Free Death Mask by Cotton Smith

hand. He fired both guns three times each, with the noses next to the ground to muffle the sound. His boot covered the holes with new dirt.
    To the posse eventually coming, it would appear that the guard and Tanneman had killed each other in a wild fight. No one would examine the body of “Tanneman” closely; it would be enough that the breakout had been solved. Gaggratte would be treated as a dead hero. He laughed. It was the ultimate in theater. After removing the saddlebags, he turned his horse and Gaggratte’s loose and encouraged them to run. They would return to town—or be found by the posse. He strapped both sets of saddlebags and the canteen onto the third horse, mounted and rode away, giggling.
    His next projects would be to kill the men who had brought him to this: Judge Wilcox Cline; District Attorney Waddell Johnson; Marshal Timble and all the Rangers who had been involved, including Captain McNelly. All would die. It was time to bring his previous self into full bloom; the Persian shaman had been known for his transformations and his masks.
    His shrill laugh echoed through the quiet land.

Chapter Seven
    After riding for two hours toward the fast-rising sun, Tanneman Rose passed a lone shack off to his left. His tired mind took a few seconds to let it register in his thoughts. He reined up and looked back at the small building resting in a shallow ravine, almost like the place had grown from the land. It definitely looked abandoned. Probably had been a line cabin at one time. He swung the horse around and headed back.
    “Aho, the cabin!” he yelled, holding his pistol at his side as he neared the building.
    If anyone were here, Tanneman would kill him. Immediately. There was no reason to take any chances now. He was too close. He yelled again, but no one answered. Assuring himself that it was, indeed, abandoned, Tanneman rode his horse up to the structure and swung down. His empty canteen bounced.
    A small corral, probably big enough for six horses, adjoined the shack. Unsaddling his horse, he turned the animal loose in the enclosure. The bay went to a low water trough half-filled with old rainwater. It was enough to quench its thirst and leave enough for later. Tanneman found an old bucket filled with grain shoved against the edge of the house and away from the rain. After smelling and verifying it still had food value, he brought it to the center of the corral for his horse to enjoy.
    Drawing his pistol again, Tanneman went to the closed door and shoved it open. It didn’t like the idea of moving and groaned a sad reaction. He stepped inside. The one-room building danced with shadows, disturbed by his intrusion. Thick cobwebs and layers of dust confirmed a long absence. A quick inspection brought only a nearly empty sack of coffee, a dented coffeepot and two china cups, both chipped. No food. A cot lay against one wall. Across the way was a fireplace that hadn’t been used in a long time. He guessed at least a year. Didn’t matter. Heat wasn’t a concern. Sleep was—and after that, something to eat. Unfortunately, he would have to ride on for food.
    He was asleep almost as soon as he hit the cot, not even getting his boots off. His dreams were wild and unsettling. The Rangers, who had arrested him, rode on fiery horses through his body. Kileen and Carlow pointed their fingers at him and laughed. Laughs that turned into curling snakes. Running through the dream was a strange wagon that ran over the snakes.
    He awoke with a start three hours later. Sweat glistened on his face and arms. Listening intently, he could just hear the snorting of his horse outside. His stomach was growling with the need of food. The only water he knew of was in the horse trough. He grabbed his canteen, filled it from the trough and drank deeply, letting ribbons of water run down his chin and the front of his shirt. At first, he had thought this would be the right time to prepare himself ceremonially for his strategy of