“Plenty rest,” the Indian murmured. “Him need plenty rest for things to come.” Perhaps Tonto knew that he was being prophetic.
He remained in the cave till after darkness had fallen. Then he proceeded on a grim mission, taking with him a spade. Tonto knew from a previous study of the ground near the scene of the massacre that no one from the Basin had ridden past the dead men lying there. Now, in the darkness, he continued through the Gap until he reached the point where it opened into Bryant’s Basin. He waited there, watching the distant buildings for signs of activity. He wanted to make sure his work of the night could be followed through without interruption. He saw the ranch house brilliantly lighted, and near by the long row of lighted windows that marked the bunkhouse.
The dead men weren’t far from the entrance of the Gap; it was less than a quarter of an hour’s walk on foot—less than that if a man were mounted. Tonto knew his plans would occupy most of the night, and he must not be found at work. He gathered huge armfuls of dry stalks and dead shrubbery, and spread them over the earth. Anyone entering the Gap would certainly snap a warning that would be heard by Tonto. Then the Indian, shouldering his spade, turned his back on Bryant’s Basin and the lighted house, and went to the dead men.
Inside the ranch house Penelope sank exhausted into a chair before the fireplace. Her uncle, sullen and morose, looked up at the girl.
“Get the kids tuh bed?” he asked.
Penny nodded. “We’ve got to find someone to take care of them, Uncle Bryant—some older woman who will come here.”
“I already arranged fer that.”
“You have?”
“Wallie spends most of his time in town, so I figgered he’d know more about things there. I told him tuh hire a woman that’ll come here an’ raise the youngsters.”
“Wallie!” Penny couldn’t conceal the contempt in her voice.
“I know he’s not good fer much, the damn overdressed lout, but he knows everyone in town from his tomcattin’ around. He said he c’d find someone tuh take care of the kids.”
Penny stretched her legs toward the fire and slouched back in the chair. The day had been a most strenuous one, beginning with the surprising visit of Rebecca to her room. Then there had been the ride up Thunder Mountain, the meeting with Tonto, and the subsequent return with food for the Indian’s friend. These incidents had been made to seem distant, despite the hours, by the shooting of Rebecca and Mort and the endless details that had to be attended to because of them.
With Jeb bandaging Mort’s wound while Vince barked instructions, there had been countless last rites that had to be performed for Becky. The dead woman reposed in one of the big house’s bedrooms, where she would be until the burial.
Penny watched the dancing flames for several minutes. There were so many things she wanted to discuss that she hardly knew where to begin. Bryant was a hard man, at best, to talk to. The wrong thing spoken, and he’d go into one of his tantrums or retire to a shell of stubborn silence that would tell her nothing.
“Jeb said you were the one who shot at Mort,” the girl began.
Bryant nodded. “I sensed things boilin’ up between him an’ Rebecca fer a long time. I didn’t figure he’d go as far as killin’ his wife or I’d o’ done somethin’ before now. I heard the shot he fired an’ hoped it’d gone wild—that’s why I shot tuh wound him.”
“Then you didn’t intend to kill him?”
“Course not,” snapped Bryant quickly. “Shot tuh wing him, just like I done. Yuh savvy that? I hit right where I aimed!” The old man leaned forward in his chair as he spoke, making a very definite point of what he said.
Penelope nodded. “But now that Mort is going to recover, he’ll of course be punished for murder, won’t he?”
Bryant’s eyes stared hard at the girl. “Who told yuh,” he barked, “tuh ask that?”
Penny was surprised at his intensity. “Why—why,” she stammered, “no one asked me to.”
“You sure of that?”
“Of course.”
“Yuh sure it wasn’t that cowhand called Yuma that put yuh up tuh findin’ out what my intentions was regardin’ Mort?”
“I haven’t talked with Yuma since he carried Mort here to the house.”
Bryant leaned back, eyes squinting toward the fire, lips pursed in thought. Penny tried to study her uncle’s eyes. Was it true that they were failing? If so, how could he have fired with such amazing accuracy? She remembered what Jeb had said just after the shooting: “Men with eyes that ain’t no good can’t shoot a rifle.”
Bryant Cavendish was grumbling in an undertone.
“Run this place all my life. Built ’er up from nothin’ to one o’ the best ranches in Texas. Now I can’t turn without bein’ told how tuh run my own affairs by every saddle tramp that drifts in here fer work.”
“Why did you mention Yuma?” asked Penny.
“I had a row with that upstart this afternoon.”
“Oh—” Penny lifted her eyebrows questioningly “—you did?”
“As if I didn’t know what’s goin’ on, on my own property. Why, that pipsqueak from Arizona tried tuh tell me that I was hirin’ outlaws! I told him tuh mind his own damn business an’ when I wanted advice from him I’d ask him fer it.”
Penny calculated that the argument must have been previous to her talk with Yuma, because Bryant and the blond cowhand had had no chance to talk after the shooting, which came almost immediately following her discussion at the corral. This, then, could not have been the cause of the strange change in Yuma’s manner. Yuma had been almost antagonistic when she had met him beside Mort’s fallen body.
“But, Uncle Bryant,” said Penny seriously, “are you sure you haven’t any outlaws working here? You might not know them, you see, and Yuma having been outside the Basin until just recently.…”
“That’ll do,” snapped the old man. “I’ll run this ranch without help.”
“Uncle Bryant, don’t bite my head off, I’m just curious. What are you going to do about Mort?”
“I aim tuh think the situation over, speak tuh him when he c’n talk, an’ then make up my mind. You can tell that Yuma critter that, if yore a mind tuh. I know what he thinks. He thinks I’m runnin’ a reg’lar outlaw hideout here an’ thinks I’m goin’ tuh let Mort get away with murderin’ his wife. He’ll be waitin’ tuh see what I do! Well, he c’n wait!”
The subject was on thin ice. Penny knew it would take but little to throw her uncle into a violent rage, but there were things she must have him answer. In her very best manner she leaned close to the old man.
“Uncle Bryant,” she said softly, “are you sure you can trust Vince and Mort with the authority you give them?”
“No,” was the surprising reply, “I know damn well I can’t trust ’em, but I’ve got tuh. I can’t get around, myself, an’ I won’t hire bosses from outside tuh boss my own flesh an’ blood. I’ve got tuh let them worthless louts run things.”
“I mean—” said Penny. Then she stopped. She was at a loss to know just how to put the question that was foremost in her mind. She felt instinctively that Bryant was honest. She’d known her uncle many years, and had yet to find him engaged in anything that was otherwise. She stared into the fire for some time. Stern, bitter, unbending as the old man was, he had been fair to Penny.
Bryant himself was the first to speak. He seemed to be voicing mental ills that had troubled him for some time.
“What choice have I got,” he said, as if thinking aloud, “I know them four nephews ain’t worth a damn. If I could, I’d swap the four of ’em fer a jackass.”
He turned to face Penelope. “Vince has a nature that’d pizon a rattler that was fool enough tuh bite him. Wallie ain’t worth thinkin’ about. Does nothin’ but spend all he gets on clo’es that scare the hoss he rides. Goes around with his hair all mutton-tallowed down an’ a face that’s pasty as a fish’s belly. Jeb ain’t worth the powder tuh blow him tuh hell; he ain’t the energy ev
en tuh keep his face washed. Then take—” Bryant spat into the fire “—Mort!” At the mention of the last name the old man’s disgust started at the corners of his mouth and finished by drawing the whole mouth out of shape.
“Well, he’s finished with murderin’ his wife. I hated it when he brought a wife here, Penny. It wasn’t that I disliked Rebecca; I never got tuh know her. It would o’ been the same with any wife Mort brought here. I know what a worthless pack them men are, an’ it was seein’ the Cavendish line propagated that riled me.”
Penny had never heard her uncle speak in this way. It almost seemed as if he were baring the secrets of his soul.
“Now Becky is dead,” he said with resignation. “We’ll see that she’s buried proper an’ take care of the kids. Nothin’ more tuh do.”
Bryant pushed himself from his chair and caught hold of the mantel over the fireplace. He leaned partly against it, while he fumbled for his pipe and tobacco.
While he filled the pipe and tamped the fragrant weed down with a thumb, the old man went on speaking. “I know what folks think about me, Penny,” he said. “Because I’ve fought hard an’ got rich an’ minded my own business, they’re all quick tuh call me all kinds of a crook.”
Bryant lighted the pipe and sank back to his chair. His stern manner relaxed, and for a moment he looked like a very tired old man whose troubles were almost too heavy to bear.
“I know the sort yer cousins are,” he said at length. “God knows I ain’t got where I am by not knowin’ how tuh judge men as well as hosses. They’re a pack o’ hungry buzzards, just waitin’ fer me tuh die so’s they can cut this property up among ’em. If they thought fer a second that I was hard of hearin’ or of seein’ or anything else, they’d pounce on that as an advantage tuh them.” Bryant’s face lighted for a moment. “I guess shootin’ Mort like I done will show ’em that I still can shoot straight when I’ve a mind tuh.”
Penny couldn’t ask then if Bryant’s eyes were failing. He’d deny it, no matter what the truth.
Bryant blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Only one thing I’m hopin’,” he said. “I’ve got tuh see you taken care of.”
A rap on the door broke off the conversation. Lonergan, a new man at the ranch, was there. He was much more suave than any of the other employees and seemed something more than just a cowboy, though he lived in the bunkhouse, with the others.
“I’ve been waitin’ fer you, Lonergan,” said Bryant.
“I’m ready.”
Cavendish rose and muttered a word of good night to Penny. Lonergan followed the old man upstairs to the second floor, and a moment later Penelope heard the door of a bedroom close.
She went outside, hoping the cool breeze of night would blow some of the confusion from her mind. Someone came toward the porch from the direction of the bunkhouse with a rolling gait. It was Yuma. He doffed his hat when he saw Penny on the porch, and said, “I was sure hopin’ you’d be about, Miss Penny.”
“I hear that you and Uncle Bryant had some words, Yuma.”
The moonlight showed the serious look on Yuma’s face. He nodded. “That’s sort of why I come here. I—I wanted tuh speak with you, ma’am.… I er—”
“Will you sit down?”
“Thanks, but I c’n sort of talk better, standin’ up. I dunno just how tuh get intuh what I want tuh say, but I…well, after I shot Mort—”
“You?”
“Eh?” said Yuma in surprise.
“Did you say you shot Mort?” demanded Penny.
“Sure! I would have drilled him clean if I hadn’t been thrown off by yer uncle’s shootin’. That’s why I come here.”
“My-my uncle’s shot…then there were two shots?”
“We both fired tuhgether, Bryant an’ me. His rifle bullet jest missed me. It drilled my hat here, as you c’n see.” Yuma stuck his finger through a neat hole in his hat. “I was fool enough tuh let Bryant know that I knowed the crooks that was workin’ here. He tried tuh kill me so’s I couldn’t tell no one.”
“Yuma, that isn’t true. Uncle Bryant fired at Mort. He thought he hit Mort; he told me so.”
Yuma nodded. “That’s what his story’ll be,” he said, “only, it don’t go down with me. I come tuh ask yuh, Miss Penny, if there ain’t some place you can go instead o’ here.”
“But I don’t want to go anywhere else. Furthermore, I don’t believe what you said about my uncle.”
“Yuh won’t leave, eh?”
“Of course not! This is my home!”
“It’d be downright unsafe here if somethin’ happened tuh Bryant, wouldn’t it, ma’am?”
Penny drew herself up stiffly. “Aren’t you,” she demanded, “having a lot to say—for a cowhand?”
“Mebbe so,” the cowboy muttered. “I’m right sorry.” With that he turned and walked away.
Penny sat down on the steps more bewildered than ever. She felt weak, helpless against the strange confusion of ideas and intrigue, suspicions and apprehensions, in the Basin. She stared across the level ground and saw the mouth of Bryant’s Gap brilliantly lighted by the moon.
CHAPTER X
The Lone Ranger
It was daybreak when the man in the cave wakened in surprise to find that he had slept the night through. A fragrant aroma of coffee and bacon crisping on a fire made him realize that he was ready for a solid meal. Tonto looked up from his cooking and grinned. The Texan felt of his wounded shoulder. He was amazed at the way the swelling had completely disappeared. He could even move his arm without too much pain. He felt alive this morning. He stood. He was a bit unsteady, but his wounded foot would bear his weight, thanks to the manner in which Tonto had bandaged it.
Sunlight streamed past the opening of the cave and turned the Gap bright and cheerful. Cold water dashed into his face made the Ranger wide-awake. He felt of his three-day growth of beard and turned to Tonto. “I must look like a desert rat,” he said ruefully.
“That easy to fix. How you feel?”
“First-rate, Tonto, thanks to you.”
Tonto beamed and dished up fresh eggs with the bacon. “Today,” he said, “you get plenty well.”
Food never tasted finer than that breakfast did. When it was finished, the Indian produced the Ranger’s duffle, which included, not only shaving materials, but fresh clothing. While the Texan pulled off the mud- and blood-stained remnants of the clothing he’d been wearing, and bathed in the cool stream, the Indian told how he had buried the men in the canyon during the night. He explained that he’d made six fresh graves, though only five men were dead. Whoever visited the scene of battle, and no one from the Basin had yet done so, might wonder who had done the burying, but the impression would be given that all six of the Rangers had died. The trail would clearly show that but six men had ridden there and six lay buried. There would be no search for a survivor who might carry back to town the news of the massacre. The farsighted Indian had destroyed the trail made by the one who lived as he had crept from the scene.
The identity of the wounded man was buried in an empty grave. The Ranger saw the wisdom in Tonto’s scheme. So far he had no idea who the killers were. If they knew he had survived, they would hunt him down while he had no conception of their identity. With the killers misguided into false security, he would be left unmolested as long as he wasn’t recognized as a Texas Ranger.
When he had finished dressing in the clean clothes and boots that Tonto had brought, the Texan sat beside the stream to think. Tonto busied himself about the cave, showing a tact and understanding that was rare in any man. The Indian seemed to know that the Texan wanted to be left alone. He waited to answer what questions might be asked.
The Texan’s eyes fell upon a small black book that was on the gravel at his side. It lay open to the flyleaf, and there was an inscription penned in the fine handwriting that engravers try so hard to copy. The man picked up the Bible and looked at his mother’s words: “To my son, with all my love and a prayer that he will carry with him a
lways the lessons we studied together.”
He remembered candle-lit evenings at his mother’s side in a pioneer home. He recalled the time when he had memorized the Ten Commandments, reciting them, then listening to his father’s interpretation of the original laws of living as applied to life in the new West. Those laws had seemed so simple, yet so all-embracing. His father had said that life was supposed to be simple and that only man-made laws complicated things.
Man-made laws failed so often. As a Texas Ranger he had seen rich murderers freed by juries while poor men were jailed interminably for stealing food to ward off the death of their starving children. Man-made law couldn’t be relied upon to serve the highest form of justice. He thought of his five comrades, now buried in an isolated gap. What law could punish their murderers? How could he find those murderers, and having found them, what proof would there be against them? “Thou Shalt Not Kill.” That was the law. Yet who was there to find and punish those who had already killed five brave men? He knew something of the Cavendish clan. In the Basin there were men who would probably give false testimony. There was unlimited money to be spent in bribes if needed. There was Bryant Cavendish, a law unto himself. Against these forces he stood alone, and practically helpless.
In spite of the odds against his success, the Texan found himself breathing a silent pledge to the souls of his friends. “I’ll find the ones who did it,” he whispered, “and I’ll see them made to pay in full.”
Even as he spoke he knew of another pledge he’d made. A pledge to his mother that he’d mind the precepts he had learned. One of these was “Thou Shalt Not Kill.”
While pledged not to kill, he must confront hard men to whom murder was a mere detail in a day’s work. When and if the showdown came, after he had found the murderers he sought, it would probably be a case of kill or be killed. He didn’t mind dying if it would serve his ends, but his own death would in no way avenge the lives of his friends. Neither would it serve the cause of justice by ridding the country of inglorious ravagers.
He found himself considering the things in his favor. The fact that he had survived the fight was known only to himself and Tonto. He would not be recognized because of his horse. The only other men who knew that white stallion were dead. He could change his appearance by disguise, if necessary. He wondered if these last few days hadn’t already changed his looks. He felt he must have aged considerably. His outlook on life was certainly changed. He no longer felt like the carefree Ranger. He felt older, more serious, more grim.
The Second Western Megapack Page 142