Death Mask
Chapter 1
Texas Ranger Aaron “Thunder” Kileen rose in one smooth motion, belying his huge size. “Here they be comin’. Beards they be wearin’ to mask their treacherous souls. Aye, an fine hosses they be ridin’. Like always.”
He pointed from the San Antonio hotel second-story window where he and his Ranger nephew had been waiting.
“Where?” Ranger Time Carlow scrambled to his feet, pushing aside the fuzziness of rereading his last letter from Ellie Beckham. He’d read it at least ten times.
He had met the young widow three years ago in his hometown. The rest of her letters were carefully folded in his saddlebags. He hadn’t written as often; the last was six months ago, he thought. Another unsent letter was still in his gear. Somewhere.
“Pulling up in front of the bank they be. Do ye see?”
“Yeah, I see them. Let’s get the bastards.”
Sweet thoughts of Ellie were pushed into the corner of Carlow’s mind for later. He shoved the chair away in the same motion and yanked on the permanently pushed-up brim of his Stetson. Long dark hair danced along his shoulders. A trim mustache and expressive eyebrows reinforced his combative appearance – and nature. Smaller than his uncle, the young Ranger was deceptively strong, with a solidly built chest, arms heavy with hard-earned muscle and a natural inclination to fight.
The superstitious Kileen grabbed his Henry rifle and headed for the door. He glanced at the lone candle on the dresser. It had gone out. That meant someone would die.
Shaking off the shiver, he said, “Be rememberin’, me son. Captain wants them alive. ‘Tis the best chance of getting’ back the money they be stealin’.”
“Let’s hope they got the same report.” Carlow grinned, a step behind him. “Shall we put on our badges?”
“Aye. There might be more, so be keepin’ your attention. Some be sayin’ there be a gang.” The big Irish Ranger waved his huge paw of a right hand, scarred from many past fistfights.
His ruddy face was weary from the waiting. A former bare-knuckle prizefighter, the highly superstitious lawman was dressed, as usual, in a three-piece, tweed suit of well-worn appearance. He thought it made him look like a gentleman; no Ranger dared comment otherwise. The material and buttons had fought a long, and losing, battle with his thick chest and arms. He looked even bigger in the dust-laden, high-crowned black hat. An old bullet hole in the upper crease had long since been forgotten. Across his coat was a heavy bullet belt with holstered Colt and sheathed Bowie knife.
As he moved, the big Irishman felt in his coat pocket for his own badge, reaching past an acorn and a tiny pouch of dirt from Ireland itself, a small token of the green isle that his late sister – Carlow’s mother – had brought with her to the new land. It, too, held great powers, he had decided. Carlow had a smilar pouch, but he kept it in his saddlebags. At least, it was there the last time he looked.
Stopping, Kileen yanked free the badge and pushed it onto his coat lapel as he moved.
Hurrying from the room, Carlow reached in one vest pocket, then the other, to find the star placed there among extra cartridges, pieces of hard candy, a silver watch and chain, an acorn given to him by Kileen for luck, and two tiny flat stones, darkly stained with long-ago blood, a memory possession. He pinned the badge on his coat lapel without slowing down.
His hand dropped to the guns at his waist. From his right hip, he drew a special cut-down Winchester, shortened in stock and barrel, and cocked it easily with the enlarged circular lever. It was worn as a handgun in an unusual holster of rawhide bands and thick leather backing tied to his leg. The weapon provided the quick handling of a revolver with the impact of a rifle. On the shortened walnut stock where a Celtic marking was carved, an ancient war symbol for victory.
A short-barreled Colt was carried on the left side of his gunbelt; its walnut handle tilted forward for a right-handed draw.
At the doorway, Kileen tapped the wood frame three times with his rifle. For luck. Carlow smiled; he didn’t agree with the superstitions of his uncle. He turned toward the far wall where his wolf-dog companion, Chance, waited for direction. Carlow had sneaked him in and out of the hotel.
“Come on, Chance, we’ve got work to do.”
The great beast barked and was beside him in an instant.
Together, the threesome charged down the stairs of the Gleason Hotel, across the street from the San Antonio Bank.
(Look for Death Mask this coming August wherever good books are sold)
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