He rose to his feet and called, “Tonto.”
The Indian advanced. In his hand there were guns, holsters, and a heavy cartridge belt. “Maybe now,” he said, “you look at guns.”
The Texan recognized the brace of perfectly matched and balanced revolvers. “My own!”
Tonto nodded. “After you fall, other Ranger take guns. Tonto find near fight.”
The weight of the belt on his hips was good. It gave the man a feeling of competence. He drew the guns and spun them by the trigger guard. Reflected light splashed off the spinning weapons. Then the butts dropped in his palms, and the guns were steady. With those weapons the Ranger had ridden a fast horse at top speed and kept a tin can bouncing ahead of him with bullets. He could—and frequently he had done it—restrain his draw until fast gun-slingers had their own weapons free of the holster, and still get the drop on them.
He “broke” one of the guns and dumped the cartridges into the palm of his hand. “You loaded them, eh?”
Tonto nodded.
There was something about the cartridges—they gleamed brilliantly. He studied them a moment, and looked questioningly at the Indian.
“Those bullet,” Tonto said, “are silver.” It was true. The bullets in the cartridges were hard, solid silver. The Texan looked puzzled. “That makes pretty high-priced shooting,” he said.
“You not shoot much,” Tonto replied. Then he explained how the precious metal for the bullets had come from the Texan’s own silver mine. Tonto himself had cast the metal.
The white man marveled at the complete knowledge Tonto had of him and of his affairs.
Then Tonto brought a mask from beneath his buckskin shirt. It was black, and fashioned to cover the entire upper part of a man’s face, effectively concealing all identity.
“Wear this,” Tonto said.
The white man hesitated. “If I go about wearing a mask, the law will be in full chase in no time,” he said.
Tonto nodded. “You hunt-um outlaw!”
Birds of a feather! By concealing his identity with the mask, his disguise would serve a second purpose. It would mark him in such a way that outlaws might welcome his company and thus put him in possession of information otherwise impossible to secure.
“Other Ranger all dead,” said Tonto, as the white man tried the mask and found it a perfect fit. “You only Ranger now. You all alone.”
“All alone,” repeated the other softly. “Except for you, Tonto. It seems that it’s your plan for us to travel together.”
Tonto nodded slowly, soberly. He held out his brown hand again. In the palm there was a metal badge. The Texas Ranger’s badge. The white man took it, looked at it, then closed his fist about it tightly. “The Texas Rangers,” he said softly, “are dead. All six of them have gone. In their place there’s just one man. The lone Ranger.” He put the badge deep in his pocket and murmured again, “The Lone Ranger.”
CHAPTER XI
The Lone Ranger Rides
The lone ranger kept the mask across his eyes and experimented with his guns. His shoulder made it hard for him to draw the gun on his left, but he found that his smooth speed seemed to have suffered no loss when he drew the other shining weapon. As a test he unloaded and holstered the pistol. “I’ll just make sure,” he muttered to Tonto. Standing with his right hand straight before him, palm down, he placed a pebble on the back of his hand. He dropped the hand with almost invisible speed, jerked out his gun, leveled it, and snapped the hammer back, then down. All this was done before the pebble touched the ground.
Tonto grinned at the demonstration and said, “That do.”
The masked man sat down and replaced the cartridges in his gun’s cylinder. “So we’re going to travel together,” he said.
Tonto nodded slowly.
The Lone Ranger liked the idea. Tonto’s unequaled knowledge of woodcraft and his animal-like skill in following a trail that was invisible to white men would make him a powerful ally.
Tonto told about the cattle trails he’d found beyond the top of Thunder Mountain, and the trail that led from the mountain’s top to the clearing and beyond into the Basin. He told of his suspicions that stolen cattle were harbored in the Basin.
When the masked man asked where Tonto had secured the food he’d brought, the Indian evaded answering. His pride had suffered when he had been compelled to ask a girl to help him. He felt just a little bit like many of the vagrant, begging Indians that were so despised in certain parts of the country. Nothing but the urgent need of his friend would have prompted Tonto to request those favors, and he fully intended some day to wipe out the obligation. The Lone Ranger didn’t press the point.
Tonto did, however, answer many questions that had bothered the masked man when he explained how he happened to find the cave. He had heard shots in the Gap, and gone toward the sound. Scrambling down a rocky side of the canyon in the dark, he had seen a white horse dimly outlined in the darkness. He hadn’t suspected that the horse was Silver, but instinctively he had sounded the birdlike trill that Silver knew. When the big stallion came to Tonto’s side, he saw that there was no equipment behind the saddle and assumed that Silver was alone. He had led Silver into hiding until dawn, when he followed the back trail to the scene of murder. Signs there showed that one man had gone wounded from the scene. He followed, then, the blood-marked trail until he came to the cave.
“As simple as all that,” the masked man commented when Tonto finished his recital. “If I hadn’t been so nearly unconscious, I’d have recognized your whistle.”
The two spent most of the forenoon making plans and preparations. The masked man’s wounds still bothered him, but he felt equal to a long ride and he was eager to get started on his investigation. He wore the mask continually, so it would become a familiar part of him, and not something strange that hampered his movements.
After their noon meal the two were ready, with their duffle loaded on the backs of Scout and Silver. The white horse seemed eager to be in action once again with his master in the saddle. He whinnied jubilantly when the cinch was pulled tight, and his great strength showed in every rippling muscle beneath his snow white coat.
Tonto mounted Scout, then waited. The Lone Ranger placed one foot in the stirrup and shouted, “Hi-Yo Silver!” The big horse lunged ahead. “Away-y-y,” the ringing, clear voice cried as the masked man settled in the saddle. Silver was a white flame leaping ahead, with silky mane and tail blown straight out by the wind, like the plumes of a knight in white armor. Sharp hoofs hammered on the hard rocks in a tattoo that thrilled like rolling drums. Silver had his master in the saddle, Tonto close behind him. The master’s voice rang out again to echo both ways in the canyon, “Hi-Yo Silver, Away-y-y-y.” Tonto, watching from his saddle close behind the mighty Silver, whispered, “Now Lone Ranger ride.”
A stretch of flat tableland extended for several miles between the rim of the Gap and the foot of Thunder Mountain. After the first thrilling dash, the Lone Ranger slowed Silver to let Tonto take the lead and set the route. The Indian knew exactly where to go to reach the mountain’s top without passing through the Basin. The masked man was not strong enough for great activity, but Tonto anticipated none for the time being. The purpose of this trip was merely one of observation. The Indian intended to point out cattle trails he’d seen, and study them. In so doing he and the Lone Ranger would get further away from the danger of the cave’s proximity to the Basin killers.
Tonto felt sure that the ride wouldn’t overtax the masked man. He knew his white friend was perfectly at home in the big saddle and perhaps far more comfortable than he’d be chafing with inactivity in the cave.
After an hour or so of riding, the ground became more rocky and difficult. Just ahead the mountain rose majestically. Thunder Mountain didn’t divulge her secret dangers. At first the ground sloped only gently upward, with an occasional large tree that gave soft shade. Like a seductress in green, the mountain lured the stranger on with promises of things that
were ahead. The trees became more frequent; then larger trees with tangled vines in close embrace made travel harder. As the climb became steeper, leafy discards which had rotted to soft loam gave birth to rank weeds.
The inclination increased so gradually that one wasn’t aware that it was changing. The Lone Ranger realized quite suddenly that his horse was laboring. The weeds had become a crazy tangle, merging with the vines that hung from overhead like spectral streamers. There was a constant clammy caress of invisible cobwebs on the Lone Ranger’s face, and the less subtle, sometimes painful brushing of tree trunks against his thighs.
Silver’s coat became blood-flecked where briars and brambles raked the skin. The riders had frequently to crouch or be swept from the saddle by low, far-reaching branches. None but Tonto could possibly have followed this weird and devious route.
Daylight in the woods was at best twilight. Human intrusion brought a constant cacophony of cries and chattered complaints from birds and beasts. No breeze could possibly penetrate this fastness, and the breath of the decaying things was hot and fetid as it rose from the ground. The most distant horizon was within arm’s reach. Underbrush so high that it reached overhead rose from slime that was sometimes ankle-deep.
The ride seemed endless, but the end came without warning. Breaking through a particularly dense cover of berry canes with briars that hurt, the riders found it clear ahead. The land was hard and almost arid. A thought made the masked man smile despite his exhaustion. Old Thunder Mountain needn’t be so proud—her head was bald. Wind and rain had swept the summit clean except for a few gaunt stumps of lightning-blasted trees.
Tonto was at the masked man’s side, offering to help him from the saddle.
“Now we rest,” he said. “You need rest plenty bad.”
“I’m able to go on, Tonto. It’s good to be riding again.”
Tonto shook his head. “We stop here. You rest. Tonto talk.”
CHAPTER XII
A Legal Paper
In the clear air one could see for miles from the top of Thunder Mountain. The Basin, most of it at least, was hidden by the foliage, but the view in the opposite direction encompassed endless plains that led to ranches beyond the horizon. The masked man wondered how many of those ranches had contributed to the crisscrossing of cattle tracks on the bald dome where he stood.
Tonto pointed out the things that he’d observed on previous visits and indicated where a trail had been cut to make a descent straight into the Basin.
Meanwhile, most of the people in the Basin went to Becky’s funeral. It was a simple ceremony without tears, conducted by Jeb Cavendish. No one who had known Rebecca’s life could feel sorry for her for having been released. Penny held the hands of the oldest children during the burial. She frequently felt the eyes of Yuma, standing unhatted with a number of other men, upon her, but each time she looked at the blond cowboy he was staring at the ground. Vince was there, and so were most of the cowhands. Wallie was somewhere away from the Basin. Bryant had a distant view from his seat on the porch of the house. Mort was still in bed with a bandage around his neck.
Jeb seemed to enjoy his brief period as the center of attraction and postponed conclusion of the services as long as possible. When he ultimately pronounced a benediction, Yuma hurried away as if on important business. Penny led the dry-eyed youngsters toward the house. Gimlet, the cook, advanced to meet her.
“Lemme take care o’ the young ’uns, Miss Penny,” the old man said. “Keeee-ripes, I ain’t had the chance tuh tell a pack of lies tuh kids since you growed up.”
Penny was grateful. The children had been her responsibility since Rebecca’s death, and she welcomed the chance to get away and think for a little while. “I’ll be around,” she said, “when you have to start supper.”
“Don’t yuh do it now, Miss Penny, don’t you do nothin’ o’ the sort. You leave the kids with me an’ let ’em stick by me. It’ll do ’em good tuh talk tuh someone ’sides them glum-actin’ cousins of yores with their souls full o’ vinegar till it shows in their faces.”
Penny smiled, “It’s a deal, Gimlet. They’re your responsibility till bedtime.”
The children, heretofore ignored, were wide-eyed at the thought that anyone could actually want their company.
Gimlet’s manner seemed forced. Penny fancied her old friend had worries about which he said nothing.
“Yew git,” he said, spanking the oldest boy playfully. “I’ll be right along an’ meet yuh by the kitchen door.”
When the children had gone, the old man with one eye turned to Penelope.
“I got somethin’,” he said, “tuh tell you.”
“Yes, Gimlet?”
“I on’y got one eye, but my ears is first-rate. Mebbe I orter keep my big mouth shut, but I figger yuh orter know that yer Uncle Bryant is up tuh somethin’.”
“Uncle Bryant?” Penny’s tone showed her surprise. She knew that Gimlet was one friend upon whom she could count. The old cook had dandled her on his knee when as a child she had come to live in the Basin. She listened eagerly.
“Heard him talkin’ tuh that no-good, gambling smooth-talkin’ hombre named Lonergan,” said Gimlet.
Penny remembered that Lonergan had called the night before. Bryant had taken him upstairs, behind closed doors.
“Curiosity has allus been my trouble, an’ when I heard talkin’ between them two, I didn’t shut my ears none. Couldn’t git much o’ what uz said, but the two of ’em was workin’ over some sort o’ legal paper.”
“What about it?” asked Penny. “Uncle Bryant has a right to make a contract or agreement with someone.”
“Wal, all’s I know is that I heard Bryant ask Lonergan if he was dead sure the paper’d stand in court after he was dead and gone.”
Penny wanted to laugh at Gimlet’s obvious concern over what was probably a will. His seriousness, however, impressed her.
“That ain’t all,” said the old man. “I heard more. I heard Bryant sayin’ he wanted tuh leave what he owned tuh them that deserved it, an’ he didn’t want none of his damned relatives contestin’ the will in court o’ law.”
“But after all, Gimlet, it’s Uncle Bryant’s ranch and he can do what he wants with it.”
“Nuther thing,” growled Gimlet, “they’s a puncher here, callin’ hisself, ‘Yuma.’”
“What about him?”
“Yuh c’n trust that big maverick, Miss Penny. He thinks a heap about you.”
Penny said nothing.
Gimlet went on with a lengthy discourse about the fine qualities of Yuma. He and Yuma had spent hours in close confab in the kitchen, and Yuma had expressed his feelings, confidentially, to Gimlet.
Penny’s face grew red as the frank old man continued. Finally she cut him off. “Those children are waiting for you, Gimlet.”
“All right, I’m a-goin’ tuh ’em. But you jest remember that Yuma is ace-high with me an’ yore ace-high with him.” Gimlet shuffled toward the kitchen door.
Penny wanted to get away from the surroundings and be alone with her thoughts. She had at least two hours before her uncle would be expecting her for the evening meal. Hurriedly she changed to riding clothes and left the vicinity on Las Vegas.
She discounted the seriousness of all that Gimlet had said about her uncle’s “legal paper.” Obviously just a will. The thing that concerned her most was the truth about Bryant’s eyes. During the day she had tried to observe him carefully. There were times when she was sure he had trouble seeing things. Then she thought he had truly fired at Mort, but failing eyes had made his shot go wild and coincidence had made it drill Yuma’s hat.
There were other times when Bryant seemed to reach directly, without a trace of groping, for whatever he desired, and then she wondered. There was no doubt in her mind that Vince and Mort were involved in something or other that they didn’t want too generally known.
What of the men, the Texas Rangers, who Becky had said came to investigate and died for it?
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Lost in her thoughts, the girl rode on without thought or direction. She let the reins hang slack and paid no attention to the tangle of growing things that brushed past her. She was surprised, when she came back to reality, to find that Las Vegas had carried her up Thunder Mountain. She was well beyond the lower part of the path where it was rough.
“Might as well keep going now,” she said.
There was sugar in her pocket, put there for Las Vegas. Well, this time the mustang could do without his customary sweet. She’d save it till she reached the clearing, and see if she could bribe attention from the silver stallion.
The Indian-what did he call himself? Tonto—that was it. Tonto had said that a friend was wounded. She wondered if by any chance this friend could be one of the Texas Rangers. She thought it quite unlikely, in view of the fact that all of them were said to have been killed. Well, she’d ask Tonto anyway.
The clearing was just ahead. She saw the form of a horse through the trees, and then a man. His back was toward her. She saw him turning as he heard the hoofs approaching. The man was not her Indian friend—neither was he a stranger to the girl. He was one of the last people in the world she cared to meet in such a place—the killer who called himself Rangoon.
CHAPTER XIII
Help Wears A Mask
Penny couldn’t turn back without making herself appear ridiculous. Rangoon had already seen her, and was grinning a welcome. He took his hat off with a flourish and revealed black hair, parted low on one side and plastered down upon his forehead with a carefully nurtured dip. His hair gleamed from greasy stuff that he used on it.
“Wal,” he said with the air of a welcoming host, “this is a downright surprise.”
The Second Western Megapack Page 143