“I guess it must have been Vince an’ Mort that hired those men,” continued Wallie in a placating manner, “but we’ll see that they’re taken care of, now that we know who they are.”
Bryant Cavendish “h’mphed,” then demanded, “where’s Penny?”
“Oh, I told you last night, Uncle Bryant, that she was to go to Red Oak with the kids an’ stay with that woman I lined up there.”
“I didn’t say it’d be all right fer her tuh go. I told yuh tuh find some female that’d come here an’ take care of the kids!”
“But I thought—”
“Never mind what yuh thought. How’d Penny get tuh Red Oak?”
“Well, she seemed to put a lot o’ trust in that Indian, an’ he was willin’ to drive her there with the buckboard, so I let him do it. They left at daybreak, takin’ the kids with ’em.”
Wallie looked at Bryant as if anticipating an outburst because he’d permitted the girl to leave the Basin in an Indian’s care, but Bryant simply nodded. “I reckon,” he said softly, “Penelope must have passed right by me. Wonder why she didn’t say somethin’ when I yelled. The redskin heard me; why didn’t Penelope?”
His question was not answered. He leaned heavily on the railing of the staircase while Wallie walked beside him with the masked man close behind.
A window in the hallway on the second floor looked out toward the corral. The Lone Ranger glanced in that direction and saw the cowhands, their work ignored, converging on the ranch house. He noticed also that their hands were on the butts of their holstered six-guns. He had noticed something else that didn’t diminish his apprehension. The furniture and firewood that he had placed to block any attempt to leave the cellar vault had been moved since his last visit. True, the table still rested on the trapdoor, but in a slightly different position.
When Bryant finally entered his bedroom, the Lone Ranger closed the door and stood just to one side.
He studied every detail of the big room while Wallie helped old Bryant get into the heavy oak bed at the far wall. The room was well equipped with furniture. There were three large comfortable-looking chairs, a big round table in the center of the room, a desk against one wall, and the usual bedroom equipment of commode, pitcher, and basin. The desk was something to behold. It seemed to have half a hundred pigeonholes, each one of which bulged to the bursting point with folded papers. There was a curious thing about it: in some of the small compartments the papers were tucked in neatly, while in others the assorted documents were jammed in with what appeared to be a careless haste. Another point was that the sloppy-looking pigeonholes were all at one end of the desk. The masked man made a mental note to have a closer look at the desk at his earliest opportunity.
Wallie pulled a counterpane from the foot of the bed and covered Bryant. “Reckon you’ll be all right now, Uncle,” he said consolingly. “If there’s anything more that I c’n do—”
“There ain’t,” barked Bryant.
Wallie looked at the tall man with the mask. “I’ll speak to you in the hall,” the Lone Ranger said.
Willie said, “Right.”
“You lead the way.”
Wallie opened the door and went out with the masked man close behind.
“There are a lot of things,” the Lone Ranger said when the door had been closed, “that I must explain to you, Cavendish. You’re no doubt wondering about the mask I’m wearing. I’ll tell you this much about who I am. I’m a friend of the Indian you found here.”
“I know that much,” said Wallie.
“I came here to find out who directed the murder of those Texas Rangers who were killed in the Gap. You probably have heard that someone wearing moccasins attended to their burial.” The other nodded. “You’ve probably guessed by this time that the man who buried them was that same Indian. Well, that’s the truth. Those men I locked in the basement of this house, of course, had a hand in the massacre, but there was someone who gave them their instructions.”
“Might have been Mort or Vince,” suggested Wallie.
“It might have been, yes, but I doubt it. They wouldn’t run things in such a high-handed way without being told to do so by the boss of the outfit.”
“You mean Uncle Bryant?”
“He’s the owner of this ranch, and all the different brands that are used here are recorded in his name. I understand that he isn’t the type to let someone else boss anything he owns.”
Wallie mused for a moment. “But Bryant ain’t—” He didn’t finish his remark.
“Wasn’t it Bryant himself who helped your brother escape from jail last night in Red Oak?”
“Why should he?” argued the other. “He’s the one that turned Mort over to the law.”
“He turned him over to the law, because Mort was a murderer and Yuma knew it. That act on Bryant’s part would remove him from suspicion. Yet someone helped Mort escape!”
Wallie said, “All this is sure surprisin’ news to me, stranger. I don’t know just what to think about it.”
“I’m telling you,” continued the Lone Ranger, “so you can be ready to tell anything you know when the law men come.”
“Law men?”
“Yuma is bringing them. He’s also bringing a warrant for the arrest of Bryant Cavendish.”
“Arrest? He can’t be arrested on suspicions like yours! No law man would jail an old man on anything as flimsy as that!”
“I didn’t explain,” said the masked man slowly. “Yuma is charging Bryant with attempted murder! That will be enough to jail him! In the meantime, you’ll do well to get your own story straight!”
“Me?”
“You!”
“B-but, stranger,” faltered Wallie, “I—I don’t know anything about the things that go on around here. I’m hardly ever here myself. I don’t like the place. I spend as much time in Red Oak as I can.”
The masked man gripped the other’s upper arm. He was a little bit surprised to find the muscles beneath the fine shirt hard and firm, not flabby as Wallie’s disposition and habits indicated. “Just remember this,” he said: “the mere fact that men like Sawtell, Lonergan, Rangoon, and Lombard are working here is going to call for a lot of explanation. Every one of those four has a substantial reward on his head. You’d better be ready to tell all you know. It will take a lot from you to convince the law men you aren’t associated with this gang.”
“I’ve got nothin’ to hide,” said Wallie. “I’ll tell all I know, but that ain’t much. Vince may know a few things, but me, I never hang around the Basin.”
The Lone Ranger nodded. “Very well, then, but remember what I told you.” He was about to re-enter Bryant’s room, but Wallie halted him.
“What do you want?” asked the Ranger.
“You said somethin’ about cattle-stealin’ around here.”
“A lot of cattle has been stolen from ranches around this part of the country.” The masked man explained the means that had been used to rebrand the stolen cattle in the Basin, give the burns a chance to heal, then sell the stock with brands that suited bills of sale. He told of the trail down Thunder Mountain that had been used for shuttling cattle into and out of the Basin. Wallie seemed genuinely amazed to learn that things of this sort had gone on beneath his unsuspecting nose.
“You plan to stay here until the law men come, is that it?” asked Wallie when the masked man finished.
“Yes. I want to have a talk with Bryant. Perhaps I can persuade him to tell all he knows. It will save him a lot of trouble to talk first.”
“He won’t talk,” replied Wallie.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I never knew a more close-lipped, stubborn man in my life. No amount of threatenin’ could loosen his tongue. He’d put up with all the torture an Apache could concoct an’ never say a word.”
“Nevertheless, he’s not a fool. He’s a shrewd man, and his whole life has been made up of weighing the odds, then playing his cards. I have a hunch that he’ll realiz
e the advantage of telling all he can.”
“Why?”
“If he doesn’t, he’ll be in no position to compromise with the law and he’ll spend the rest of his life in jail for trying to murder Yuma. If he’s willing to talk, he might get off scot-free and be allowed to guide the future of his niece.”
Wallie nodded slowly. “Maybe,” he said, “you’re right. I’ll be downstairs to see that those crooks don’t get out of the vault. If there’s anything you want, just holler.”
“Thanks.”
The Lone Ranger returned to Bryant’s room.
CHAPTER XXV
Who Is Andrew Munson?
The masked man paused at the door until he heard Wallie reach the first floor of the big house. He waited another moment, listening intently, but heard nothing. He wondered where the men were whom he’d seen approach the house with guns drawn, and what they were doing at the moment. Then he closed the door and would have locked it, but he found no key.
Bryant Cavendish lay on the bed, flat on his back. His mouth was half-open and his eyes were closed. He slept noisily, breathing with a throaty sound. The old man had been through a strenuous ordeal. The Lone Ranger stepped to the bed and placed sensitive fingers on the pulse in Bryant’s wrist. The heartbeat was firm and steady. The sleep, apparently, was normal sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion, not abnormal unconsciousness.
“Just as well,” the masked man muttered. “If he’ll stay asleep for a little while I’ll have a look at that desk.”
The desk was old and rather battered. It was a huge affair of oak with many drawers beneath the two-inch-thick top. Rising from the back of the desk there was a section divided into many squares. Filled with papers, as these pigeonholes were, it closely resembled an overworked post office. The sections on the right were neatly ordered, the papers folded evenly and tucked in edgewise.
The masked man glanced about the room. Meticulous order was apparent everywhere. On the dresser a brush, comb, a large knife and a smaller knife, and a razor were neatly arranged. A shelf above the washstand held a shaving mug. The brush, instead of being in the mug in sloppy fashion, had been rinsed, and stood on end. The rest of the room was equally neat. The ordered compartments of the desk were, then, as Bryant had fixed them. The lefthand pigeonholes were otherwise.
Papers were jammed in these without regard for order. Some were folded, others just stuffed in; some compartments bulged, while others were barely half-filled; some papers were on edge, some lay flat. The condition of things told a story of a search that had been started at the extreme left and continued methodically, one compartment at a time, until the object of the search was found. The Lone Ranger reasoned that the object, whatever it was, had been in the last disordered pigeonhole.
He glanced at Bryant and found him still asleep and snoring. He pulled papers from the pigeonhole and spread them on the desk top. A few receipts of recent date; an envelope with a penciled address on it; a bill of sale for twenty head of cattle; a clipping from a St. “Jo” paper that dealt with a railroad that was contemplated in the West; a pamphlet which described in glowing terms the curative qualities of Doctor Blaine’s Golden Tonic; a sheet of heavy paper, folded twice across, and labeled, “Bryant Cavendish, His Last Will and Testament.”
The Lone Ranger replaced everything else, then drew another legal document from the pocket of his shirt. He unfolded this, and laid it by the will. The writing in the two was identical; Lonergan’s handwriting. The masked man had known there would have to be a will of some sort to accompany the agreement which the natural heirs had signed forswearing their rights to the Cavendish property. He had been anxious to know the name of the individual chosen as heir.
Penelope and her cousins were mentioned in the will. Each was to receive ten dollars in cash. A lawyer’s foresight had, doubtless, dictated the mention of them, so that there would be no complaint that Bryant had forgotten relatives in preparing the will. The balance of the estate, after all just obligations had been paid, was to go to a man named Andrew Munson. The document described Andrew Munson as a man to whom Bryant felt a heavy obligation. It told how Munson must be identified, and omitted no detail. Bryant Cavendish had signed his name at the bottom, and in the proper places there were signatures of witnesses. Until such time as Andrew Munson could be found, the Basin ranch was to be managed by Bryant’s four nephews or, if all four were not alive, by the survivors.
“Who,” the masked man asked himself, “is Andrew Munson?” He had never heard the name before. There might be some reference to Munson in the papers in the desk, but the search through these would have to wait until a later time. There was something far more urgent that must be done at once.
It took several minutes to waken old Bryant Cavendish. When he was fully awake and growling his complaints at being roused, the Lone Ranger sat beside him on the bed. “Get fully awake, Cavendish,” he said.
Bryant squinted in the light that came from the windows. “Hurts my eyes,” he complained in a somewhat sleepy voice.
The masked man crossed the room and drew the heavy draperies together, cutting out most of the light and making the room quite dim. “Better?”
“I heard your voice before,” Bryant said. “Who are yuh?”
“We rode from Red Oak together last night, Cavendish. I was with you in a cave until this morning—don’t you remember?”
“I seem tuh. How long I been sleepin’?”
“Only about half an hour. I’ll get you a drink of water. You’ve got to get wide-awake and listen to me!”
“I’ve listened aplenty. I’m done with it. Now get the hell out of here, an’ lemme alone. Where is Penelope?”
The masked man poured water from the pitcher and held it to the old man’s lips while he explained, “Penelope is in Red Oak. She went there this morning with the children. My friend, the Indian, went with her.”
Bryant drank half the water, then pushed the cup aside. He rubbed his eyes, then studied the masked man, squinting slightly. “I reckon,” he said, “I remember things now. So damn much has happened in the past couple o’ days I can’t somehow keep things straight.”
“Are you wide-awake now, Bryant?”
“Course I am,” retorted the old man in a nettled voice. “What d’you want?”
“I took your will from the desk. I want you to take a look at it.” A paper was extended toward Bryant. “Is there enough light in here for you to see it?”
“I don’t need tuh see it, I know what’s in it!”
“Examine it anyway.”
“Fer what?”
“See if it’s just the way you want it!”
“I’ve got fed up with all these fool stunts of yores, stranger. Now, for the last time, will yuh leave me be?”
The Lone Ranger found it difficult to control his anger. Before him, sitting upright in the bed, was the man who was indirectly responsible for the murder of those Texas Rangers, whose graves were in the Gap; for Becky’s death; the stabbing of Gimlet; possibly even of Rangoon and Mort. And this man was asking to be left alone! The masked man’s clenched fists trembled while he fought for self-control. He must, above all, keep his voice down. He leaned forward.
“I want to know,” he said softly as he put the will in his pocket, “who Andrew Munson is.”
Bryant said, “Who?”
The Lone Ranger repeated the name.
Cavendish pondered. His eyes held a faraway expression as he gazed at a corner of the ceiling.
“Answer me, Cavendish—who is Andrew Munson?”
Bryant turned slowly, and looked at the mask. His frown was deep, and his voice without emotion. “I never heard the name before.”
The Lone Ranger felt something in him snap. It seemed as if this stubbornness in Bryant was more than he could bear without an outburst! The strain of the past few days; the fight against his wounds, against fatigue and pain; the bitterness of seeing good friends die…all of these things seemed to roll together in a choking
bitter mass that made him speechless. His hands reached out and gripped Cavendish. “You,” he whispered in a hoarse, tense voice, “must be shown!”
With strength born of desperation, the Lone Ranger lifted Bryant as if he weighed nothing, and hauled him from the bed. His unanswered question was ringing in his brain.
“Who is Andrew Munson!”
CHAPTER XXVI
Disaster Gets Organized
As Wallie descended the stairs after this talk with the masked man, his nonchalance crystallized into a grim resolve that transformed his personality. He paused at the bottom of the flight and glanced up. The enigmatic man with the mask apparently had returned to Bryant’s bedroom. Then Wallie opened the front door and stepped to the verandah. Half a dozen of the ranch hands were there with ill-concealed curiosity.
Wallie spoke softly but without a trace of the careless ease that marked his style at other times. “Go back to whatever you were doin’,” he ordered. “If you’re needed, we’ll send for you.”
“But who was that masked man with Bryant?” asked one of the men.
“None of your damn business,” retorted Wallie in a surly voice. “Get to work an’ you’ll be sent for later.” He turned to another man. “Has Gimlet been buried yet?”
The lanky individual addressed shook his head slowly. “We jest tossed a blanket over him,” he said. “We warn’t shore what yore plans was. He’s still in the bunkhouse.”
Wallie nodded. “Leave him there for the time being.” He swung through the door and headed for the upset living room. Had Penelope seen Wallie in his present mood, she would have revised her opinion of him in a hundred ways. He walked with a purposeful air instead of the familiar sauntering gait; his eyes, generally half-closed in boredom, were wide and divided by a perpendicular frown-crease on his forehead. And those eyes were hard. His hands were clenched with such intensity that the well-cared-for fingernails bit into the palms…hard fists in place of hands that strummed soft tunes of romance on a guitar. The soft, full-lipped mouth was gone, and in its place there was the same hard line that Bryant Cavendish showed when angry.
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