Just outside of town, Tanneman Rose reined up beside his peddler wagon and the other wagon horse. The brown horse raised its head from grazing, acknowledged the appearance of its wagon mate and returned to eating. A small stream meandered through the narrow wash and continued on to its destiny. The location was perfect for leaving the wagon; anyone riding by on the main road wouldn’t see it.
An idea was forming in the former Ranger’s mind, one given birth by not knowing for certain whether or not Kileen was dead. The perfectionist in him was uncomfortable leaving Strickland with that uncertainty. He didn’t like leaving Time Carlow alive either. Second chances were difficult to come by. Especially when it came to killing Rangers. And especially those two.
By the time he swung down, he knew he was going back, as U.S. Deputy Marshal Jubal Winchell. Wouldn’t take much to get ready, he told himself. A badge from his costume trunk could be put on later. He switched to a flat-brimmed hat, in case someone had seen him from a distance earlier. His suit was fine, but he changed the silk cravat to a blue one. The belt gun at his waist was also fine. He added a knife and its sheath to the belt.
For the first time, he realized one of his fake eyebrows had fallen off. He cursed. That should never happen. Never. Forcing himself to be calm, he decided to switch from the thick mustache to a dark goatee and fake eyeglasses, and leave his natural eyebrows as they were. It took him several minutes longer than usual, as he rechecked the fake hair around his mouth to make certain the glue was holding properly.
While he waited for the glue to dry, he checked on his spider. At first it wasn’t moving, but the spider wiggled around after he shook the jar.
“Come on, Portland. You can do better than that,” he said. “I’m going in to kill Kileen. Who knows? He might show up as a spider, too. A big one.” He laughed long and loudly.
After switching his saddle to the second wagon horse, he decided to harness the first animal to the wagon. It would make his transformation into the peddler a littler quicker if necessary. Neither horse was the kind a lawman or an outlaw would ride. Longlegged, swift steeds were the preferred choice. He would buy another horse at the livery and explain that his regular horse had been shot from under him, coming from Fort Worth. Having an extra horse gave him options, if he needed them. It had worked before.
Before riding away, he remembered his saddle sheath was carrying the Sharps. A quick switch put a Winchester in his boot and the big gun was hidden in the wagon. He grinned. No one was as careful as he was. He touched his necklace under his shirt and chanted.
Two hours later, U.S. Deputy Marshal Jubal Winchell reined up at the Strickland Livery. He put on his badge just before stopping. There was no need to alert the town that another lawman had appeared, especially with a curious Time Carlow around.
A bald man with wide suspenders holding up his filthy pants looked up from sweeping.
“Can I he’p yuh?” Punky Elliott, the livery operator, asked, leaning on the broom. “Lawman, ain’t yuh?”
Tanneman, as Winchell, swung down, shook his head and pushed his glasses back on his nose. “Lost my horse. Damn good one. Shot from under me. Coming from Fort Worth.” He brushed imaginary dust from his coat. “I’m U.S. Marshal Jubal Winchell. I’m in pursuit of Bobby Joe and Lifton McDorn. Brothers. They’re wanted for murder and train robbery. In Missouri.” He hitched up his gunbelt. “Been after them…for too damn long.” His voice was deep. Crusty. Authoritative. “Any strangers come into town today? Hard-looking boys. Well-armed.”
“Not that came through hyar,” Elliott explained. “ ‘Course, the stage came in a while back. Strangers there. All o’ them.”
Tanneman shook his head. “No. They’d be riding. Good horses.”
“Yeah, heard o’ them boys. Did they…ambush yuh?”
“Yeah. Guess I was lucky,” Tanneman said. “Bought this fella from a farmer nearby. Best he had.”
“Yeah. Farmers ain’t got need for fast hosses. Jes’ so they kin pull a wagon.”
Without any prompting, Elliott told him about the morning’s incident and the recent bank robbery. Tanneman asked if the town’s money had been secured yet. The operator spat a thick brown stream, cursed and said no, but he thought the Rangers would be helping to find it.
“Don’t believe in banks,” Elliott pronounced. “Keep my money in a secret place.”
“Good for you.” Rubbing his chin, Tanneman asked, “Rangers, you say?”
Elliott eagerly told about the two Rangers seeking the killer of a local rancher and helping to find and arrest the bank robber. He told about the lynching and the arrests that had followed. He said the big Ranger had been shot and taken to the hospital, but didn’t know the Ranger’s condition, except he’d heard he was still alive.
“Hmm, anybody see this shooter?” Tanneman asked, looking stern. “Sounds like something the McDorn brothers would do.”
“Not that I know of. Marshal Bridgeport might know somethin’. He an’ his deputies been real busy, though,” Elliott answered, shaking his head. “But that other Ranger, the young one, he’s goin’ after the shooter.”
“Good. Has he left yet?”
“No, that’s his black horse. A fine one, I’ll tell ya. The other Ranger’s hoss ain’t livery slop neither.” Elliott said and rubbed his bald head. “He’s a tough one, that young Ranger. Has a wolf for a pet. Can you believe that?”
“A wolf?”
“Looks like one to me.” Elliott spat a thick stream of tobacco juice. “That Ranger boy bin a’helpin’ Lark with the arrests o’ folks who dun the lynchin’. Kinda a wild day. Ira Samuelson even did some shootin’ at him an’ Lark. Heard tell the Ranger jes’ walked ov’r to Ira, slick as ya please. No gun in his hand or nuthin’. Tolt Ira he were under arrest an’ took his gun away. Jes’ like that. Somethin’ to watch, I reckon.” He spat again, not pleased with the texture this time. “With all that a’goin’ on, reckon your two brothers could’a slipped in real easy like.”
“Sounds like it.”
Patting the man on the back, Tanneman said, “Say, I’m going to need a good horse. Got any to sell?”
“Sure do. Got three that’ll take yuh anywhar.”
“I’d like to take a look.”
The livery operator disappeared into the barn and quickly returned, leading three horses: a tall bay; a black with three stockings and a lineback dun.
“How much for the bay?”
“Haff to have thirty dollars for ‘im.” Elliott patted the bay’s neck.
As he felt in his coat pocket for money, Tanneman said, “Say, I’m pretty sure I put a bullet in one of those McDorn boys. Is there a hospital in town?”
Elliott gladly described the location.
A few minutes later, Tanneman switched his saddle and bridle to the new horse and headed for the hospital, leading his wagon horse on a rope. From the livery operator, he had learned Carlow was now with the local marshal in his office and jail. Perfect. He couldn’t help smiling. How gifted he was. It was amazing. From practice he had learned well that people saw what they wanted to see. It was the gift of disguise passed on from his previous life. Only the eyes were impossible to hide—or change. They carried eternity, he felt, and were unique to each person. He glanced over at the spider jar, but decided he wouldn’t be able to tell if it had Portland’s eyes or not.
Right now the only people who knew him in Strickland were Kileen and Carlow. Soon that big bastard would be worm meat and the young one would follow when Tanneman got the chance.
At the marshal’s office, twelve of the lynch mob had been arrested and were now being held in the jail, two to a cell. The remaining two lynch mob participants, George Tyler and Ernest Clay, had left town. Several townspeople said they had left together.
From the farthest cell, Turner Omallden yelled, “Don’t get too cocky, Lark. We’re gonna be oughta here—an’ you’re gonna be out a job.”
Jeb Tatem banged his fist against the bars of his cell. “You’re going to be sorry, Bridgeport. Real sorry.”
“I’m going to gather supplies, check on Thunder and then head out—after his shooter,” Carlow said. “Or do you need me to go after those last two lynchers?”
“I thank you, but we can get them without Ranger ’elp,” Bridgeport noted and reached into the sack on his desk for the last of the gumdrops.
Carlow declined Bridgeport’s offer of the candy.
“Joe will go after them—as soon as ‘e’s ready, right, Joe?” Bridgeport popped two gumdrops into his mouth. “I figure they’ll head for Clay’s father’s ranch.”
“On my way.” Deputy Roth walked over to the rifle rack and took down a Winchester.
“Cartridges in the lower desk drawer,” Bridgeport said. “I want them both back ‘ere. Alive, you ‘ear?”
Roth grinned at Carlow and left.
A few minutes later, the cowboy who had provided Waulken’s alibi stepped gingerly into the marshal’s office. His spurs clanked on the wooden floor and he seemed unnerved by the noise. He yanked off his weathered hat and pushed his yellow hair back on his head. The sun had not touched his forehead above his hat.
“Marshal, thought I’d better come to see you,” he said, nervously glancing at the men in the cells. “I was wrong about seein’ Alben Waulken yesterday mornin’. I’m sorry, but it was the day before.” He waved his hand to indicate the change in days. “Yeah, it were the day before.” He returned his hat to his head and started to back out of the office. “Sorry I couldn’t be of help.”
“Aye, an’ which of the fine gentlemen behind me did ’elp you come to that change of thought?” Bridgeport asked, leaning against the desk.
The cowboy looked for a moment at the cells, then back at the marshal. He didn’t meet Bridgeport’s gaze, staring instead at the desk itself.
“Ah, nobody told me nothin’, Marshal.”
“Bloody lie, wot.”
Carlow folded his arms. “You know, whether Waulken was innocent or not has nothing to do with the crimes these boys are charged with.”
The cowboy looked like he was going to cry. “Don’t know nothin’ about that, Ranger. Just wanted to set things straight as far as my seein’ was concerned.”
Waving his hand at the man, Bridgeport disgustedly told him to leave.
“You know, we have other evidence to prove Mr. Waulken was innocent,” Carlow declared, and looked at each man in the cell. “He was set up by another man. Mr. Waulken would’ve been set free, if you boys hadn’t been so damn eager to take the law into your own hands.”
Both Bridgeport and Payne looked surprised and the cowboy wasn’t certain how to respond. Finally, he regathered his courage and left without speaking.
“Why didn’t you tell us that when we came to the marshal’s office, Ranger?” Omallden said, standing against the cell bars.
“I did. You weren’t listening. Too busy yelling threats at your marshal here.”
The twelve men behind bars looked like they had been struck with whips.
“I’ll see you later, Marshal,” Carlow said. “I’ll write out my statement—for the court—in case I’m not back in time.”
Bridgeport shook his head in agreement, sat down at his desk and asked Payne to go get some candy from the general store.
Outside, Carlow felt the tension of the past two days hit him hard. Lack of sleep was piling onto his mind. The more he thought about it, the more he decided to get some sleep before starting. Being tired was a good way to make a mistake. Kileen’s horse would go along as his second mount. He reminded himself to include in his letter to the court that Waulken had been afraid of horses and couldn’t have ridden to town and back on the gray horse. Or on any horse.
There was no proof, of course, but he felt it was owed to Margareitte Waulken to make that statement. He was certain she was telling the truth. He was also certain one or more of the lynchers had scared the cowboy into changing his story.
After purchasing supplies and eating some jerky, Carlow headed to the livery to leave them for tomorrow and check on his horses. Chance trailed him happily. All he had to go on what was what the dress store lady had told him. A gray three-piece suit. A red tie. A gray bowler and thick mustache. The man had headed south. It wasn’t much, but it was what he had. It was the closest the Rangers had been to Mirabile’s killer, he was certain of that. McNelly’s wire had convinced him of what he had suspected: Tanneman Rose was alive and behind all of this madness.
“Punky, I’m going to leave these here until the morning. I’m riding out then. That all right?” Carlow said.
“Hi, Ranger, yah just missed that U.S. deputy marshal. He sure liked your hoss,” Punky Elliott said from where he was throwing hay into an empty stall.
Carlow laid down his supplies in the corner and stood up. “What do you mean, Punky? A United States marshal was here?”
“Oh, sure nuff, he was. Handful o’ minutes ago.” The livery operator spat a stream of tobacco juice. “Came in on some farm hoss. A chestnut with two stockings. His’n had bin shot by some owlhoots he was a’chasin’. You prob’bly know who they was…if’n I could ‘member their names.” He scratched his rear end. “Seems like it were some brothers. Maybe.”
Carlow slipped the bridle onto Shadow’s head and felt more tired than ever. “What was his name? The lawman.”
“Don’ ‘member that neither.” Elliott spat again, evaluating the thickness of the stream. “Bought a longlegged bay off’a me. Good belly. Run forever.”
With some prodding from Carlow, Elliott described the mysterious lawman as wearing a gray suit and a wide, flat-brimmed hat. He was a little taller than Elliott, and thinner. Had a goatee and wore a fancy gunbelt.
“Where was he headed? I just came from the jail,” Carlow said.
“Well, he was gonna check out the hospital. Thought he’d put lead in one o’ them boys he was a’chasin’,” Elliott pronounced, proud of his attention to detail.
“Maybe I’ll see him over there. Going to check on Thunder…ah, Ranger Kileen.”
“Sure nuff.” Elliott spat again.
The livery operator didn’t notice Carlow was already running toward the hospital. He didn’t like the sound of this. A federal lawman would have checked in at the marshal’s office first. A courtesy, if nothing else. He was afraid of who it might really be. Tanneman Rose.