Death Mask by Cotton Smith Page B

mixed with an ancient Gaelic rite, Lia Fail, or “the stone of destiny.” Carlow had heard the story, from his mother, about how each king of Ireland had taken his oath upon this special stone.
    Carlow’s thoughts snapped to the Bennett jail three years ago, when the Silver Mallow Gang had attacked the four Rangers defending it, after some of the gang had already been arrested. Most of the town had turned against them, partly out of fear of Silver Mallow and partly because three of the Rangers were Irish.
    His knees wobbled as he again saw Shannon Dornan cut down with bullets while he fought from the doorway of the jail. He vaguely remembered his uncle finding the two of them as Kileen and a few of the townspeople fought the gang into a retreat.
    “Oh Shannon. Shannon. I know you are in Heaven and it is wonderful. I know that,” he murmured. “Just wish you could have waited. For me.”
    He spun away and went to his mother’s grave, with memories of their childhood friendship trailing him. Carlow reached inside his shirt and touched the silver Celtic cross hanging around his neck.
    His name, Time, was the result of his mother thinking it meant “eternal.” Time Lucent Carlow. Lucent had been his mother’s maiden name. She hadn’t known much English when he was born, but she had made sure her son did—and that his voice carried none of the Irishness about it and that he had no tendency to be superstitious. His uncle had enough of that for both of them. He chuckled. His uncle had taken care of his mother and her infant son when he was around, usually making money as a bare-knuckle prizefighter; Carlow didn’t want to think about the times when he hadn’t been.
    That reminded him of the time when he first realized his uncle didn’t have the last name he should have had. He should have been a Lucent, not a Kileen. Carlow was already a Ranger when the thought hit him. His uncle told him that he had changed his name because of an incident in New York, when Carlow was just a small child. Kileen had killed a man with his fists after the man refused to pay him for some hard work done. Money was sorely needed to buy groceries for his sister and her child. Kileen had put them both on a train and said he would follow as soon as he could. The name change was to help keep anyone from tracking him down. They never spoke of it again.
    Touching the top of the gravestone, he said, “Mother, I know you are taking good care of Shannon. You remember he was a bit shy at times.”
    A soft smile reached his face. “He was almost as superstitious as Thunder, too.” He paused and looked again at the gravestone. “ Mo mhíle grá. ”
    The Celtic phrase meant “My thousand loves.”
    Returning to his black horse, he stuck a boot in the stirrup, but stopped his mount. He stared down at himself. Trail dust. Sweat. A tear in his shirtsleeve. Why in the world should he see the woman he loved, looking like this? Of course, he could take a bath in town unless the bathhouse had closed. But that didn’t seem right. He wanted to go directly to where Ellie worked after his Ranger business was completed. He could see the appearance in his mind, strolling in and announcing he had a letter for a Miss Beckham.
    His eyes took in the creek. Why not? He and Shannon had taken more than one bath there when they were young. No one was around.
    It didn’t take long for Carlow to be settling his naked body into the cool water, a bar of soap from his gear in hand. His stretched-out kerchief, in his other hand, would serve as a washcloth. It would serve to clean the kerchief at the same time. On the bank were his old clothes and next to them was another pile: his one clean shirt; fresh underwear and Levis. Even a clean pair of socks, although one had a major hole in it.
    Right on top of the new clothing was his hand carbine. Cocked. Being prepared was the Ranger’s way of life; Kileen had drilled that into him. Another pile held his Kiowa leggings with