“I’ll lay my cards right out on the table. I can’t, at the present time, do anything. That’s why I’ve come to you. There must be something that’s turned you from an honest man…to this. What is it? Tell me, and let me help you straighten things out. Tell me, who has a hold over you, who’s making you do these things?”
The Lone Ranger drew a folded paper from his pocket and spread it on the table before Bryant Cavendish. His eyes were fixed on Cavendish, who seemed to be waging an inward battle for composure. Cavendish glanced at the paper, then at the Lone Ranger.
“This,” the masked man said, “is a document that Lonergan drew up. It has a place for your relations to sign their names. And when they do so they accept a certain consideration from you, and agree that when your will is read they—”
“I know all about that,” snapped Bryant.
“That’s what I was uncertain about. Your signature isn’t required on this, and it would have been a simple matter for Lonergan to have written it and had your relatives sign, without your knowledge.”
Cavendish showed more of an inclination to talk.
“It’s legal, ain’t it?” he asked as if there were some doubt in his mind.
“It is legal.”
“That’s all I want tuh know.”
“You wanted it prepared?”
“Sure.”
“But there must be a will, your will, with your signature. That would have to be left to name the people who inherit all your land.”
“There’s a will too. All signed an’ witnessed.”
Bryant pushed himself to his feet, and stood above the seated masked man.
“I never explained nothin’,” he barked. “I never asked fer help or favors, an’ I never will. When the time comes that I can’t handle my affairs, I’ll be ready tuh lie down an’ die. I dunno how yuh got that paper, but yer goin’ tuh hand it tuh me right now. It’s mine an’ I’ll have it.”
“You won’t explain a thing?” repeated the Lone Ranger.
“You heard me!”
The masked man rose and turned to face the other squarely, taking his eyes away from the window to do so. “I hoped,” he said, “that we might work together, but you won’t have it that way. If you’re sure this paper is just the way you want it—” The Lone Ranger broke off when a shot crashed into the room from a gun beyond the window.
Bryant Cavendish gasped, then staggered back, clutching with both hands at his broad chest. He stumbled and fell across the bed. The Lone Ranger’s gun leaped up while the masked man sprang to the window. He saw a man’s form running fast. It was too dark in the shadows to determine much about the fugitive, but it was obvious that it was he who had fired the shot at Bryant. The Lone Ranger’s gun barked, and a silver bullet flew. The running man spilled forward, rolling from his own momentum.
There was hammering upon the door. Men’s shouts demanded to know what the shooting was about. The Lone Ranger holstered his gun. Ignoring the yells and shouts outside the room, he bent over the wounded man. Bryant still breathed, but his pulse was ragged and his eyes were closed.
Another instant and those outside would smash the door and force their way inside. To be found there masked, with Cavendish shot, and one bullet gone from his own gun, would mean the certain capture and probable lynching of the Lone Ranger. He had no choice. He lifted Bryant Cavendish and carried him toward the window.
The dead weight of the unconscious man was too much for the Lone Ranger, in his fatigued and weakened condition, to handle quickly. He rested his burden on the window’s sill then whistled sharply once.
The whistle brought renewed shouting from the men beyond the door. Their cries were wild and unorganized. Some cried to the world at large, “Bust in—bust down the door—don’t let ’em out—he’s in thar, I heard him.” These and other cries were mixed with shouts of warning and advice: “Don’t yuh try tuh git away—we got yuh trapped—come out an’ surrender or we shoot tuh kill.”
If only the door and the bolt would withstand the assault of the first few blows! Silver was coming fast, racing toward the window where the masked man waited. The big stallion clattered close and whinnied shrilly while the men in the hall yelled new suggestions. “He’s got a hoss outside. Git around tuh the winder. I hear a hoss. Thar’s a hull gang o’ them in thar.”
In a moment Bryant was thrown across the saddle. The masked man leaped behind him as a shattering blow shivered the door and the wall that supported it.
“Come on, Silver!” the Lone Ranger called.
He couldn’t leave the vicinity just yet. There was one thing of which he must make certain. He rode to the man he’d shot. Leaping from the saddle, he found the wounded man quite conscious, but in pain from a bullet in the fleshy part of his thigh. “Not serious,” he muttered. “You’ll be all right as soon as—”
He broke off with a gasp of surprise. This man’s bullet wound was slight, but the man was dying. There was another weapon, a knife of the sort that can be easily thrown. All that showed was the handle, sticking straight out from the back of the stranger’s neck.
It took but an instant for the Lone Ranger to visualize what had happened. This fugitive, having fired point-blank at Bryant Cavendish, had raced on foot to reach a clump of trees. Perhaps his horse was waiting there, perhaps a trusted friend. This “friend” or someone else within the shelter of the trees had thrown the knife after the Lone Ranger’s shot had dropped the man, probably to seal his lips with death.
Whatever the purpose of the murder, the man on the ground would never talk. It was little short of miraculous that he had lived at all after taking the knife in such a vital place. The Lone Ranger could do nothing. The man slipped into unconsciousness, with death a few seconds away.
Meanwhile the Lone Ranger was in danger.
Yelling, shouting men were charging, some on foot and some on horseback from the rear of the hotel. There was no time for thought or planning. The only important thing right now was escape.
The Lone Ranger leaped, and shouted, “Hi-Yo Silver!”
The stallion lunged ahead while bullets buzzed too close.
Leaning low over the strong neck of Silver, the masked man clung to Bryant Cavendish. “Now,” he thought, “those men will not only think I’ve shot Cavendish, but shot and killed that other man as well.” He slapped Silver on the neck. “Old boy,” he cried, “from now on we’ve got to travel fast. If they catch us, it will mean a lynching.”
CHAPTER XXII
Stalemate
The shooting’s aftermath in Red Oak: Some insisted that a posse be formed at once to scour the country for the unknown rider who had taken Bryant Cavendish with him. Others were in favor of letting the law, represented by Slim Peasley, take its fumbling course, while the majority asked resentfully what the hell the disturbance was all about, then turned back to drinks, games, women, or combinations of the same. Wallie Cavendish was much in evidence, for once in his life looking hot-faced and somewhat disheveled. He insisted that prompt action be taken; that something be done about his uncle’s abduction.
“A hell of a lot you care about him,” snapped Jim Bates, the hotel owner. “Now he’s gone, yuh know damn well yer ready tuh let out a war whoop of plain an’ fancy cheerin’.”
Wallie ignored the comment and spoke to the group assembled in the lobby.
“It’s high time there was some law around this place. First Mort gets out of jail, without half-tryin’, then Uncle Bryant’s carried away, likely dead, an’ all we got is that buzzard-bait Peasley. That man on the white horse was leaning over someone when he was seen, wasn’t he?”
Someone in the crowd said, “Yeah.”
“Well, what about him? Is anything bein’ done?”
“He’s bein’ brought in here. Some of the boys went tuh see about him.”
“High time,” barked Wallie with a fire that was unusual.
“The boys that had horses handy went after that critter,” explained Jim Bates. “Mayb
e they’ll catch him.”
“And if they do,” said Wallie, “they’ll jail him the same as they did Mort, an’ ten minutes after Slim’s back’s turned, he’ll be scot-free again.”
“I thought you had a hunch,” said Jim Bates, “that it was yer Uncle Bryant that let Mort out of the calaboose.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Mebbe this hombre that rid away won’t have no Uncle Bryant tuh let him loose.”
The door opened, and men came in carrying a still form which they placed on the plank floor near the wall.
“He’s dead,” one of them said, looking at Wallie with a strange expression.
“Is it anyone we know?” asked Bates.
One of the newcomers nodded seriously. “Yup, it shore is.” He stood aside. One leg showed the red result of a bullet wound, but this was hardly more than a scratch. In the back of his neck the handle of a knife still showed. The man was Mort Cavendish.
“My brother!” exclaimed Wallie. “It’s Mort.” He wheeled to the silent men around him. “Who done this?” he asked. “Who’d want to kill poor Mort? He never hurt no one in his life. He—”
Jim Bates stepped up. “Listen tuh me,” he said sharply. “We don’t want none of yer crocodile actin’ around here. In the first place, whoever stuck that knife in Mort’s neck saved him bein’ strung up tuh hang fer killin’ his wife. You know that damned well. In the second place, yuh never gave a damn about any of yer family, an’ yuh still don’t. With Mort done fer, it’s jest one less tuh whack up Bryant’s Basin.”
Wallie stood a moment, then he said in a calmer voice, “All right, Bates, Bryant’s gone an’ Mort’s killed. Now let’s figure out who done it.”
“What the hell d’you care?” Wallie was obviously not well liked by the men in Red Oak. Their manner showed that they cared nothing about helping him. The man who died had deserved killing, and no sympathy was wasted. If the murderer had walked in at that moment, it was quite likely that he would have been told that his duty was to handle the burial expenses as a moral obligation, then take drinks on the house.
“Only thing I don’t like,” muttered someone, “is this knifin’ business. It ain’t good form no-ways. Why the hell, when that critter dropped Mort with the shot in the leg, didn’t he finish him with another slug, ’stead o’ stickin’ him like this?”
“You can’t leave him there,” said Jim Bates. “What d’ya want done with the remains?”
Wallie dug into his pocket and dumped what cash he had on the hotel desk. “You handle things,” he told Bates. “Have the coroner do whatever has to be done, then hire someone with a cart to haul him to the Basin. I’ll have him buried there.”
Bates nodded, scooping up the cash. “I’ll tend tuh things. Whatever Mort had in his pockets was took out by Peasley when he jailed him. I reckon you c’n get his cash an’ whatever else he had from Slim.”
“I will.”
“Hold on,” said Bates. “Old Bryant has a buckboard an’ team in the shed. He brought ’em when he came. Why don’t you take Mort back in that yer own self?”
Wallie explained that he was leaving shortly and would drive the team and ride the buckboard, with his own horse hitched behind. He had to hurry though, and didn’t care to wait until the coroner’s work was finished. In fact, he planned to start back for the Basin right away. He wanted to be there by daybreak.
“All right, then,” said Bates. “I’ll see that everything’s tended to.”
Further conversation and conjecture was carried to the nearest saloon. The general opinion seemed to be that Bryant had helped his nephew out of jail. Then someone unknown had called upon Bryant. Mort had found him there, when trying to sneak into the room. The unknown man had fired, but Mort had run away. The gunman had fired again, and this time he hit Bryant. Blood on the bed proved that Bryant had been hit. Then pursuit of Mort, who ran despite the wounded leg, led to his final death by stabbing. The eyewitnesses from the hotel room had first seen the stranger with the white horse standing close to Mort. That was just before he had ridden away. This explanation suited everyone, and further action was dependent on Slim Peasley. Which meant that there probably would be no further investigation.
Wallie went from place to place, locating the men from the Basin, telling them what had happened and suggesting that they start at once for home. He was the last to leave Red Oak. By the time he had driven the buckboard through the rough, rocky bottom of the Gap, the cowhands had been home for some time. When he drove in at daybreak, he found them still awake and excited over the discovery of old Gimlet.
They hadn’t found Sawtell, Rangoon, Lombard, or Lonergan in the bunkhouse.
“Dunno where the hell them boys went,” they said. “They don’t dare risk goin’ tuh Red Oak, because yuh never can tell when the sheriff’ll be there, or maybe a Ranger, or some gent that’d recognize ’em an’ turn ’em in fer the reward.”
Wallie was tired and annoyed at the missing quartet. He ordered fresh horses hitched to the buckboard, gave instructions for the disposal of old Gimlet’s body, then went to the house. Throwing open the door, he stopped abruptly.
A strange sight greeted him. One lamp was lighted. Though the wick was turned low, there was sufficient illumination to reveal disorder in the room. On top of a table, a chair; on the chair a log, braced against the beamed ceiling. Sitting near the fireplace, Wallie saw an Indian.
Furiously angry, he started forward, then halted again. The Indian was wide-awake, holding a heavy revolver in his hand.
“What the—?” started Wallie.
“You,” muttered the Indian, “close door. Sit down. We wait.”
“Wait for what? Who are yuh, and what’re yuh doin’ here? What’s all this mean?”
“Girl wake pretty quick,” the Indian replied. “She tell you.”
A howl from beneath his feet made Wallie jump. Tonto grinned at his surprise. “Bad feller,” he explained, “down there. Girl tell you, when she wake.”
“I’m awake.”
It was Penelope, wrapped in a bathrobe, coming down the stairs.
Daybreak found the Lone Ranger once more in the saddle. He rode slowly at first, but as the light increased and made the trail he followed more distinct, he increased his speed. With several hours’ rest the masked man felt much better. Tonto, he was sure, could handle things at the ranch house until Wallie returned. The Indian’s position there would be explained by Penny. Bryant Cavendish had been left in the cave. Now the Lone Ranger rode in pursuit of Yuma.
Wallie with the wagon, and all the horsemen going to the Basin, had passed close to the cave in Bryant’s Gap while the masked man and Bryant Cavendish were there. The hoofs of these men’s horses had in many cases blotted out the tracks of Yuma, but an occasional mark where the shale was soft assured the masked man that he was still on the trail of the one he sought.
There were times when he had to dismount and examine the ground closely to make sure he hadn’t gone astray.
Then he found that Yuma had left the Gap. New scratches on the rocks of one side of it showed where his horse had fought its way up an almost sheer ascent to gain the level land above. The Lone Ranger guided Silver up the same path. Now the ground, covered in most places by a sort of turf, was softened by the recent rains and held distinct hoofprints of the big cowpuncher’s horse.
“Come on, Silver,” the Lone Ranger called as he saw the trail stretching out toward the horizon. The stallion fairly flew over the ground that felt so soft after the sharp and sliding stones of the Gap.
The marks of Yuma’s horse were spaced to show that it too had traveled at top speed. But Yuma had ridden in the darkness, which was probably the reason that his horse had fallen. The Lone Ranger saw the gopher hole into which the horse had stepped, and near by, the body of the horse itself. He dismounted and examined the ground.
Marks clearly showed that Yuma had spilled over the head of the falling horse. The dead horse was a few yards di
stant. The foreleg, to judge from its position, unquestionably was broken. A bullet through the head had ended the beast’s suffering. Yuma had taken the most essential things from his duffle and left the rest. His footprints led on in the same direction he’d been going.
The masked man mounted and rode on. It wasn’t long before he saw a pile of rocks. They were huge boulders, tossed into the middle of an open plain, as if left and forgotten by the Builder in some era eons ago when the world was made. The footprints led directly toward these rocks.
“That,” mused the Lone Ranger, “is where the man I want has taken refuge. I wonder if he’ll shoot. I doubt it.” He rode ahead, considering the type of man he had to face. What he had seen of Yuma had left a rather favorable impression. When the cowboy had claimed leadership of the cattle-stealing organization, the Lone Ranger had doubted the truth of what he said. It had seemed obvious that Yuma sought to shield Bryant Cavendish, in order that the old man might remain alive and free to safeguard Penny.
The masked man slowed Silver to a walk, and drew his gun. He advanced slowly, without taking his eyes off the rocks. Presently the cowboy’s head popped out, then a quick shot struck the ground a little to one side of the Lone Ranger. He rode on slowly. A hundred yards away from the natural fortress, the masked man dismounted, then went forward on foot.
“I’m coming to get you, Yuma,” he shouted.
“I won’t be taken alive,” came the reply. “Git aboard that hoss an’ vamoose. I don’t want tuh drill yuh.”
The Lone Ranger walked ahead. Another shot, this time one that whistled as it passed. The space had narrowed down to fifty yards when Yuma cried again.
“Stand back, I tell yuh, stranger. I don’t want tuh kill yuh. Yuh can’t take me alive. Them shots was only warnin’s. Now go back.”
The Second Western Megapack Page 150