Carlow didn’t respond for several steps. Finally he said, “After I check on Thunder and wire the captain, I’ll be riding out. To find the man who tried to kill him—and who murdered Mirabile. To find Tanneman Rose.”
“Following horse tracks that’ll join hundreds? Where’s that get you, lad?”
“Like I said, it’s a direction.”
Bridgeport thought about saying he was going to wire Ranger headquarters for a change in the young man’s orders, but didn’t. He wondered if the young man at his side would be effective without his famed older partner. Looking back, he saw the wolflike beast trailing them. What kind of man traveled with such an animal? Maybe Bridgeport had underestimated the youthful lawman. He chuckled to himself. The animal was probably keeping people from getting closer, or from bothering him with questions, mostly about the bank’s money, that he couldn’t answer.
The idea of having to arrest certain townsmen for the lynching was settling into his mind. Really settling. Some of the town’s top businessmen had been involved. His first step would be to see Judge DeVere and get warrants for the multiple arrests. Eight names he could remember for certain. There were more, however. The arrests would trigger more names, of that he was certain. He thought there had been fourteen in the mob. Fourteen.
The matter was going to get more complicated. Bridgeport wasn’t certain what judge would come to town to handle the case; Judge Cline was, of course, dead. He didn’t think the governor had yet appointed a new one for the district. Or a district attorney, for that matter. None of that was going to bring back Alben Waulken—or the town’s money. He would be criticized for his misplaced attention. Maybe lose his job. Maybe he should leave the mess well enough alone. Some candy would be nice, Bridgeport thought. Chocolate drops, perhaps.
“Mrs. Waulken, Marshal Bridgeport and I want to apologize for this awful tragedy,” Carlow said softly to the distraught Margareitte Waulken, removing his hat as the two lawmen reached her.
“
Nein. Ist
too late.” She looked up, her face stained with tears.
“Ma’am, the city will be paying for the burial and services,” Bridgeport said, taking off his own hat. “And a fine tombstone. Granite, it will be.”
She stared at him.
“Bloody run over, we were,” Bridgeport mumbled and looked down at the hat held in both hands. “Didn’t ’ave a chance against so many.”
She continued to stare at him. Only her lower lip moved, quavering.
His shoulders twitching nervously, the marshal told her about the cowboy coming in and telling of Waulken’s whereabouts during the bank robbery. He pointed out that it had happened after the lynch mob had taken the German farmer away.
It didn’t look like she was going to speak, but finally she said, “Var
ist der
big Ranger?”
Carlow answered first. “He is wounded, ma’am. In the hospital. Hit bad. Sharps carbine from across the street. Lost a lot of blood. I haven’t caught the shooter. Yet. I’m sure he’s the man who set up…your husband.”
She grimaced and shook her head before slowly standing. Carlow hurried to help her up.
“
Danke.
” She looked hard into Carlow’s eyes. “So vat
ist
your thinking now? About
mein
husband.”
“He was an innocent man, set up to look guilty. I know who did it. I will find him and bring him to justice. I promise.”
She lowered her eyes. “Does
nicht
matter now. My Alben
ist
gone.”
Fiddling with his hat, Carlow studied her agonized face. “Marshal Bridgeport will be arresting those involved in this.”
“Vill
du
be helping with
der
arrests?”
Breath pushed its way through Carlow’s closed jaw. His short night of sleep felt even shorter, and he repeated himself. “I’m going after the man who shot…Ranger Kileen. He’s the one who…”
“
Der
Marshal vill need your strength,” she interrupted. There was something different in her eyes.
The young Ranger didn’t know how to respond. He looked down at his leggings, then his boots, then away. After all, it had been his actions—and Kileen’s—that had contributed to Waulken’s arrest.
“You’re right, Mrs. Waulken.” Carlow was surprised at his own words. “If the marshal wants my help, he has it.”
His eyebrows saluting, the British lawman wrapped an arm around Carlow’s shoulder. “Jolly wot! ‘Twould be proud to ‘ave you with me, son.” A wide smile popped onto his face.
Down the street came Deputy Payne, a short, stocky man with a soiled apron and two Chinese men in Oriental workwear. Bridgeport quickly introduced the short man as Wilson Gibbs. The undertaker mumbled something that Carlow took to be an introduction of his helpers. He nodded to both and they returned the greeting with deep bows. Margareitte declined Bridgeport’s offer of breakfast, but accepted his invitation to stay at Delvin’s boardinghouse for women. Carlow said he would catch up with the local lawmen after wiring Captain McNelly and then visiting Kileen.
It surprised him when Margareitte told him, in parting, that she would be praying for Kileen. He thanked her and left as Bridgeport solemnly escorted the German widow away. As ordered, Deputy Payne stayed with the undertaker and his helpers.
From the shadows of a nearby building, a man watched and wrote in his small notebook.
A wire was waiting for Carlow when he entered the cramped telegraph office wedged into the corner of the town’s lumber store. The wire was from Captain McNelly. That didn’t surprise him. It was typical of his leadership.
The message did. McNelly had been as suspicious of the reported escape death of Tanneman Rose as Carlow had become.
While the telegraph operator watched silently, Carlow read the lengthy telegram.
ALERT TO KILEEN AND CARLOW…STOP…BELIEVE TANNEMAN ROSE ALIVE AND RESPONSIBLE FOR KILLINGS IN SAN ANTONIO…STOP…FOLLOW-UP ON DEATH REPORT REVEALS LIKELY ESCAPE…STOP…FACE OF MAN IDENTIFIED AS TANNEMAN BURNED AWAY…STOP…FELL IN CAMPFIRE…NO RECOGNITION POSSIBLE…STOP…ONLY HIS NECKLACE FOR PROOF…LOOKS LIKE CAREFUL SETUP…STOP…BELIEVE DEAD GUARD BRIBED THEN KILLED…REAL DEAD PERSON LIKELY FARMER WHO DISAPPEARED SAME NIGHT…STOP…DO NOT BELIEVE THERE IS A GANG…STOP…ARRESTED MAN FOR MURDERS OF JUDGE AND OTHERS LIKELY INNOCENT…STOP…WATCH YOURSELVES…STOP…ADVISE OF SITUATION…STOP…MCNELLY.
“That’s the longest one I’ve gotten since them Injuns killed Custer. Way up north,” the operator observed. He wanted to ask about the wire, but knew he shouldn’t.
Carlow looked at him, saying nothing.
“Is everything all right, R-Ranger? I-I heard the b-big Ranger got shot. He gonna make it?” the operator asked. He wasn’t sure why he was frightened, but he was. Something in the young Ranger’s eyes.
“Ah…sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, sir,” Carlow finally said. “What did you say?”
“It was n-nothing. Just made a comment about the day. That’s all.”
Carlow wrote out the message he wanted sent to McNelly, placed a coin on the table and left for the hospital.
Bright shards of late-morning light cut through the tiny hospital room where Kileen lay. Originally a fine home built by a wealthy lumberman, the building hadn’t changed much since wounded soldiers, on both sides, had been treated within its walls during the War of Northern Aggression. The smell was unmistakable—an odor of death, medicine and stale air. Carlow hated it. It reminded him of his near-death wounds two years earlier, when his best friend had died in that terrible gunfight in Webster.
Carlow studied his uncle, looking for signs that the big man was, indeed, sleeping and not dead. Kileen’s breathing was shallow and the agile Ranger slipped beside him to check his pulse. It was there. The young Ranger shut his eyes and prayed silently.
The big man stirred; his eyelids fluttered and he was awake.
“Hi, Unc. How are they treating you?” Carlow said, as confidently as he could muster.
“Holy mither of Mary…me be…hurting, son. But shot before meself has been,” Kileen muttered, barely more than a whisper. “What be happening…to our prisoner?”
Carlow explained and the older Ranger shut his eyes for a moment and groaned. Carlow told about the cowboy witness and the big man’s shoulders rose and fell.
“Bridgeport asked me to help him arrest the lynch mob,” Carlow said reluctantly. “Actually Mrs. Waulken did the first asking.”
“Good, me son. Good. This ye…should be doin’. We were a party to his arrest, aye, we were,” Kileen said. “Afterward, ye can wire…the good Captain. Tell hisself what has happened…and ask for…some more Rangers…to go after the…Rose Gang.”
It wasn’t the time to tell him about McNelly’s wire. Or that the captain was certain Tanneman Rose had escaped and was behind these murders. That could come later. The news would only worry his uncle.
“May I help you,
señor
?”
The question startled Carlow and he looked up to see a woman with bright brown eyes and an easy smile. Her black hair was bound by a nurse’s cap and her figure was covered in a light gray dress and white apron.
She was Mexican. She was beautiful.
Jerking off his hat, Carlow explained his presence, his words jolted by her stunning appearance. His hair brushed against heavy shoulders.
“I, ah, I’m Time Carlow. This is…my uncle. We’re, ah, Rangers.”
“Mariah, me nephew this be,” Kileen weakly waved his hand in Carlow’s direction.
“He ees spoke of you,
Señor
Carlow,” she said. “I am Mariah Sanguel. I am his nurse.”
All Carlow could think of was the lusty Angel Balta. He wondered if the same thought had occurred to his uncle. A quick glance at Kileen answered that question. It had.
She walked over to the foot of the bed, gazed at Kileen and said, “You ees sleep now. That ees
bueno.
” She looked up at Carlow. “Many
hombres
no strong enough to live from thees.” She smiled again. “
Señor
Kileen weel live.”
Carlow felt his uncle’s head. It was clammy, yet sweaty.
“Lucky me be, son. ‘Tis a fact ye have to be admittin’.”
“Ze bullet went through. Eet hit no bone,” Mariah offered. “No close to hees heart.”
Looking up, Carlow asked, “Has the doctor seen him?” He decided that sounded like he was questioning her judgement and added, “I mean…”
“Dr. Morrison has treated heem—and give us orders. After he sleep, we weel give him water—and some broth.” She pointed toward a table where two medicine bottles stood sentry. “Theen, he weel have some more medicine.
Si.
”
“Get some sleep, Thunder. I’ll be back to check on you.”
Carlow turned away and saw Kileen’s coat lying on the nearby chair. He reached into the pocket, retrieved the badge and pinned it on Kileen’s bed, adjacent to his pillow. He had never seen his uncle wounded badly. From Carlow’s lips came a blessing in Irish that he had learned from his mother—and his uncle.
“Aye. The Waulken lady, ye be sure she be doin’ all right. A fine lady she be,” Kileen said and added, “Me lad, a dream me be havin’. Tanneman Rose be ridin’ through it.”
Carlow nodded and stepped away. As he left, Mariah touched his arm. “You must tell me,
Señor
Carlow,
por favor.
When he come in, he asks if three persons have made ze bed and tells us not to put hees hat on ze bed—and not to put hees boots under it. And we had to move thees bed so eet faces the west, not the north. Do you know why he wants thees so?”
Her eyes examined Carlow’s face and he felt dirty. Involuntarily, he brushed his coat with his hands, then chuckled. “Well, my uncle, he’s kinda superstitious. Ah, he thinks it’s bad luck to put a hat on a bed—or boots under it.” He shook his head. “An’ a bed that faces north, well, it’ll bring nightmares. If three people make a bed, it means someone is going to die within the year. I think that’s how it goes. I don’t always get his superstitions straight. There are a bunch of them.”
“Oh, I see. I have an aunt who ees so. Et ees most…ah, funny.” She reached out and touched his sore left cheek. “You ees been hurt.”
“It’s all right. Looks worse than it feels.”
“You must have ze doctor look at thees.”
Not wanting to leave, but knowing he should, Carlow told her the marshal and his deputies were waiting for him, and he must go.
“I’ll be back. After supper,” Carlow said. “Will you be here?” The crimson at his neck was growing.
She bit her lower lip and ran her fingers along the raised cast-iron foot of the empty bed they were passing. “I weel be here. ‘Til midnight et ees.”
“Good. Thank you for all you’re doing for…my uncle,” Carlow said. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
She smiled, said she must check on her other patients and walked in the other direction. Just before reaching the next occupied bed, she looked back.
Carlow was watching. He smiled and she returned the intimacy. Their eyes flirted.
Walking out, he passed a bed holding a young boy with his head wrapped in linen strips. The boy’s mother sat beside him; her face was gray from lack of sleep and worry.
“A-are you a R-Ranger?” a small voice asked.
Carlow stopped as the question reached his tired mind. He turned and smiled. “Yes, I am. Ranger Time Carlow. What’s your name?” He walked toward the bed.
The boy of eight or nine with wide blue eyes sat up, leaning on his elbows. His eyes were bright with interest. Even the boy’s mother appeared energized by the youngster’s sudden attention.
“I-I am D-Duval Jonas,” the boy said. “I h-hurt my head. Y-yesterday.”
The woman quickly explained the boy had been kicked by a horse and had actually been unconscious for three days. He had regained consciousness just a few hours ago.
“How is your friend? I saw him come in,” the woman asked, softly.
“He’s going to make it,” Carlow said with more confidence than he felt. “And Duval? How’s he doing?”
“Good, I think. Now that he’s awake—and back with us. Praise the Lord.” The woman bit her lip.
“That’s good to hear,” Carlow said, then frowned. “Well, Duval, you listen to your mother—and the doctor.”
“I will, sir.”
“I know you will.”
They talked for a few minutes, with the boy doing most of the talking, as if feeling a need to make up for the lost time. Carlow listened intently, occasionally glancing up to see where Mariah might be. It was the first time he hadn’t thought of Ellie. He knew he should be going to help Bridgeport, but he wasn’t in a hurry and told himself that it was all right.
“You’re going to arrest the men in that lynch mob, aren’t you?” the woman finally asked.
“Yes.”
She nodded approval. “Has the bank money been found?”
“No, ma’am, it hasn’t,” Carlow acknowledged. “Likely the man who shot Ranger Kileen has it. He tried to make it look like Mr. Waulken did it. I’m going after him, after the lynchers are arrested.”
Duval leaned forward and pointed. “What kind of gun is that? I’ve never seen one like that!”
Patting the hand carbine, the young Ranger explained that it was a Winchester with the barrel and stock shortened.
“What’s that on the stock? Is that an Indian mark?”
Carlow smiled. “Actually, it’s an old Celtic symbol. Irish. For victory.”
“And you have a revolver, too!” the boy exclaimed. “Isn’t that a Colt?”
“Yes, it is.” Carlow realized he had been stalling. “Duval, I gotta go, but I’ll see you again.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Near the entrance, Carlow saw a man talking quietly to one of the hospital’s administrators. He heard the name “Kileen” and decided to see what was going on.
He vaguely recalled seeing the small, wiry man outside the hotel when they had ridden in yesterday. Like then, he had a pad of paper in his hand and took notes as the two men talked.
“Pardon me, couldn’t help overhearing you mention Ranger Kileen’s name,” Carlow said, stepping up to both men. “You look like a newspaper man. Are you?”
Smiling slightly, the small man said, “Not quite. I write for
Harper’s Bazaar.
On assignment out west, so to speak. I live in New York. Ever been there?” He glanced at the administrator, who quietly excused himself and left.
Carlow didn’t answer his question. “You’re interested in Ranger Kileen for what reason?”
Carlow’s tired mind jumped to Kileen’s secret about his real last name. He had a hunch that was what this interest was all about.
“Well, I’m not sure it’s any of your business, sir.”
“Look, I’m tired. That’s my uncle who’s lying in there, all shot up,” Carlow said, his dark eyes snapping. “Don’t play games with me. Why are you interested in Ranger Kileen?”
Swallowing, the reporter explained that he was certain Kileen was actually a former bare-knuckle prizefighter named Thunder Lucent from New York. He said the big man had killed a man with his fists and then disappeared. That had been years ago. His readers would be interested in the tale and the irony of the Irishman becoming a Texas Ranger.
Carlow listened, trying hard not to let his temper rise. When the reporter finished, Carlow asked, as quietly as he could manage, “What’s your name?”
“Ah…Ronald James Pierson, sir,” the reporter replied, surprised at the question.
“Well, Ronald, I’m sorry to tell you that the Ranger in there grew up in Missouri,” Carlow said.
“And you know this how?”
“I’m his nephew. We lived close by, then moved to Texas,” Carlow continued. “His nickname, ‘Old Thunder’, was given to him by his fellow Rangers because he liked to burp loudly. Sounds like an interesting coincidence to the fellow you’re looking for. But just that.”
“Oh. I was so sure,” Pierson said, looking down at his notes. “Maybe I’ll do a story on this lynching. That was really something.”
“That’s your decision,” Carlow said. “Just didn’t want you writing something incorrect about my uncle.” He looked at the man. “I wouldn’t understand.”
“Well, thank you. Thank you. I appreciate that.” Pierson glanced at his notes, not wanting to engage with Carlow’s glare. He wanted to ask how the young Ranger had gotten the bruises around his left eye, but didn’t think it was a good idea.
“Sure,” the young Ranger said and headed for the door.
Outside the hospital, he called to the waiting Chance and they walked toward the marshal’s office. Mariah’s sweetness settled into his mind, along with the boy’s injury and his promise to return. That would be easy. He wanted to see Mariah again. For an instant, Ellie pushed into his mind, but she became Mariah. The reporter popped into his mind again and he decided to ask Bridgeport to reinforce his story about Kileen growing up in Missouri. The New York incident had occurred a long time ago, but still, he didn’t want somebody coming for his uncle—either lawmen or relatives of the man Kileen had beaten.
As he strolled down the planked sidewalk, a heavyset man in suspenders and baggy pants rushed from the general store.
“Ranger? May I have a word?”
Carlow stopped and turned back to face the nervous man. “Of course. How may I help you?”
Chance was barely a trot behind.
Hitching up his pants to make them settle better around his ample waist, the townsman looked left and right and whispered, “I just wanted you to know I had nothing to do with that awful lynching. Nothing.” He glanced at Chance, shivered, and looked back at Carlow.
“I see. Were you there? At the jail this morning?”
“Well, yes, but I didn’t want trouble,” the agitated townsman said. “Just my money.” His eyebrows danced with the words.
Carlow folded his arms. “I see. What did you think was going to happen? With that mob?”
The townsman scratched his head, then placed his right hand over his mouth and spoke through it. “I, ah, I don’t know. Rightly. I just, ah, went along. Some friends of mine wanted me to.” His hand went to his forehead and rubbed it.
“If I were you,” Carlow growled, “I’d give myself up to Marshal Bridgeport. Might help.”
“What do you mean?” The man’s face glowed crimson.
Carlow hooked his thumbs into his gunbelt. “Well, for starters, you boys killed an innocent man, assaulted an officer of the law and beat up a woman.”
“That’s not quite what happened,” the townsman protested. “You make it sound…terrible. That German stole our money. Every cent I had was in that bank!”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but Mr. Waulken didn’t rob the bank.”
“You arrested him,” the townsman gulped, color retreating from his face. “You have all kinds of evidence. A gray horse. That fancy rifle. Even that wood mask. I heard all about it. My God! What else do you want?”
Carlow wanted to ask the man how he knew this information, but it didn’t matter. He dropped his arms to his sides.
“Well, I figure you’ve also already heard about his alibi, mister, or you wouldn’t have stopped me.” His eyes locked with the man’s eyes and wouldn’t let go.
Waving his arms, the townsman asked in a rushed voice, “What makes you think that cowboy was telling the truth? I hear they were in it together.”
Carlow cocked his head to the side. “Lynching is murder, mister. For any reason. Pure and simple. I gave you a suggestion. Do what you want.” He turned to his wolf-dog. “Come on, Chance. We’ve got work to do.”