SLAP! Tonto hit him across the face.
“Sure about that?” Barret said, laughing.
Tonto shook his head. Then he pointed at his winged companion. “Actually,” he said, eyeing the Lone Ranger apologetically, “that was the bird.”
The outlaws had heard enough. Clearly the masked man and the Comanche Indian were no threat to them. They could barely stand each other. It was time to put an end to this little get-together. Dropping his bottle on the ground, Barret slowly reached for his weapon as he and Jesus spread out.
The Lone Ranger waved his gun back and forth between the two outlaws, unable to keep it on just one man.
“I take the Spaniard,” Tonto said under his breath.
Clutching his gun, the Lone Ranger nodded. He hesitated. “I haven’t fired a gun in nine years,” he finally said in a rush.
Tonto raised an eyebrow. “I would keep that to yourself, Kemosabe,” he whispered as he crouched lower and began to bob and weave.
The four men stood in a face-off. Barret’s finger twitched on the trigger as Jesus aimed at Tonto’s heart. The Lone Ranger swallowed nervously while beside him Tonto narrowed his eyes and then…
SWISH! The Indian’s knife flew through the air, ripping into Jesus’s arm. The Mexican let out a scream and dropped his weapon. Seeing his chance, the Lone Ranger fired.
His bullet hit Barret’s gun hand, causing the outlaw to pull the trigger. As the Lone Ranger watched, eyes wide, the bullet hit the weather vane on top of the nearby silo and flew back down toward the ground. Then it bounced off the blade of a shovel propped up against the barn, and whizzed over Tonto’s head and then right into a winch in the still smothering hayloft. With a groan, the winch snapped, releasing a huge piece of timber that flew down and with a loud CRACK! hit the two outlaws in the head, killing them instantly.
For a moment, neither the Lone Ranger nor Tonto said anything. What had just happened had been rather, well, unbelievable. Finally, Tonto nodded. “Great shot,” he said.
“Actually,” the Lone Ranger said, wiping a sweaty palm on his leg, “that was supposed to be a warning shot.”
“In that case, not so good,” Tonto said as he began to walk over to the bodies.
Glancing at the Comanche, the Lone Ranger bit his lip. Tonto’s bird hung limply from his head. It appeared the outlaws hadn’t been the only ones caught in the cross fire.
Noticing the Lone Ranger’s look, Tonto raised an eyebrow. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the Lone Ranger replied, shaking his head.
With a shrug, Tonto began to search the bodies. From around Jesus’s neck he took a totem; it was the same totem that Dan Reid had once worn. Holding it, he muttered an incantation in Comanche. When that was done, he moved on to Barret. But the Lone Ranger had seen the totem.
“It was my brother’s,” he said, reaching out.
Tonto shook his head. “No. Comanche. Very holy.”
As Tonto continued to trade with the dead men, the Lone Ranger looked across the farm. They had managed to destroy some of Cavendish’s men, but there were still more out there. Including Collins. And the outlaws still had Rebecca and Danny. How were they ever going to find them now?
When he mentioned it, Tonto simply nodded. “Tracks lead north toward Indian country,” he said, pointing at the hoofprints that led away from the farm.
“Four hundred square miles over rock and desert,” the Lone Ranger pointed out. “Even an Indian can’t track that.”
“So we follow the horse, Kemosabe.” Reaching out, Tonto slapped Barret’s horse on its rump. It reared up and then took off, racing into the desert, its coat gleaming in the moonlight.
With a sigh, the Lone Ranger began to walk. Beside him, Tonto adjusted the lifeless bird on his head. “Kemosabe? Why do you keep calling me that?” the Lone Ranger asked. “What does it mean?”
“Wrong brother,” Tonto replied simply. Picking up his pace, he walked on by.
Behind him, the Lone Ranger nodded, resigned. The Comanche was probably right. But until they found Rebecca and Danny and arrested Collins and Cavendish, he wasn’t going to give up his quest for justice.
Above a rocky pool, clouds drifted through a blue sky, casting shadows on the ground below. The water was calm, its surface a clear reflection of the sky.
Suddenly, the reflection was shattered as a man jumped into the pool. The water rippled and splashed over the sandy shore as Skinny, one of Cavendish’s men, floundered about, hooting and hollering. Nearby, Cavendish’s other men lowered their faces to the water, eagerly washing off their war paint.
As far from the men as she could get, Rebecca Reid kneeled down and cupped her hand. She scooped up some water and held it to her son’s parched lips. Danny drank eagerly, his slender body shaking.
“Pretty as they say, aren’t you,” a deep voice said from behind Rebecca.
Turning, she saw Cavendish staring down at her. “My husband will kill you for this,” she said, pulling Danny closer to her.
Around her, the men snickered. Rebecca looked at them one by one, trying to figure out what was going on. And then Cavendish spoke, his words breaking her heart.
“That’d be a trick,” he said, smiling cruelly. “Last time I saw your husband he was drowning in his own blood. I’d like to say he died well. Truth is, he begged like a dog.”
Rebecca felt the blood drain from her face as, beside her, Danny’s eyes filled with tears. Every time Dan had ridden off, Rebecca had lived with the fear that he would never return. But he always had. And now this man, this monster, had made her worst nightmare come true. With a cry, Rebecca stood up and lunged at Cavendish, scratching her nails down his face.
Pushing her off him, Cavendish reached up and touched the wound. His fingers came away bloody. Furious, Cavendish drew his knife. No woman was worth the trouble. He lifted the weapon and was about to bring it down when…
NEIGH!
The sound of a horse stopped him. Cavendish turned, ready for a fight. But it was only Frank.
The man rode into the clearing, breathing heavily. Falling from his horse, he grabbed the nearest bottle and drank thirstily. His hand shook as the liquid poured down his throat.
“Where’s Barrett and Jesus?” Cavendish asked.
Wiping liquid from his chin, Frank looked up. “Killed ’em,” he said, his voice trembling. “Straight draw, fired one bullet. They didn’t stand a chance.”
“Who killed ’em?” Cavendish asked, stepping closer.
Frank shrank back. “Wore a mask,” he said. “Riding a white horse.”
Cavendish narrowed his eyes. Frank was making less sense than usual. Drawing his gun, Cavendish aimed it between Frank’s eyes. “Better start talking straight. Now, who killed ’em?”
“He was a ranger, Butch,” Frank stammered. “A lone ranger.”
The man had clearly been in the sun for too long. There were no rangers left. His whole gang knew it. They had killed them all.
But Frank went on. “Ghost of Dan Reid. Said he’s coming for you. Shouldn’t have done what you did.”
Butch had had enough. “Shut up!” he snarled as he violently backhanded Frank, sending him flying. Around him, the other men exchanged worried looks. “Let him come. Killed him once, won’t have to answer for it when I kill him again.”
Rebecca saw the fear in the outlaws’ eyes and the anger in Cavendish’s. It made her brave and she stepped forward. “Scared, aren’t you?” she said. Whipping around, Cavendish let out a growl. “You should be,” she replied.
Cavendish didn’t respond right away. Instead, he flipped open his gun to check the bullets and then closed it. He spun the chamber. Only then did he look up, the anger gone, once again replaced with evil. “Know what the Indians call this place?” he asked. Rebecca shook her head. “Valley of Tears. Hey, Collins.”
The traitorous tracker had been sitting apart from the others, his head hung low. At the sound of his name, he looked up. Cavendish wa
s holding out his gun, a mean smile on his lips. “I want you to take these two out there behind that rock…and I want you to kill them both.”
“I ain’t doing it,” Collins said, shaking his head.
Cavendish flipped the gun in his hand so it was now pointing at Collins. “You got paid,” he said. “You go all the way, or you get off here.”
Collins looked at the gun and then at Rebecca and Danny. Slowly, he got to his feet. Taking the gun from Cavendish, he gestured to the prisoners. With Collins’s gun at their backs, Rebecca and Danny began to walk.
The three made their way through ancient rock formations, past dusty plants and old bones. Finally, they came to a hill. All around them were signs of death and decay. Valley of Tears was an appropriate name for the sad and empty place.
“That’s far enough,” Collins said.
Rebecca and Danny stopped. Collins came up behind them, gun raised. Slowly, Rebecca turned, pulling her son close. She stared at Collins. This was the man her husband had trusted with his life. The man Dan’s father had trusted with his life. And yet here he was, about to kill them both. And for what? Money given to him by a horrible outlaw. Pity filled Rebecca’s eyes and Collins looked away.
“Don’t look at me,” he said.
“He loved you,” Rebecca replied simply.
The words hit home and Collins winced. “I said, don’t look at me.”
She turned away. Holding Danny tightly, she braced herself. The wind whistled through the rocks and then—
BANG! BANG!
Rebecca flinched, ready for the pain to follow the shots. But no pain came. Opening her eyes, she saw that Collins had fired the gun—at the dirt.
“Run,” he said. When she hesitated, he pushed her. “Please, run!”
This time, Rebecca didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Danny’s hand, and they began to sprint down the rocky hill, slipping and sliding as it became steeper and steeper. Suddenly, Rebecca lost her footing and fell, landing hard and splitting open her brow. Danny bent down and tried to lift her, but he was too weak. They both fell back to the ground. Stifling a cry, the young boy looked around for something, anything, to help him. And then he heard the rhythmic pounding of hoofbeats.
His eyes grew wide as a rider raced up to them. There was a bang! And behind them, Collins fell back, dead.
Danny let out a sigh of relief. They had been saved…but by whom?
The Lone Ranger was so thirsty. They had been following Barret’s horse for what felt like an eternity, and still seemed no closer to finding Cavendish. His feet were blistered, his lips were parched, and his head ached. Beside him, Tonto staggered along, hiding from the burning sun underneath a pink parasol he had taken from Frank.
“Why would Cavendish make it look like Comanche violated the treaty?” the Lone Ranger asked, breaking the silence. The question had been bothering him ever since they had left the farm.
“Perhaps he wanted us to think Comanche violated the treaty,” Tonto replied. As the Lone Ranger rolled his eyes at the very unhelpful answer, Tonto pulled out his watch and once again tried to flip it open. Once again, the trick did not work.
“Something to do with what my brother found in the desert?” the Lone Ranger said, more to himself than to Tonto.
But Tonto replied anyway. “Perhaps,” he said. “Real question is what they want with Rebecca and Danny.”
“I don’t want to think about that,” the Lone Ranger said, trying to put an end to the conversation.
Tonto ignored the hint. “I figure Windigo wants what all creatures want.” Despite himself, the ranger looked over. “To pass on its seed. But, if I were you, I would be more concerned about the boy.”
Why wouldn’t he just stop speaking? Every single thing he said made the Lone Ranger feel sick.
Tonto went on. “A young heart is open to the Windigo. He will try to make him a creature like himself.”
“You know, you’re not helping,” the Lone Ranger said, picking up the pace to try to put distance between himself and the Comanche. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. He strode forward, ignoring the pain in his feet. But after a few steps, he realized Tonto wasn’t even bothering to catch up. Turning around, he saw that Tonto and the horse had stopped walking. “What is it now?”
Lifting his nose in the air, Tonto took a big sniff. Unsure what to do, the Lone Ranger did the same thing. He didn’t smell anything. Then Tonto turned and looked at Barret’s horse, as if waiting for an answer from the creature.
In reply, the horse swayed. Then it let out a loud groan. And then, as the Lone Ranger watched in horror, it fell over, dead.
“Now what?” the Lone Ranger asked. They had been following the horse the whole time. How were they supposed to know where to go without it? They were surrounded by flat, relentless desert. There were no street signs to guide them or places to stop and ask for directions.
Tonto shrugged.
It was the last straw. The Lone Ranger lost it. “We’re lost, aren’t we?” he said, his voice rising. “I knew it! Follow the horse. That was your idea. But you can’t talk to a dead horse, can you? Here, let me try.” He leaned over. “Hello? Just point the direction and we’ll take it from here. What’s that? Nothing?”
Pausing to catch his breath, the Lone Ranger glared at Tonto, who was calmly trying to feed his dead bird. But the seed just blew away in the wind. The ranger continued his rant. “Well, that’s just terrific, isn’t it? Cavendish is out there somewhere right now doing God knows what to Rebecca and Danny and I’m going to die here in the desert with you and THAT RIDICULOUS BIRD!”
Tonto didn’t reply. Instead, he began to pace through the sand. He stopped, bent down, and picked up some of the dirt. He sniffed it before dropping it and then continued his pacing. Finally, he looked at the ranger. “The woman Rebecca,” he said, “you will make her your squaw?” The Lone Ranger looked at him blankly. What was Tonto talking about? Rebecca was his brother’s wife. He could never marry her. Tonto went on. “You spoke of her in your vision. When you were on the other side, you did not see things?”
Clearly, the sun had gone to Tonto’s head. “Lack of oxygen to the brain causes hallucinations,” the Lone Ranger replied. “Everyone knows that.”
“Either way,” Tonto said, shrugging. “You did not speak of her as the wife of your brother.”
Groaning, the Lone Ranger attempted to explain the rules of polite society—which included not marrying your brother’s wife. Although, he had to admit, she technically was his widow. But still, it just wasn’t done! As the Lone Ranger rambled on, Tonto continued his odd pacing. He licked his finger and dipped it in the sand. Then he tasted it.
“Would you STOP!” the Lone Ranger shouted. “If you could track, we wouldn’t be out here in the first place!”
Tonto ignored the ranger and squatted down, examining the ground closely. “Track,” he said, looking up.
“Impossible,” the Lone Ranger said. But as he watched, Tonto took out a knife, flipped it in his palm, and then tapped the butt end against the desert floor.
PING!
The Lone Ranger’s eyes grew wide. Tonto hadn’t meant track as in footsteps; he had meant track as in railroad. But what was a track doing all the way out here?
The two men exchanged confused looks.
Before they could discuss it, there was a low whistle. A moment later, an arrow pierced the Lone Ranger’s shoulder, and with a cry he fell to the ground.
The Lone Ranger awoke with a start. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he saw that he was in a cage…with Tonto. Nearby a group of Comanche Indian warriors danced around a fire. Their chants echoed through the night, sending shivers down the Lone Ranger’s spine.
The movement sent a surge of pain down his shoulder and he suddenly remembered—he’d been shot. Glancing down, he saw the arrow was still there. Reaching over, Tonto grabbed the free end of the arrow and pulled.
“Ahh!” shouted the Lone Ranger as the projectile slid ou
t. “My God, that hurts! I thought you said I couldn’t get shot.”
“Thought so, too,” Tonto replied.
The Lone Ranger sighed. Helpful, as usual. Figuring Tonto would be able to actually answer his next question, the Lone Ranger nodded at the dancing Comanche. “Apache?”
“Comanche,” Tonto corrected.
“That’s good, right?” the Lone Ranger said, brightening. It was about time they had a bit of good luck.
But then Tonto shook his head. “Not so much,” he said, taking out a needle and a piece of thread. He began to stitch the ranger’s arm. As he worked, he explained they were doing the death dance. “They are preparing for war with the white man.”
“War?” the Lone Ranger repeated. Then he realized what Tonto was doing to his arm. “Wait, is that sterile?”
Tonto shot him a look. “Yes,” he replied as though it were obvious. Then he added, “I make urine on it.”
As Tonto jabbed the needle in for another stitch, the Lone Ranger groaned. How much worse could things possibly get?
Inside the Wild West tent, Will stopped Tonto. He had been listening intently to the elderly Tonto’s story, but now he was confused.
“War?” he repeated. “But the Comanche didn’t attack the settlements!”
Inside the diorama, Tonto danced his version of the death dance, his motions slow with age. In each hand, he held a black feather. “White man does not know this,” he replied between chants.
“But you’re going to tell them.…” Will stopped himself. He had gotten so caught up in the story he had forgotten that all this had happened long, long before. If it had happened at all. “I mean, you did tell them, right?”
Tonto stopped dancing, his watery eyes meeting Will’s young ones. For a moment, his face was filled with great sadness. And then he simply said, “Once iron horse starts, very difficult to stop.”
Latham Cole was extremely satisfied. Everything was going exactly as planned. All around him men were busy constructing a huge bridge that would span the Hawk River. Once that was complete, there would be nothing standing in his way, or rather the railroad’s way, of conquering the West. He had just a few more things to take care of.…
Lone Ranger, The (Disney Junior Novel (ebook)) Page 6