Tonto began to chant, his voice echoing off the walls as he urged the spirits of the rangers on. Then, in the fashion of his people, he began to search their bodies. He took a pair of boots off one of the men, a silver pillbox from another, a rosary from the third. For each item he took, Tonto left something: a feather for the boots, string for the pillbox, a shell for the rosary.
The last grave was John Reid’s. Noticing the shiny silver badge on John’s coat, Tonto stepped into the grave and began to unpin it. Suddenly, John’s hand shot out, seizing the Comanche’s wrist. Startled, Tonto fell backward and began to struggle with the dead man. But the dead man’s grip was surprisingly strong and Tonto couldn’t get free. As he glanced around, his gaze fell on a small rock. He picked it up and with a THUMP! hit John on the head. Immediately, Tonto’s hand was released.
Scrambling out of the grave, Tonto tried to catch his breath. John Reid was dead. He had been shot and Tonto had checked to make sure. So how had he been able to grab Tonto’s arm? Glancing around nervously, Tonto shook his head. Yes, John Reid had been dead. Tonto had NOT just killed him with that rock. But to be sure, he’d bury him anyway. Quickly, he covered John with a thin layer of dirt.
Satisfied he had done the right thing, Tonto began to walk away.
He had made it only a few steps when the sound of a horse’s whinny stopped him in his tracks. As he turned, Tonto’s eyes grew wide. Standing there was a beautiful white horse—the very same horse that had been following the rangers earlier. It stood right in front of John’s grave, holding the man’s big white cowboy hat in its teeth.
Tonto dropped to his knees. He had been waiting so long for this moment. This horse had been sent there to help him; he just knew it. “Greetings, noble spirit horse,” the Comanche Indian said.
As Tonto watched, the horse dropped the hat. Then, ever so gently, the horse pushed away the dirt covering John’s body with its hoof, revealing the ranger star. Tonto looked at the badge, then up at the horse. This had to be a joke. The horse couldn’t mean John Reid. Straight-edged, law-abiding, gun-fearing John Reid? No, there had to be some mistake.
Tonto stood up, walked over to the grave, and pointed at John. “Half-wit,” he told the horse. “Wet brain.” Then he led the horse to Dan’s grave and pointed. “Great warrior.”
The spirit horse walked back over to John’s grave.
Once again, Tonto led the horse back to Dan’s. And once again, the horse shook his mane and made his way back to John. This time he even licked John’s face.
Tonto’s shoulders dropped and he let out a sigh. The spirit horse had spoken. And it looked like Tonto was going to have to listen, whether he liked it or not.
John’s head hurt terribly. His throat was parched and his eyelids felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. For a moment, John was able to open his eyes. But only for a moment. He was able to make out a beautiful white horse and then his eyes closed again and he succumbed to the darkness.
A series of images began to appear through the darkness. There was a flash of sun and then it faded away to reveal Tonto’s face, glowing red over a fire. A scorpion crawled across a series of Comanche Indian cave drawings before fading away. Once more, Tonto appeared, this time dropping a ranger badge into the fire as water began to flow over the silver. John heard the sound of horses’ hooves pounding the ground, and then the air filled with the noise of a thousand locusts as they swarmed around a dead bird. John struggled and called out and then that image faded. In its place was Rebecca, her hair blowing in the breeze as it had all those years earlier… And then she too was gone and Tonto appeared one last time as he poured molten silver into a bullet casing. The last thing he saw, as the darkness began to fade, was Cavendish, wiping blood across his brow.
John woke with a start. His heart was pounding and his head felt fuzzy. He began to get to his feet but fell back down, dizzy. When he was finally able to stand, he found himself on a ledge, thousands of feet in the air. John stepped back until he was pressed up against the rock wall. Seeing a path, he slowly began to make his way down.
It took him a while, but finally he got to the bottom of the path. The first thing he saw was a clearing. And in the middle of the clearing stood Tonto, talking to a large white horse. Cautiously, John approached him. Looking down, he noticed a gun lying among a pile of assorted items. He inched forward, his hand outstretched…
“If you’re going to sneak up on an Indian, best do it downwind,” the Comanche said, startling John.
Acting quickly, John snatched up the gun. Another wave of dizziness washed over him and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. “Why are you talking to that horse?” he asked when he could see again.
“My grandfather spoke of a time when animals could speak,” Tonto answered, his back still turned to John. “When you get them alone, some still do. I cannot decide if this one is stupid, or just pretending.”
John sighed. Tonto made no sense at all. Looking down, John noticed two things. One, he had no boots on. And two, he was very, very dirty. “Why am I covered in dirt?”
“Because I buried you,” Tonto said as though that were obvious.
Buried him? “Then…why am I alive?”
Finally, Tonto turned. He moved toward John. “The horse says you’re a Spirit Walker. A man who has been to the other side and returned and, therefore, cannot be killed in battle.…” Tonto’s voice trailed off as he lifted John’s hand and poured birdseed into it. “But he’s just a horse.”
As Tonto turned to walk away, John looked down at the seed in his hand and then at the other man. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. “Are those my boots?” he asked.
The Comanche kept walking. There would be time for questions later. Now he needed to start a fire and get food, or else it would be a long, cold, hungry night.
Night had fallen and the sky was full of a thousand stars. A fire crackled near the clearing’s creek as a rabbit slowly turned on a spit, roasting. Tonto had told John what had happened after he was shot in the canyon, and now the two of them sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, John spoke up. “They cut out his heart,” he said, his voice full of sadness and confusion. “What kind of man does something like that?”
“Not a man,” Tonto corrected. “An evil spirit, born in the empty spaces of the desert. A hunger that cannot be satisfied, with the power to throw nature out of balance.” Pausing, he picked a piece of meat off the rabbit and then threw it to the edge of the clearing. A dozen more rabbits leaped out of the shadows, tearing into the meat. The Comanche’s eyes grew wide and he inched closer to the fire. Noticing John was looking at him, he went on. “My people call the spirit Windigo. I am Tonto of the Comanche, last of the Windigo hunters.”
“What do you want from me?” John asked, confused. What Tonto was saying sounded downright crazy.
Tonto stood up and walked over to the white horse. “A vision said a great warrior and Spirit Walker would help me on my quest,” Tonto said as he reached into a saddlebag. “I would have preferred someone else. Your brother, for instance. He would have been good. But who am I to question the Great Father?”
“All I know is a man killed my brother,” John said angrily. “I’ll see him hang for it.”
Tonto nodded. He had expected John to say something like that. “Then you will need this.” He held out a silver bullet.
“A bullet?” John said, taking the small item in his hand. “A silver bullet?”
“Silver made him what he is,” Tonto answered. “And so it will return him to the earth.”
John had heard enough. He didn’t need silver bullets or some crazy Comanche searching for a mythical Windigo. He needed justice. And that was not something Tonto seemed to understand. Standing up, he took Tonto’s hand and placed the bullet in his palm. He closed the man’s fingers around it. “You know what?” he said. “I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me, but I should get back.” Grabbing his boots, he began
to struggle into them.
“I am also looking for Butch Cavendish,” Tonto said. “I was prisoner on the train the way the coyote stalks the buffalo. After hunting twenty-six years I finally had my prey.” John began to walk away, but Tonto’s next words stopped him in his tracks. “Until you interfered.”
Turning, John raised an eyebrow. “Actually, I think I saved your life. So we’re even.”
For a moment, Tonto just stared at him, a wild look in his eye. Then he reached out and—SLAP!—hit him right across the face.
“OW!” John cried out. “What was that for?”
Tonto shrugged. Then he pointed at his bird as if to say the animal had done it. “Bird angry,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I can’t help you,” John snapped. He turned on his heel and began to walk away once more. “Or your bird.”
“Where are you going?” Tonto called after him.
“Into town to form a posse,” John shouted over his shoulder. He needed to get back to Colby. Back to Rebecca and Danny. He needed to figure out his next steps before Cavendish slipped even farther away.
“Wouldn’t do that, Kemosabe,” Tonto said. “A greater power wanted your brother dead.”
“Right, a spirit. I know.”
Tonto shook his head. “There was a gun waiting for Cavendish on the train.”
John stopped. Behind him Tonto was once again sitting by the fire, working a piece of leather.
“Eight men rode into the canyon,” the Comanche Indian went on, not looking up. “I only dug seven graves.”
A wave of realization washed over John and he felt dizzy and sick. Now he knew what Tonto was getting at. “Collins,” he said softly.
Tonto nodded. “Find the traitor, you find the man who killed your brother.”
Finally, John turned around, his eyes full of emotion. Tonto threw the piece of leather at his feet. Reaching down, John saw it was a piece of his brother’s vest. Two bullet holes, ringed in blood, pierced the dark brown leather. While they had been talking, Tonto had fashioned it into a mask.
“Eyes cut by the bullets that killed him,” Tonto said. “From the great beyond, he will protect you…and the ones you love.”
“You want me to wear a mask?” John asked, holding up the leather.
Tonto nodded. “The men you seek think you are dead, Kemosabe. Better to stay that way.”
For a moment, John said nothing. This was not what he had imagined when he had agreed to come home. But he also couldn’t imagine letting his brother’s death go unpunished. Finally, he spoke. “If we ride together, it’s to bring these men to justice in a court of law. Is that understood?”
Picking up John’s hat, Tonto knocked a crease in it. Then he held it out, as if it were a contract. “Justice is what I seek, Kemosabe.…”
John had donned the mask, albeit grudgingly, and agreed that keeping his identity a secret was probably a good idea. While he didn’t like it, he was the lone ranger. It was up to him to bring justice.
After following Tonto out of the clearing and through the desert, John now found himself riding through the strangest town he had ever seen. As they made their way down the street, they passed by a fire breather who blew a plume of smoke in their faces. There were doors leading to elaborate gambling halls. Bearded ladies and monkey boys stood in front of a circus tent while women of the night flaunted their wares from the windows of nearly every building. There seemed to be a distraction for every type of person. All in one place.
Shifting in his seat, the Lone Ranger reached up and adjusted the mask on his face. He had been uncomfortable before they arrived, but now he was downright miserable. “What is this place?” he asked, turning to Tonto.
“The iron horse carried you west…here is where it lifts its tail.” Tonto pulled out his watch and tried to flick it open. As usual, the trick didn’t work.
The pair continued through the town until they finally arrived in front of a tent with loud, bawdy music filtering out through its doors. The Lone Ranger could make out the shadows of people dancing, drinking, and having a good time. In front of the entrance stood a mountain of a man named Homer.
They dismounted their horses and made their way over to the big man. The Lone Ranger held out a flyer that Collins had given to him before they had left Colby. On the front was written RED’S TRAVELING ENTERTAINMENT. “We’re looking for somebody,” he said.
Homer glanced down at the man in the mask and the Comanche with the bird. He raised an eyebrow. Red’s had a lot of things, but Homer wasn’t sure it had what these guys were looking for. “Got money?”
“Of course,” the Lone Ranger replied, reaching into his pockets. They were empty. “Actually, I seem to be a little light.”
Reaching around him, Tonto handed Homer the silver pillbox he had taken from one of the rangers. Homer took it, his giant hand dwarfing the small box. It seemed to do the trick. With a flourish, Homer pulled aside the tent flaps and ushered them inside.
Nothing could have prepared the Lone Ranger for the sight that greeted him. It was a place completely dedicated to drinking, gambling, fighting, and more. Everywhere he looked, the Lone Ranger saw women laughing and dancing with railway men from all over the world. The men who worked tirelessly on the railroad by day had come here to forget about the hours of tough manual labor in the blistering hot sun. Singing, yelling, laughing, and screaming echoed throughout the bawdy room as the Lone Ranger and Tonto entered the establishment.
“The sickness of greed is strong,” Tonto said solemnly as the Lone Ranger scanned the area, looking for Red.
The masked man and the Comanche continued to follow Homer through the tent and up a flight of stairs. They arrived at a balcony overlooking the entire room. “Couple freaks to see you,” Homer announced.
Sitting behind a desk, Red Harrington studied her account books through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. In her hand she held a beaker full of a chemical concoction that she shook absentmindedly.
“Better let me do the talking,” the Lone Ranger whispered to Tonto. After all, he was a lawyer. Speaking convincingly was part of the job. And a pretty woman like Red? She would probably love his charms. “Ma’am…” he began.
Red looked up. “What’s with the mask?” she asked. She lifted her right leg and dropped it onto the desk with a loud THUMP! Her leg was, in actuality, an impressive prosthetic. Tonto’s eyes grew wide while the Lone Ranger blushed. Ignoring the men’s reactions, Red continued. “Second thought, don’t answer that. One thing you learn in my business: killers, preachers, war heroes, and railroaders—every man has a thing.”
The combination of “war hero” and “railroader” reminded the Lone Ranger of someone. “You referring to Mr. Cole?” he asked.
“Oh, no, not Mr. Cole,” Red replied, shaking her scarlet hair. “By all reports he’s no longer guided by the same imperatives as other men.” As she spoke, she raised her skirt slightly, revealing more of the prosthetic leg. Tonto’s eyes bulged as she adjusted her garter.
“Well, in this case, I can assure you, the mask is purely functional,” the Lone Ranger said, trying to get back on track.
But Red had something else in mind. Yanking on her garter, she fired a small gun hidden in the heel of her shoe. As the Lone Ranger and Tonto jumped, a chair at the end of the bar beneath them exploded, sending a man flying. This was Red’s intended target. The man who had been seated in that chair had been drinking and refused to pay and was now pawing at one of her dancers. Red had to make an example for all to see. The dancer, thankful for the intervention, smiled and waved up at Red. “Everyone pays, gentlemen!” Red announced before turning her attention back to her two guests.
Unable to help himself, Tonto leaned closer to the leg. “Scrimshaw?” he asked.
“Ivory,” Red corrected.
Watching the two, the Lone Ranger let out a sigh. They were never going to get any answers if he left it up to Tonto. “We’re looking for a man, name of Collins,” he said. “Trac
ker, speaks Indian.”
“Never heard of him,” Red said, shrugging her pale white shoulders.
The Lone Ranger’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe her for a minute. He knew for a fact Collins had visited this establishment. Pulling back his jacket, he flashed his badge. “You know, on my way in, I happened to notice a number of fairly serious health code violations.” Red didn’t seem bothered. So the Lone Ranger went on. “Inadequately marked fire escapes and a fairly sinister-looking jar of pickles on the bar. I’d hate to have to shut you down.”
Red raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Homer?” she called. “Help these morons find the door, would you?”
Tonto’s eyes flashed with fury, and before the Lone Ranger knew what was happening, the Comanche Indian had stabbed a knife into Red’s account book. “Windigo getting away!” he cried.
Instantly, multiple guns were pointed at their heads. Red herself held a pearl-handled revolver aimed directly at Tonto’s face. “What is he talking about?” she demanded, looking at the Lone Ranger.
“Nothing,” he replied, his hands in the air. “It’s an Indian thing.”
Tonto shook his head, furious. “Man with a taste for human flesh,” he said.
There was a beat as the expression on Red’s face changed from annoyed to afraid. “Butch Cavendish,” she said softly.
“That’s right,” the Lone Ranger said.
Red uncocked and lowered the gun. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”
A short while later, the Lone Ranger and Tonto found themselves in a place few men were allowed—Red’s bedchamber. As she led them inside, she gave them information. “Collins was in about a week ago. With a lawman. Ranger like you, matter of fact. Said his name was Reid.”
Tonto, who had been scanning the contents of Red’s room with avid curiosity, looked up. Across the room, the Lone Ranger shook his head. “Dan Reid?” he asked. “You must be mistaken. He’s a married man.”
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