The masked man made no reply. Nor did he change his pace or course. Long strides carried him ahead. He held one gun in readiness, but didn’t return the shots that had been fired toward him. Thirty yards away.
“In the name of God,” shouted Yuma, “you’re goin’ tuh make me kill yuh. This is yer last chance. Now turn back!”
The Lone Ranger took five more strides forward; then Yuma fired again. This time the bullet tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. Yuma was either shooting to kill and missing, or shooting with rare skill to come as close as he could without inflicting injury. While he walked forward, the Lone Ranger called again, “You know you’re not going to kill me, Yuma, because if you do there’ll be others here to take my place. I’m coming to ram your lies down your throat!”
His heavy gun was still unfired. Ten paces from the rock he halted.
“I can put a bullet through you, Yuma, the next time you look out from behind that rock to fire at me. I don’t want to do it. I don’t even want to shoot your gun away, because I may need your help. I don’t want your gun hand wounded. Now come out!”
Yuma’s voice came from behind the rocks. “Next time I fire,” he shouted, “I’ll shoot tuh kill. Heaven help me, stranger, I don’t want tuh do that, but I swear I’ll have tuh. It’s you or me, an’ it’s not goin’ tuh be me.”
“I’m waiting for you,” the Lone Ranger replied.
“If yuh don’t turn back when I count three, I’ll fire.”
Yuma started counting slowly. “One…two…” And then a pause. “Fer the love of Heaven, turn back.”
“I’m still waiting, Yuma.”
“God knows, yuh asked fer it.” Yuma shouted, “Three!” and then leaped out from behind the rock and fired.
CHAPTER XXIII
Yuma Rides Behind a Masked Man
The Lone Ranger almost fired instinctively at Yuma. His finger tightened on the trigger, but he caught himself in time. Yuma’s last, quick shot went wide. The cowboy stood entirely clear of the rocks that had protected him, holding his gun point-blank on the masked man. For a moment the two stood there tense, each one covering the other, neither moving, neither firing.
Then Yuma let out a wild cry as he threw his six-gun on the ground. “You win, hang it all, I can’t shoot yuh. Come on an’ take me prisoner.”
The Lone Ranger closed the space. He holstered his own gun, then bent and picked up Yuma’s weapon.
“Put this where it belongs,” he said, extending the weapon butt-end first, “in your holster. You’ll probably be needing it again.”
There were tears of futility in Yuma’s eyes. “I dunno,” he said, accepting the gun, “what in hell’s the matter with me. Why didn’t I shoot yuh? Why’d I let yuh take me?”
“Because you’re not a killer,” replied the masked man simply.
“The hell I ain’t. I’m the man that’s—”
“Just a minute, Yuma. You tried to tell me that you were the leader of the Basin gang. In spite of that, I went in to Red Oak last night. I found Bryant Cavendish there. I showed him a document that his friends were trying to make Penelope sign and he admitted that it was just the way he had dictated it. I want you to look it over.”
He took the paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Yuma. Then he stood patiently silent to give the big blond man a chance to read it. Yuma seemed to find some difficulty in wading through the legal terms and phrases. He guided his eyes from one word to the next with his finger, and when he finished he said, “Does this mean that Penny ain’t tuh have no part o’ Bryant’s property when he kicks in?”
The Lone Ranger said, “Some of the relatives of the old man have already signed it. Penny among them.”
Yuma looked at the signatures. “Then she’s done outen her share?”
“According to that, Penelope will have no claim on the land unless Bryant wills it to her. When she signed that, she lost all her faith in Bryant Cavendish. Furthermore, I doubt if Bryant will be able to give her much protection now.”
“Why not?”
“He was shot last night.”
“Shot?”
The Lone Ranger nodded, then went on to tell Yuma the events in Red Oak, relating what he had heard of Mort’s imprisonment and ultimate escape, the shot that was fired at Bryant, and the knifing of the man who fired that shot. “I was not seen,” he said, “but they must have had a look at my horse and they certainly heard me call the horse Silver. I’ve no doubt that I’ll be accused of both the shooting of Bryant Cavendish and the knifing of the man who really shot him.”
Yuma nodded comprehension and agreement. “The same sort o’ killin’ that old Gimlet got,” he said thoughtfully. “I reckon the same skunk done both knifin’s.”
“Quite likely.”
“Now Bryant won’t be able tuh guard Miss Penny no more, bein’ that he’s dead.”
“I didn’t say that he was dead.”
“Then he ain’t dead?”
“No.”
“How close to it is he?”
“There’s a good chance for him to recover. I have him hidden in a cave in the Gap.”
Yuma reflected on the things that he’d been told. He muttered half aloud and then quite suddenly went berserk. He snatched off his hat, whirled it about his head several times, then threw it on the ground. He jumped on it with both feet while he shouted at the top of his voice. His face was livid with blind rage and fury. He swore with the sincerity of a hen with fresh-hatched chicks and the vocabulary of a mule skinner. He called himself an addleheaded jackass and a crackbrained fool in Mexican as well as English. He berated his bungling, fumbling, thoughtless notions and cursed himself for trying to help Penny by the “loco” means he’d used. He ranted, raved, and raged because he’d taken blame that properly belonged to a double-dyed, limp-brained, stone-faced, soulless old son of a three-tongued rattler, meaning Bryant Cavendish. He declared with rare vehemence that Bryant deserved boiling in hot coal oil, then skinning alive.
Before he ran out of things to say, his breath gave out and he was forced to stop and gasp. His face was red, his eyes were bloodshot from emotion. He grabbed the front of the Lone Ranger’s shirt in one huge hand.
“Listen,” he said breathlessly, “listen tuh me. I lied when I said I was the leader o’ them murderin’ skunks an’ cattle rustlers. It’s Bryant that’s the leader. I only thought tuh—”
“I know, Yuma,” the Lone Ranger interrupted. “You didn’t want Bryant to be taken away from Penelope because he alone could safeguard her.”
Yuma still clutched the masked man’s shirt. It happened that his hand had closed over the breast pocket, and in that pocket rested the Texas Ranger badge. “I came for you,” the Lone Ranger went on, “because it is you that Penelope needs.”
“She needs me?” repeated Yuma eagerly. And then in a voice filled with woe, “Aw-w, that ain’t so. I know the way she acted tuh me. If I go around where she is, she’ll box my ears down.”
“I think she’s changed her mind about a lot of things since she saw the document her uncle wanted signed. You come along with me, Yuma—you’re needed badly.”
“Wish’t they was somethin’ I could do tuh put them crooks all where they belong,” said Yuma wistfully. “Of course I c’n jest shoot Bryant when I git tuh him, an’ finish what’s already started.”
“No, you’re not going to shoot Bryant Cavendish; you’re a witness against him.”
“Huh?”
“He tried to kill you. You’ll go to law and charge him with attempted murder.”
“Me? Go tuh law?” asked Yuma with an amazed look.
The masked man nodded.
“Yuh—yuh mean,” said the cowboy, still unable to fully comprehend, “I’m tuh go an’ report that he shot at me, an’ ask that he be judged fer it?”
“Right.”
“But damn it all, I can’t do that. Who ever heard o’ bein’ shot at an’ then reportin’ it tuh law instead o’ shootin’ back an
’ settlin’ the matter on the spot?”
The Lone Ranger explained that there had to be some charge filed against Bryant Cavendish to put him in jail. Once there, he could be questioned endlessly until his part in the cattle stealing and the murders was brought out. Merely killing the man would do nothing to solve the killing of the Texas Rangers, of Gimlet, or the man who fired at him the night before. Yuma finally agreed to follow the Lone Ranger’s advice, to do whatever he was told; but went on record that he was sure “goin’ tuh feel like a damn fool sissy” when he went “tuh the law tuh beef about bein’ shot at.”
The two boarded the masked man’s powerful horse. Before they left the rocks Yuma said, “One thing more, stranger. Jest who the devil are you?”
“If I wanted that known, Yuma, I wouldn’t be masked.”
Yuma spoke slowly. “When I took ahold of yer shirt, I felt somethin’ in yer pocket. It was shaped mighty like a Ranger’s badge. I been wonderin’ if maybe you ain’t a Texas Ranger, an’ if so, why the mask?”
“Perhaps I used to belong to the Texas Rangers, Yuma.”
“Well—” Yuma paused. “Look here, I can’t go on callin’ yuh ‘stranger’; jest what should I call yuh?”
“My closest friend,” the masked man said, “calls me ‘The Lone Ranger.’” He heeled Silver, and the stallion lunged forward. Yuma had to cling to keep from spilling. “Hi-Yo Silver, Away-y-y-y,” the Lone Ranger shouted.
Such speed in a horse was new to Yuma. He gasped at the power in the long, driving legs of white.
“G-g-gosh,” he said against the wind, “this is shore ’nuff a ridin’ hoss! I sort o’ like that name ‘Lone Ranger,’ too!”
CHAPTER XXIV
Bryant Goes Home
Bryant Cavendish, sitting in the cave, felt curiously at ease. His wound was almost superficial and, because of the first aid which his masked abductor had applied, caused him no discomfort whatsoever. His only inconvenience was the lashings about his wrists and ankles that made him helpless. Yet it was this helplessness that gave him the odd feeling of being relaxed. For the first time that he could remember, there was not a thing that he felt he should be doing or supervising. With nothing that could be done, he felt no pangs in idleness. He had been furiously angry at first when he realized that he’d been carried away bodily. It was a bitter blow to his pride. The trip from Red Oak had been humiliating as well as exhausting, but now the iron-jawed old man almost gloried in his helplessness.
He sat trying to recall vague moments in the past half day. He could remember little after the shot in his hotel room. He must have been unconscious during most of the trip from Red Oak to the Gap. The masked man was in the Gap when Bryant recovered his senses, and explained in a soft voice exactly where the two were going. Then there had been a session in the cave when the first aid was administered by candlelight. Darkness again, and a resonant, kindly voice that said, “You’ll be all right here for the time being. I’m going to ride out again, but I’ll be here when you waken at daybreak.” Bryant had slept after that, and wakened to find the masked man’s promise fulfilled. The stranger was with him, but not for long. He rode off on the horse called Silver.
Shortly after daybreak Bryant had heard a team and wagon coming close. His shouts were answered when the wagon stopped and an Indian scaled the ledge and entered the cave. Bryant had demanded that the Indian release him, but there had been no sign that the newcomer could understand the white man’s tongue. Bryant resented the manner in which he had been inspected by the redskin, the way the ropes and their knots were critically examined; then the way his bandage was removed, the wound studied carefully and then redressed. The Indian had made no comment whatsoever. He finished his investigation and then left the cave. After a lapse of several moments the team and buckboard moved away. Bryant had noted that the outfit came from the Basin and headed in the opposite direction.
Another hour elapsed, then Yuma came. And when the cowboy came he made it known. His entrance was accompanied by a shout. “You—” he bellowed, “yuh damned dirty schemin’ crook yuh, I had tuh come here an’ tell yuh what I think!”
Bryant looked up with his jaw set in its customary stubborn way.
“Tuh think,” roared Yuma, “that I took cash money from you an’ worked on that murder ranch o’ yores. Thinkin’ o’ that makes me turn green inside. If I had any o’ that cash left I’d ram it down yer gullet an’ hope it’d strangle yuh. Why, you—” Yuma launched into some of the most colorful expressions the Lone Ranger, still outside the cave, had ever heard. “Yuh tried tuh drill me,” he went on. “Fer that I got every right tuh put a bullet through yer gizzard, but I ain’t agoin’ tuh do that. Shootin’ you would be too damned easy fer you. Yore headin’ fer somethin’ aplenty worse than bein’ kilt. Why, yuh even tried tuh double-cross Miss Penny, an’, by damn, that’s goin’ too doggoned far. If yuh knowed the way that purty girl stood up in yore defense an’ sassed right back at anyone that had anything tuh say ag’in yuh—but, shucks, loyalty O’ that sort is somethin’ yore kind wouldn’t savvy.”
“Yuma!” shouted the Lone Ranger from outside. “That will do.”
The masked man entered the cave, and Yuma, turning, noticed that he held a folded paper in his hand. “I told you that you’d stop here just long enough to get a horse, then head for town.”
“Aw-w, I know,” said Yuma apologetically. “I seen this old crook, though, an’ I jest couldn’t help poppin’ off an’ lettin’ him know what I thought o’ him.”
“Well, you’ve said enough. Now take the horse and get started.”
Yuma nodded and passed his masked ally. He dropped over the ledge and checked the cinch on a big bay that stood near Silver. It was a horse that the Lone Ranger had provided. Before he rested in the cave, after his arrival there with Bryant, he had gone to the Basin, found the animal, then saddled it and brought it here. His intention had been to use it for Bryant when the two left their cavern hideout. Now, however, Yuma needed the horse, so the masked man and Bryant would both ride Silver.
Yuma mounted and called, “I’m on my way.” In another moment the cowpuncher was gone. Then the Lone Ranger moved close to Bryant. He spoke softly, “Is there anything you’d care to say to me now?”
Bryant made no reply. He simply stared unblinkingly at the mask.
“Yuma was pretty hard on you,” the Lone Ranger said. “I’m sorry that he acted as he did, but there is still a lot that you don’t understand. Do you feel strong enough to leave here?”
Bryant snarled, “I’m strong enough tuh do anything you do!”
“Good. We are going to your home in the Basin.”
“Sort of nervy, ain’t yuh?”
“Why?”
“Yuh won’t live ten minutes after I git there amongst my men.”
“We’ll see about that. There are some things that I want to tell you. We’ll talk about them as we ride.”
“I ain’t ridin’ in there hog-tied.”
“I’m going to untie you.” It was but the work of a moment to free the old man; then the Lone Ranger aided him to his feet. Bryant tried to push away the masked man’s help, but found himself unable to stand without some aid. Grumbling something about “bein’ weak from loss of blood,” Bryant permitted himself to be helped down the ledge and to the saddle. The Lone Ranger leaped behind him, and the two were on their way.
Wallie was sitting idly on the front porch of the house when the two arrived. He leaped to his feet at the sight of Bryant riding with the masked man. The Lone Ranger already had a gun in readiness, and spoke quite casually when he saw Wallie reaching for a weapon. “I wouldn’t if I were you.”
Wallie’s hand froze to the gun butt. He didn’t draw. “Where did you come from?” he demanded. Then to his uncle he said in a more fawning tone, “Uncle Bryant, I been worried sick about yuh ever since last night when yuh was shot at.”
“The hell you have,” snarled Bryant. “Yuh didn’t stick around town very long tuh
see what happened to me.”
“But there wasn’t any use hangin’ around there,” explained the well-dressed one. “We all seen yuh carried off on that white hoss. Right after yuh left, we found that it was Mort that that stranger killed.”
“Mort?” snapped Bryant. “Is he dead?”
Wallie explained the events of the previous night while he helped to ease Bryant Cavendish from the saddle to the ground. The Lone Ranger stood slightly back, letting Wallie help his uncle. His keen eyes shot quick glances in all directions.
The Lone Ranger saw men going casually about their various tasks, but he also saw men who seemed to have no tasks. At least six of these stood idly about, each one, he knew, watching him intently, waiting for a signal from Bryant Cavendish. His life wouldn’t be worth much if the command to capture him were given. He dared not relax his vigilance for a split second.
“We’ll go into the house,” he told Wallie. “I’ll follow you to Bryant’s own bedroom. Get him into bed; he’s pretty tired. I’ll take care of him when he’s there.”
Wallie started to object, but Bryant cut him off shortly. “Do what he says!”
The three crossed the porch and entered the large living room. The masked man noticed that the cordwood, the chair, and the table still made a brace between the beam of the ceiling and the trapdoor in the floor. Bryant asked about the room’s upset condition. Wallie said, “I’ll tell yuh about that later, Uncle Bryant. First of all we want tuh get yuh in bed where yuh c’n rest up.”
“You’ll tell me now,” barked Bryant. “I want tuh know what’s been done tuh this yere room.”
The Lone Ranger stood at the closed door while Wallie told, as briefly as possible, about the capture of the outlaws by the masked man and their subsequent guarding by Tonto. He explained that he had found the Indian on guard when he came in, and that between Tonto and Penelope he had been told the entire story. “I didn’t have any idea,” he said, “that we had killers on the payroll here. I never had much to do with the runnin’ of things, you know.”
“Yuh would have,” retorted Bryant, “if yuh spent more time here an’ less time in Red Oak saloons.”
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