Allen grabbed his chest and fell against the display case at his side. Tanneman glanced at the window. Nothing.
A third bullet made certain. Tanneman carried the body around to the back of the display so it wouldn’t be seen. Brushing his coat for unseen dust, he shoved the wrapped gun into his pocket and walked out. A few steps away, he remembered leaving his watch and returned to get it. Two women passed and he nodded and greeted them in German. In the alley, he removed the beard and old hat, replacing them with his goatee and derby.
After a leisurely supper, Tanneman reentered the hotel and went directly up the stairs. He had seen Judge Cline with three men at a table across the room. The restaurant had been humming with the discovery of the murdered watchmaker. No one could think why he would be killed. The clerk didn’t notice Tanneman’s arrival, as he was discussing something with two guests.
On the second floor, Tanneman found the shadows at the end of the hallway to his liking and waited for Judge Cline to return from supper. In his hand was a knife.
Just as the magistrate opened the door to his room, the ex-Ranger jumped him from behind and slit his throat. Judge Cline was dead before Tanneman dragged him into the hotel room, all the way to his bed, shutting the door behind them. Without lighting a lamp, he laid the body on a small floor rug and locked the door behind him as he left.
Quietly, he walked down the stairs to the clerk’s hideaway room. The bucktoothed man was snoring loudly. Tanneman shoved a mask, the powder-burned towel and bloody knife under the bed. Silently, Tanneman retreated from the room. He couldn’t resist a chuckle, then chastised himself for making noise.
Judge Cline’s body wasn’t found until the next morning when the maid went in to clean. His neck had been cut and the rug was crimson. San Antonio was panicked. Four murders in two days! Participants on both sides of the land fraud case were suspected and questioned.
After washing, shaving and dressing, Tanneman slipped out of his room and down the lobby stairs. The lobby was filled with worried guests. A weary-eyed Marshal Timble was talking to his three deputies. He was unshaven, his shirt was badly wrinkled and his vest was closed on the wrong buttons. The only thing that looked clean was the gun at his hip.
Tanneman was totally stimulated by the drama of this; the lawman had jailed him only a handful of days earlier. Could he pull this off? In his heart, he knew people saw what they expected to see. As far as Marshal Timble was concerned, Tanneman Rose was dead.
“I saw something…something bad at the Gleason,” Tanneman said, almost whispering, to the closest hotel customer. “I’m staying here. Couldn’t sleep last night, you know. Too much food. Too much whiskey.”
Nodding, the fat customer chuckled and pointed at himself.
Tanneman explained he saw the clerk take off a wooden mask just before he went into a room on the first floor.
“Looked like he had a knife in his hand. Not sure,” Tanneman continued. “Light wasn’t good. The mask was a weird-looking thing, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Not until I heard about Judge Cline’s death this morning—and the district attorney last night. Some man in a wooden mask, I was told. Awful. Just awful.”
“Oh my God! We should tell the peace officers. Oh my!” The fat man held both hands to his chubby face.
Tanneman frowned. “Good idea, but you’ll have to do it. I’m late for a meeting.”
“Certainly. Certainly. It’s my duty.”
After eating a fine breakfast of a medium-rare steak and two over-easy eggs at the Colonial restaurant, Tanneman rode quietly out of town. For a moment, he considered finding a way to ambush the marshal, but decided it was a foolish risk. Things had gone well. The town was mesmerized by the sudden arrest of the Hotel Gleason clerk. Gossip running through the town said he had been found with a mask, bloody knife and a towel with powder burns—and he would have had a key for the judge’s room.
Tanneman would stop and pick up all the hidden bank money from a cave not far from Portland’s place before heading to Mirabile’s ranch. Revenge. It was truly sweet, he told the spider jar sitting on the chair beside him in the restaurant. Carefully, he withdrew the folded list and crossed off four names.
Moving west, Tanneman Rose stayed on the main roads. However, he did stop at a farm to refill his supplies and, in the process, killed the farmer and his wife. Fresh buttermilk was a special treat afterward. He took it as a sign of providence. Buttermilk had been his favorite drink when he was a Persian shaman. He was certain of it.
Time Carlow cleared a low rise and saw the town of Bennett in the distance. He knew his real home was wherever his uncle was. Not here. This town had never wanted him. Or his mother. Or his friend. Looking back on it, he guessed his uncle had pressed to make Rangers out of Dornan and himself to place the two young fighters where he could keep an eye on them. He grinned at the thought. The town of Bennett must have been stunned to hear two of their Irish riffraff had become lawmen.
He passed the schoolhouse and noted it had recently been repainted. The clear voice of the teacher carried to his ears as he rode by. Carlow smiled. He and Shannon had definitely not been the teacher’s pets when they were in school. Entering town, every building called out with a story from yesterday. He passed a long street of false-fronted buildings with framed awnings and eight-foot-wide wooden sidewalks.
Little had changed, Carlow thought, since his last visit. He rode past the livery stable and waved at the operator, an old friend. He passed the dance hall. Two churches. Saw the hotel sported a new name, The Peabody. Then he nodded approvingly that the general merchandise store no longer declared it was Pickenson’s; the name over the storefront was Longworth’s. J. B. Pickenson was the crooked mayor Carlow had confronted during the Silver Mallow Gang war.
A freight wagon squeaked and groaned past him; the driver looked over twice at Chance, not believing his eyes the first time. A string of saloons blurred as Carlow continued to ride through. Only one caught his attention—the Corao. It looked even grayer than the last time he had seen it. He and his mother had lived upstairs for a few years; Kileen had gone to the war and then with the state police. Carlow never knew what his mother did to keep them from starving…until much later. It wasn’t something he wanted to remember.
He noted the Alamo Saloon was no longer the last building before open land resumed. Three more buildings had joined the parade. Carlow welcomed the return from yesterday. He passed a building with the sign over it that read: Wittlock & Carlson Land Attorneys and Real Estate Agents. That reminded him to tell them of the status of the Portland Rose ranch. He dared not look down the street to where he really wanted to be—Jacobs’s Millinery. That was where Ellie worked. Duty must come first, he reminded himself. He could barely contain himself, though. How great it would be to see her!
Many townsmen looked up; several recognized the young Ranger and smiled; several recognized him and didn’t. Irishmen were barely tolerated in this town—or any other. The gentry preferred blacks to Irish for domestic help. A stagecoach grumbled past and slammed to a stop at the telegraph and stage office.
The abrupt halt made Carlow notice the telegraph office. He eased his horse in that direction, pinning his badge in place on his coat lapel. Going into the small office, his Mexican spurs rippled on the floor as he entered. A grim telegraph operator looked up and held up his hand to indicate he was busy. Seeing the badge, he gave a tired smile and motioned that he was taking a message. In the corner, an acne-spotted teenager sat quietly; Carlow guessed he was working as the operator’s runner.
Carlow folded his arms. His message to Captain McNelly would be one of failure. They hadn’t found any stolen money. He winced. Sending that kind of message was not something he liked doing.
“May I help you, Ranger?” the operator said cheerily, after finishing with his just-received telegram.
“Need to send a wire.”
“Sure. Say, you’re not Carlow or Kileen, are you?”
Carlow nodded. “I’m the first one.”
“Thought so. There’s a message for you here somewhere. Came a few days ago.” The operator flipped through a stack of paper. “Oh yeah, here it is. It’s to both of you. From a Captain McNelly.”
Carlow accepted the paper and read:
TANNEMAN ROSE KILLED IN JAIL ESCAPE…STOP…DEPUTY KILLED IN ATTEMPT…STOP…ANOTHER DEPUTY FIRED FOR BEING DRUNK ON DUTY…STOP…ADVISE ABOUT STOLEN MONEY…STOP…MCNELLY
Tanneman Rose dead? That was hard to accept. The ex-Ranger was shrewd and tough. Had a local deputy killed him? Which one? Peter Gaggratte or Henry Stevenson? Which one had been fired for drinking? Carlow wanted to ask McNelly if the death had been thoroughly checked, but assumed it had or the captain wouldn’t have reported it that way. Kileen would be bothered by the news, he decided.
After sending a wire to McNelly about not finding the money, Carlow hurried to Jacobs’s Millinery. He reined up at the hitching rack and told Chance to remain with Shadow. At the last minute, he decided to leave his guns and unbuckled his heavy gunbelt, leaving the rig resting around his saddle horn. He grabbed the folded locket and his last letter and shoved them into his long coat pocket.
After checking his breath with a cupped hand, Carlow walked across the planked sidewalk, removed his hat and stepped inside. It took his eyes a second to adjust to the gray of the small store. It looked like it always had. Walls were decorated with drawings done by the late Mr. Jacobs.
Mrs. Jacobs saw him before he saw her. “Time Carlow! God Almighty, it is you. How are you, son?”
Smiling widely, the older woman jumped up from the chair where she was sewing and rushed over to greet him.
He was fond of the older Jewish woman; she had actually helped fight off the Silver Mallow Gang with a shotgun. Kileen had told him of her courage after the young Ranger had regained consciousness.
“Are you passing through, Ranger Carlow? Or on the trail of some more bad men?” she asked, stepping back from their short embrace.
Carlow smiled and told her what he and Kileen had been doing.
The older woman smiled widely and shook her head. “Time, I’m so proud of you. Mr. Jacobs, bless his soul, always said you would turn out good.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs. He was a special man, always nice to us, even when we were pretty wild.” He swallowed. “I was hoping to see Miss Beckham. Does she still work here?”
Blinking her eyes rapidly, the older woman glanced away for a moment, then returned her attention to Carlow’s smiling face. “Why, yes, she is. She’s in the back. Only Miss Beckham is now Mrs. Thomas Wittlock. Married, oh, about six months ago. A very nice wedding it was.” She started to touch Carlow’s arm, but her hand stopped halfway.
Married? Ellie was married? The news hit him like a bullet and he thought he was going to retch. He swallowed to hold back the bile. He wanted to run. Anywhere. How could he have been so stupid to think she was waiting for him? How could he think she wanted to marry
him?
Ellie came into the room, her attention on the blue dress in her hands. She lifted her gaze to inform Mrs. Jacobs that the dress was ready, but she saw Carlow and dropped the garment. Her gasp popped into the air; her hands went to her opened mouth.
Carlow bit his lower lip. “Good…afternoon…Ellie. It’s…good…to see you.”
The older woman rushed over, picked up the dress and said she needed to get something from the back. Both Carlow and Ellie watched her leave, delaying their next encounter as long as possible.
“Mrs. Jacobs told me. You’re married now,” Carlow said, fighting to control the emotional fireworks within him.
A tear escaped from her right eye.
“I sent you a letter. Over six months ago,” she mumbled. “I wanted you to know…why.” She licked her lips. “Thomas is a good man. Thomas Wittlock. He has an office here in town. Real estate and land. He’s good to me—and to Jeremiah.”
His face said he hadn’t gotten the letter.
Her gaze locked into his for a moment before dashing away. “Jeremiah needs a father, you know.” Her eyelids fluttered to hold back more tears. “And I was…lonely. So lonely.”
Carlow nodded, finding no words. His throat was jammed with angst.
“I wasn’t even sure you cared anymore—or were alive.” Her voice trembled, then found some strength. “You didn’t write me…for a long time.”
“It isn’t easy. To write,” Carlow managed to say, motioning with his hands. “When you’re on the trail of outlaws.” He held up his last letter and returned it to his pocket. “I brought my…last letter. Doesn’t matter much now, though.” He slammed on his hat.
Her fingers drew circles on the edge of Mrs. Jacobs’s table. Finally, Ellie explained that worrying about him, wondering where he was, what he was doing, if he was all right—all that had made her realize she wouldn’t be comfortable married to a lawman. The strain of anxiety would just be too much.
“I would’ve quit the Rangers.”
Ellie shook her head. “No. No. You couldn’t. You shouldn’t. Texas needs men like you—and your uncle.” She tried to smile and change the subject. “How is Old Thunder?”
“He’s fine.” Carlow shoved his hands into his coat pockets and his right touched the wrapped locket.
Withdrawing the small gift, he held it out to her. “Here…for you. A wedding present.”
Tentatively, she accepted it, slowly unfolded the cloth and studied the locket within. “It’s beautiful, Time,” she said softly, continuing to look at the jewelry. “But I can’t accept it.”
Carlow’s face was gray and the corner of his mouth trembled. “W-Why n-not?”
She refolded the material over the necklace and held it out for him. “You know why. It is a gift you should give to the woman you love.”
“I just did.”
The words jolted her fragile presence. She shivered, as if trying to shake them away. She started to hold the small presentation to her bosom, stopped and extended her hands again.
Carlow tried to regain his poise, but everything in him was shouting. He took back the package.
“I-I h-have…a gift for Jeremiah. In my gear,” Carlow said, not daring to look at her. “M-may I bring it in—so you can give it to him. Sometime. It’s a small knife in a beaded sheath. Comanche beadwork.”
Ellie’s shoulders shivered. “No, I don’t think so, Time.” She looked at him, trying to smile, but not achieving it. “He would love it. Especially from you. But it’s important right now that he not receive gifts from any man except his new…father.”
“Any man—or just me?”
“Please, Time. Please understand.”
Carlow folded his arms. “I do understand, Mrs. Wittlock. I really do.” Unfolding them, he touched the side brim of his hat with his right hand. “Good-bye. I truly hope you have…a wonderful life.”
Without waiting for her to respond, Carlow spun and headed for the door. He grabbed the handle, paused and spoke into the door. “Please tell Mrs. Jacobs, for me, that it was good to see her.” He pulled on the door and stepped outside.
After jamming the gift into his saddlebags, he yanked free the reins and swung into the saddle, without moving his guns. He directed his horse out the way they had come. Chance trotted beside horse and rider.
His mind was black. Black. Completely emptied of thought, memory or concern. His body was slowed with anguish and gradually his mind filled with thoughts driven by Ellie’s rejection. Dark thoughts. How could he have ever thought she was in love with him? Why had he been such a fool to think she would wait? He hated this town and it hated him. Bennett had taken his mother and his best friend. He would never come back.
As he rode past the Corao, something in him snapped. He swung the horse back toward the saloon, dismounted and flipped the reins around the hitching rack.
“I’m going to have a good-bye drink, boys. Last time I’ll see this town. Stay, Chance. With Shadow.” He took the gunbelt from his saddle horn and slung it over his shoulder as he headed for the saloon door.