle…Father…”

A tall man in overalls stepped into Carlow’s furious path and Carlow shoved him away and kept on going. Only the closeness of others kept the man on his feet. His reddened face looked after Carlow for only a moment, and then he joined the reinvigorated throng.

In the doorway of the jail, Bridgeport yelled a command of his own, but the rush of emboldened men took his words away. The British lawman was slammed to the sidewalk and his shotgun kicked aside. The door itself followed, bursting open from the furious charge. Margareitte Waulken screamed, threw open her cell and tried to stop them.

Someone slugged her and she went down.

In moments, the keys were found and Alben Waulken was dragged from his cell, shouting his innocence.

Kneeling beside Kileen, Carlow couldn’t remember running back to his uncle. He wasn’t aware of the fierce bolt of the mob into the jail. All he cared about was his beloved uncle, lying facedown with a pool of blood growing around him. Crimson fingers reached out to find Kileen’s dropped shotgun, Carlow’s hand carbine lying beside him and his nephew’s Kiowa legging where he knelt.

The young Ranger managed to turn over his wounded uncle, studying the large black hole in his right shoulder. Blood was everywhere. Carlow ripped off his own neckerchief and pressed the wad of cloth against the ugly wound.

“F-forgot…t-to tap me sh-shotgun…t-three times, me lad,” Kileen stammered.

Carlow bit his lower lip and continued to press against the wound. At his side was a worried Chance, nuzzling his leg for reassurance. The wolf-dog had bolted from the barn when he heard the gunfire. Carlow seemed unaware of him. Or of anything.

“A Ranger’s dog…he be,” Kileen muttered. “Came to…the sound…o’ the gun.”

Carlow realized the beast was beside him and rubbed Chance’s ears. “Good boy, Chance. Good boy.” It helped steady his nerves.

Across the street, Tanneman Rose reloaded and aimed, this time at Carlow.

“Damn that wolf! Get out of the way!” he cursed as Chance stood next to the young Ranger, blocking him from Tanneman’s view. For an instant, he considered shooting the dog, reloading and trying for Carlow. His heavy slug would likely go through the animal anyway, wounding Carlow, too.

He remembered the young Ranger being quite fond of the beast; shooting him now would bring a wild Carlow into battle, in full rage. Tanneman didn’t like that idea. Carlow in a gunfight was not something to bring on oneself. He had seen it.

“He’s almost as good as me,” Tanneman murmured. “I’ll wait.”

A minute passed without the wolf-dog moving enough to give him a good shot. Finally he decided it was too risky to wait any longer. Someone would see him if he did, and getting down would be difficult. He could get another shot off; that wasn’t the problem. Getting away was. He caressed the jaguar teeth necklace under his clothes and muttered something he considered to be Persian.

He wasn’t certain that Kileen was dead, but if he weren’t, he wouldn’t be alive long. Tanneman crawled back across the flat roof of the building, jumped to the rickety stairway balcony and climbed down the back stairs. He left the mask where it lay. The alley remained as empty as before.

His disguise was one he had used already—a businessman in a three-piece gray suit and a matching bowler. Heavy eyebrows and a thick mustache completed his look.

Waiting for him was the bay horse from his wagon. He shoved the big gun into its saddle scabbard and rode around the backside of the building. He passed two more buildings, then eased into the main street. The mob was in front of him, dragging the struggling German farmer, now with his hands tied behind him.

Tanneman grinned at the effect his Waulken disguise had created, then kicked his horse into a lope. The peddler wagon and the other horse were waiting for him, hidden in a narrow ravine, not far from town.

Kileen placed a wobbly hand on Carlow’s arm. “M-me son, the wee things p-pulled me over—or me w-would be gone to the other world.” He let go and tried to regain his breath. His eyes fluttered and closed for a moment.

Maybe Kileen was right. Maybe he did have invisible helpers protecting him. Somehow Carlow had never wanted to challenge the idea by thinking about it too much. There were things a person didn’t understand in this world, especially those of the spirit. Certainly he had seen happenings that couldn’t be explained by anything that made any sense, at least not to him. Maybe it was smart to be a little superstitious. Kileen had said this feeling came from seeing miracles that occurred in everyday life and not recognizing them as miracles. Maybe so.

Trying to calm down, Carlow told himself Kileen’s wound was bad, but not fatal. Seeing the first part of neckerchief fill with blood, he took another section and repeated the attempt. He wasn’t sure, but thought the bleeding was beginning to slow. Maybe he was seeing something he badly wanted to see.

Kileen’s eyes fluttered open again, and the big Ranger said in a halting voice, “ ‘Twas a…b-big gun, me lad. A S-Sharps. Like Rangers b-be carryin’. H-had to come f-from…across the street. H-high, it be. A r-roof, me lad. A r-roof.”

Carlow shook his head. How like his uncle to ever be the lawman. He glanced at the buildings across the street. He saw nothing, except townspeople gathering to wonder. But he was certain Tanneman Rose had struck again. Why hadn’t he seen this coming?

“W-where be M-Marshal B-Bridgeport?” Kileen stuttered.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Carlow answered.

Kileen’s face became a frown. “No, m-me lad. You be a R-Ranger. First, ye m-must see to our prisoner. We must…b-be provin’ him innocent. I be thinkin’ yourself be right…about Tanneman. Comin’ after us from the grave he be.”

“No, Thunder. He’s alive. He’s got to be. I think he shot you.”

From the doorway came a distraught Margareitte Waulken, waving Bridgeport’s shotgun. The side of her pale face was red and swelling; her gray hair had found freedom from her usual tight combing and bounced on her shoulders.

The British lawman was barely conscious, shaking his head and trying to stand.

“Ranger…Ranger…they haff taken
mein
husband.” Margareitte staggered out of the jail. “Please…please…help us.” She ran past them into the main street.

“G-go, me lad. H-help her. I be…all right.” Kileen held up his hand to Carlow.

As the situation registered for the first time, Carlow looked around, saw no mob and realized what had happened. His mind clearing, he grabbed his hand carbine and stood. Glancing at his uncle, who shooed him away, Carlow began to run. In a few strides he passed the sobbing Margareitte.

Just beyond the last building, an ice cream parlor at the commercial end of town, was a cluster of trees. A black silhouette dangled from a rope tied to the closest cottonwood.

Alben Waulken! The mob had lynched him!

Fear took his legs even faster. He grabbed Waulken’s legs and lifted his body with one strong arm, firing his hand carbine twice at the hanging rope near the branch. The second shot clipped the rope and the body fell into his arms. He couldn’t hold it and Waulken’s body crumpled to the ground.

It was obvious the German was dead. His face was blue, his pants stained with the release of his bowels.

Carlow stood over the body, unable to think or act.

Sobbing, Margareitte caught up, dropped to her knees and cradled Waulken’s head against her chest. She rocked and wailed.

Carlow muttered more to himself than to her, “He was innocent. They must pay for this. He was innocent.”