Free Death Mask by Cotton Smith Page B

know.”
    “Well, good for you.”
    The livery operator beamed. “Ya know if you’re stayin’ around, there’s gonna be a bunch o’ races tomorrow. Hoss races an’ footraces.” He straightened his back. “Figure on enterin’ the footrace myself. Took third last year.”
    Proudly, he explained the town would be celebrating its founding, an annual event. “Do it every year, ya know. Well, two years ago, we didn’t. Too much rain. But I think that’s the only time.”
    “Sounds like fun, but I’ve got to be moving on.”
    Looking genuinely disappointed, the livery operator added that a cake contest and a spelling bee were also planned. Tanneman nodded and brought the conversation back to horses.
    Tanneman rode out of the livery on a long-legged buckskin horse, then stopped at the gun shop and bought a Winchester, two boxes of ammunition, a pistol belt and holster for his Colt, and a large sheath knife. An idea was forming in his head. He remembered the distinctive mask of theater, combining tragedy and comedy. A mask would be perfect. In its own way, it would be a death mask. For the men who had betrayed him.
    Another stop, at the general store, took longer. He entered the cluttered store and let its smells of fresh coffee, bacon, tobacco, spices, vinegar and leather surround him. Like most such stores, it carried a little of everything. Walking around barrels and kegs of grocery staples, he examined the supplies displayed on rough-planked shelves. With a basket, he gathered a shirt, pants, canteen, leather strips, a small sack of coffee, another of beans, one of flour, a wrapped package of beef jerky, another of salt pork, eight cans of peaches, a glass jar of preserves, two pencils and several sheets of paper.
    Satisfied with his selections, he moved to the lumber-and-hardware section of the store. He selected a sack of nails, hammer, chisel and twenty thin pieces of wood. Each was about eight inches wide and a foot long. After choosing the wood Tanneman grabbed a can of white paint and a brush.
    “Those’ll work good for shingles,” the clerk exclaimed as he checked out. “If you’ve got roof problems.” He smiled, revealing two missing teeth, and slid his hand along the side of his head, caressing his combed-back hair.
    Irritated, Tanneman caught his anger before responding. “Well, my wife, you know, she got real unhappy when the roof leaked. After that last rain.” He shook his head. “Got to keep on their good side, you know.”
    “Sure do. Looks like she’s got you doin’ some painting, too.” The clerk winked and then asked, “Haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”
    Tanneman didn’t like the innocent curiosity, but tried not to show it. “No. We live over yonder. Only been there a short while.” He motioned toward the east, hoping the vagueness would suffice. “Thought I’d give the town a try.”
    “Good. Glad to have you here,” the clerk said and started to ask another question.
    “Thanks now. I’ll be seeing you next time,” Tanneman said and turned toward the door with most of his purchases juggled in his arms.
    “Hey, you might want to bring your wife in tomorrow,” the clerk said.
    Tanneman stopped without turning.
    “It’s our big day. Celebrates the founding of the town,” the clerk declared. “All kinds of things goin’ on. Contests an’ races. Everybody around will be here. Good time to meet folks.”
    Turning toward the counter slowly, Tanneman thanked him and went outside to pack his purchases in his saddlebags and return for the wood. The clerk was busy helping a woman with a bolt of cloth, so the ex-Ranger didn’t have to talk with him any longer. He tied the shingles onto the back of the saddle and headed out.
    By dusk, he had returned to the shack and begun creating a mask from one of the wooden pieces. He gouged eye and mouth holes into the narrow wood, and carved an indentation in the wood to allow his nose some room.
    A small circle with a cross