Death Mask (22 page)

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 telegram, 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.

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.”

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!”