Death Mask by Cotton Smith Page A

riding, the Rangers stretched out, using their saddles for pillows. Only their boots and gunbelts were removed. Their weapons were cleaned and reloaded, including their saddle guns. Of course, Kileen reminded his nephew not to use the thirteenth bullet when reloading his hand carbine. Carlow licked his lips and didn’t respond. Mirabile lit a cigarette, then decided the tiny light could be seen a long way off and rubbed it out on the ground.
    Settling into bed, Carlow reread one of Ellie’s letters, using a small candle for light. He cupped his hat around it so the tiny flame wouldn’t be seen from any distance. Chance nestled next to him, his head resting on Carlow’s stomach.
    Kileen watched and said, “Even if we not be findin’ the money, we must be making a ride to Bennett afterward. The captain be wantin’ to know. Aye?”
    “I’d like that,” Carlow replied. He blew out the candle and made certain his hand carbine was next to him and cocked.
    A weary Mirabile said, “Hell, why don’t you boys wander up my way afterward? Bertha’d be glad to see you. She’s a helluva cook, you know.”
    “Sounds good to me. How ‘bout you, Thunder?” Carlow asked.
    “Aye. Bertha be a most wonderful cook. We be doin’ it.”
    Carlow shifted to get more comfortable. The silver crest he wore on a silver necklace slid outside his shirt. It was the only material thing remaining of his mother. She had told him it had belonged to his father. Kileen had told him it was the symbol of a Celtic warrior. He stuffed it back inside his shirt and shut his eyes. No image of his father ever came and now images of his mother were blurred. His solid chest and well-muscled arms were well hidden within his coat. They had helped him win many fistfights as a lad and some as a Ranger. Not as many as his uncle, of course. Few could match that.
    Minutes passed.
    Carlow was almost asleep when Kileen said, “Me lads, do ye be thinkin’ there be a Rose gang still about? Some be sayin’ ‘tis so.”
    “Don’t know, Thunder,” Carlow said, and yawned to reinforce his disinterest in talking more. “Don’t know. Could be. Might find them at Portland’s ranch, but I doubt it. Let’s get some sleep.”
    “Not my problem anymore,” Mirabile said and rolled over to sleep.
    “Aye. Don’t be starin’ at the moon. She not be likin’ it.”
    “I won’t. Got my eyes closed.”
    Carlow was up first and had coffee on and bacon frying when Kileen awoke. Mirabile was still sleeping. Chance’s growl jolted the young Ranger from his morning reverie of cooking.
    “What’s the matter, boy? Coyote wanting water?”
    He looked up to see eight mounted Comanches on the ridge twenty yards to the west. They seemed as surprised as he was to see others. It was definitely a war party, with their painted faces, thick chests, arms and legs. Plucked eyebrows added to their fierce appearance. Although short and stout, they were most graceful on horseback. Magnificent horsemen, Carlow thought, and fierce fighters.
    “Thunder, Julian, we’ve got visitors.”
    “Aye,” Kileen responded, already moving beside their horses; his rifle, cocked and ready. “Next to our hosses, I be. They’ll be takin’ a likin’ to ‘em, me thinks.”
    “I’m ready,” Mirabile said, stretched out where he had slept, his Spencer rifle cocked. His revolver lay next to him, along with his bullet belt.
    The apparent war leader carried a Henry rifle; its stock was decorated with studs and feathers. His face was painted in vertical stripes, alternating between red and yellow. His right arm was similarly painted. So were his leggings. He wore a wolf’s head as a headdress, its skin draped down his back.
    The others carried bows and arrows and lances shortened for horseback warfare. A warrior with his entire face painted black had a long-barreled revolver resting in his stud belt. Another carried a Springfield rifle, adorned with eagle feathers. Two of the lances held fresh