Free Death Mask by Cotton Smith Page A

revenge. A Persian shaman would do such.
    A stronger desire, however, was the demand for food. The ceremony of revenge could wait. Even in his hungered state, he studied the shack, noting it was made mostly from long planks of wood.
    A few minutes later, he was traveling again. He knew of no large towns nearby, but it seemed to him there were several small communities. Clearing a long bluff, he saw a settlement and his mind jumped with a tired joy. Twelve buildings straddled the short main street. He had no idea of its name, nor did he care.
    Tying his horse to the hitching rack in front of the restaurant, he went inside. Instinct made him study the restaurant’s inhabitants as the door closed behind him. There were no Rangers, at least none he knew. The five men eating looked up out of curiosity, then returned to their food.
    He tried not to overeat, but his stomach cried out and he was glad to oblige. A pot of hot coffee chased down two bowls of beef stew and large chunks of cornbread. Sipping a last cup, he asked the waiter for the name of the town.
    “Some are callin’ it Prairie Village,” the bucktoothed waiter replied. “Most folks around hyar jes’ call it ‘town’, though.”
    Tanneman nodded to keep from smiling. “Haven’t looked around. What all’s here?”
    “Not from hyar, are ya?” the waiter said. “Knew it ri’t off. Know’d ever’body ‘round.”
    “Good for you.”
    The waiter proudly explained that besides the restaurant, Prairie Village boasted a general store, livery, two saloons, a whorehouse, gun shop, boardinghouse, surveyor’s office and bank, drugstore and a barbershop and bathhouse.
    Tanneman paid him and headed for the barbershop. An hour later, a cleaned and shaved Tanneman Rose entered the small house on the far corner of town. A woman, plain of face with weary eyes and long dark hair resting along her shoulders, gave a lifeless smile and invited him in. She brought practiced enjoyment, faster than he wished, but he wasn’t in a mood to complain.
    Afterward, he paid her, opened the door and studied the surroundings. An old habit.
    A one-armed peddler riding an enclosed wagon bounced along the street. The side panels proclaimed: hard goods…knives…shirts…books…clothing…medicines…horseshoes.
    Tanneman was fascinated. He turned back toward the whore. “Who’s that?”
    Licking her lips, she said, “Oh, that’s just the peddler. Comes around every now and then. Selling stuff. Always moving. Lost his arm in the war, I heard. Usually stopping at farms and ranches, you know. Don’t know his name. Usually comes here when he’s in town.”
    She flipped her head to move and resettle her long hair. Her hand rested on her extended hip; it was her best provocative pose.
    He didn’t notice and left without another word.
    “Need to get a fresh horse,” Tanneman said, strolling into the livery stable. “What can you offer? I’ll trade mine.” He motioned toward the bay he was leading.
    The short, bowlegged livery stable manager studied Tanneman, then his horse. “How sound is it?”
    “Been good for me,” Tanneman said, “but it needs rest. I’m riding dispatch for the Rangers and I need to get to them soon as I can.”
    “Rangers, huh?” the liveryman said, scratching his chin. “Thought maybe yah was runnin’ from them.”
    Tanneman laughed deeply and said, “No. Just trying to help them. I’d show you the dispatch, but I’m not supposed to.” He motioned toward his saddlebags.
    “Say, how come they ain’t usin’ the telegraph?”
    Biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from saying something angry, Tanneman said simply, “Where they are, it isn’t.”
    “Oh sure,” the liveryman said. “Kinda like here, I reckon.”
    “Yeah.”
    The liveryman waved his arms. “Oh, didn’t mean nothin’. Just we don’t get many strangers ridin’ through here.” He rubbed his chin. “I hear tell we might get the wire next year. Been here all my life, ya