The Second Western Megapack

by Various Writers

  Wallie, listening, frowned heavily, and thanked his lucky stars that this man with such a keen and logical mind was to be killed. He would prove a dangerous adversary if left alive.

  “You don’t believe me,” the masked man said, “you won’t let yourself believe, or trust anyone, but I’ll prove Wallie is what I’ve told you. If I can prove that, will you talk?”

  Wallie had heard enough. “Come on!” he cried, and threw the door wide open.

  Lombard and Sawtell plunged into the room, and dropped to one knee while they opened fire. Lonergan and Vince were close behind, firing over them, while Wallie remained in back. Guns crashed deafeningly in the confines of the room. The white hat near the bed became a thing alive, leaping across the room in crazy circles. The mound of blankets on the bed became a shaking mass as bullet after bullet bored deep. A score of shots roared in the blink of an eye.

  Then, back talk, in the voices of six-shooters, came from a corner of the room.

  Sawtell’s gun jumped from his hand as if by magic. His fingers were suddenly a bloody mass, at which the killer stared in stupefaction. More flames lanced from the corner, and Lombard’s extended gun arm snapped as a forty-five slug tore through flesh and bone between the wrist and elbow. Sawtell felt no pain in the heat of battle. Instinctive gunman that he was, he fell flat upon his belly, jerking out a second revolver with his left hand. Loud snarls and curses came from pain-maddened Lombard, while Sawtell took careful aim. He steadied his weapon at a point directly between the eyeslits of the mask. His finger tensed upon the trigger.

  Then, suddenly, his arm dropped, his gun unfired. He went limp and slumped. In his forehead there was a tiny hole, but the back of his head was an awful sight where a soft-nosed bullet had gouged out his skull.

  Half-blind Bryant Cavendish fired at sounds with an instinct that was supersensitive. Somehow the old man had found one of his guns, and cried aloud in savage hate as he rocketed shot after shot toward the doorway. “They’re all ag’in me,” he cried out. “I’ll show ’em I don’t need sight! I can locate skunks by smell.” His gun whammed again, and death spat at the doorway.

  Wallie screamed his orders. “In the corner—shoot ’em—drill ’em!” He pushed from behind at the instant that the lawyer Lonergan took a bullet from the masked man’s gun on the hand, and one from Bryant’s big revolver in the belly. He pitched forward, and fell across the writhing form of Lombard. Shrill yells and cries of pain rose far above Wallie’s livid curses.

  The Lone Ranger snatched the gun from Bryant’s hand. “No more shooting,” he cried.

  He leaped toward the doorway, head low, and charged. Vince had swung to face the surprise counterattack. His gun blazed, but the Lone Ranger was beneath the slug. He crashed into Vince with such force that the runty killer was fairly lifted off his feet and tossed across the room, while his gun was jarred out of his hand.

  Wallie, knowing his life depended on the fight, scrambled up from the floor. The thought of losing made him frantic as he swung his empty gun in a vicious blow at the Lone Ranger. The blow struck the Lone Ranger on the bandaged shoulder. A sudden stab of pain like a white-hot iron gripped his side as Wallie followed up his advantage. Still clutching the heavy revolver, he rammed it muzzle first into the masked man’s chest.

  The Lone Ranger couldn’t breathe. The blow must have broken at least one rib, possibly more. He felt his legs caving beneath him, while his brain fought valiantly against the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. He threw both arms about Wallie and locked his hands behind his adversary’s neck. He was falling, and helpless to prevent it. He was barely conscious of the fact that Wallie kept driving more blows to his stomach; blows that were too short to have much power behind them. Close to his ear, he heard the other’s voice as a meaningless jumble of hissing syllables.

  Somehow the Lone Ranger’s weight threw Wallie off his balance too. The masked man had the fighter’s heart that dictates action after the mind has ceased functioning. A mighty heave—a wrench that split the half-healed wound wide open. Still falling—it seemed that time stood still—and split seconds were like hours—and then a crash.

  The masked man’s fall was padded by the body of the man he fell on. His superhuman effort had thrown Wallie beneath him as the two went down. Wallie’s head smacked hard against the floor.

  Now Vince had a gun, was on his feet and coming close. His ugly face looked like a leering demon’s as he raised his gun. The Lone Ranger rolled, and as he did so, drew his extra weapon. Two guns spoke as one, their muzzles so close that the flames were intermingled. To the Lone Ranger, close to acrid fumes and scorching flame, it seemed that hell had burst into the room. And then—oblivion.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Wallie Leads An Ace

  “—another gun full-loaded with six soft-nosed slugs that’ll blast yer brains clean outen the back of yer blasted head if yuh so much as make a move.”

  These were the first words the Lone Ranger heard as he recovered consciousness. His body was a mass of pain, and each breath brought a stabbing sensation in his chest. He realized, but dimly, that Bryant Cavendish was speaking. He didn’t know to whom.

  “Yer stayin’ right here till Yuma’s had aplenty o’ time tuh git here with the law an’ if he ain’t come by sundown I’m blastin’ the livin’ hell out of yuh anyhow!”

  Obviously Bryant had the situation well in hand. The masked man edged painfully to one side and tried to focus his eyes on the scene about him. The bedroom air was heavy with the smoke of gunfire, and the light was dim.

  The floor resembled a battlefield. Wallie lay where he had fallen, still unconscious. A pool of red surrounded Sawtell’s lifeless body. Lonergan rolled upon the floor, clutching his stomach and moaning hideously. The lawyer was dying, that was obvious, but dying in the most horrible and painful way a man can die by bullets. Lombard sat in a chair, his right arm hanging limp and dripping red. His face was drawn with pain, but he was silent. Vince alone seemed to have escaped lightly. He had a handkerchief, a dirty blue one, wrapped about one hand, but this didn’t prevent his holding both hands above his shoulders.

  The masked man struggled to his feet and almost staggered his way to the washstand. He somehow managed to splash water from a pitcher to the basin, then scooped handfuls of it to his face.

  “Yuh all right?” Bryant Cavendish demanded.

  “I—I’m all right. I don’t know just why—I—I thought—”

  “Save yer breath till yuh got enough of it tuh talk with. I c’n see good enough tuh keep these skunks covered. Yuh shot Vince’s gun outen his hand. I thought fer sure you was a goner.”

  The Lone Ranger heard a soft moan and turned to see Wallie recovering from the blow he sustained when his head struck the floor. Still unsteady on his feet, the masked man carried water in the cup and threw it on the other’s face, then he joined Bryant Cavendish after regaining his guns. He sat on the floor and reloaded.

  For the first time he was aware of the freshly opened shoulder wound. The blood was soaking through his shirt. His chest, too, bothered him, but there were other things of far greater importance than his personal condition.

  Wallie was sitting up with a dazed look in his face.

  “You,” barked Bryant, “git over there an’ stand close tuh Vince.”

  Wallie obeyed slowly. Meanwhile Lonergan had ceased his cries. The Lone Ranger knew by looking at him that the man was dead. Then he heard Bryant scolding.

  “I had two guns,” the old man complained. “I’d o’ wiped the lot o’ them out, if you hadn’t messed intuh things so’s I couldn’t shoot without prob’ly hittin’ you!”

  “That’s just it, Bryant. I didn’t want them all killed. We want them alive to talk! There are a lot of other men on this ranch and everyone has been working with these.”

  “Where they at now?”

  “Outside the house, figuring that you and I are dead.”

  “Skunks,” growled Bryant.

 
Wallie appeared to have regained his composure. “What,” he asked, “are your plans now?”

  “Shut up an’ you’ll find out,” snapped Bryant. “This masked man told me about you, yuh dirty double-dyed rat, but I wouldn’t believe him! He told me that he’d said jest enough tuh you so you’d figger the two of us had tuh be wiped out. Then he dragged me outen my bed an’ packed me in this yere corner of the room an’ waited till yuh showed yer hand. By God, I never got talked to in my hull damned life like I been talked to by this critter. Now he’s showed you up fer what yuh are I reckon I’m due tuh do some talkin’!”

  “I ain’t interested,” growled Wallie.

  “Now lookut here,” broke in Vince, “I’m yer own blood relative, Uncle Bryant. I—”

  “Don’t ‘uncle’ me, yuh weasel-faced runt! You was in on everything that took place. Only thing I don’t savvy is where’s Jeb?”

  “You’d better be interested in where Penelope is,” suggested Wallie. “You don’t give a damn what happens to Jeb, but if you’re interested in that girl, you’d better be willin’ to talk things over reasonable.”

  “She’s in the care of that Indian,” retorted Bryant, “an’ a damn sight safer than she was around here with you crooks.”

  Wallie nodded. “Suit yourself.”

  The Lone Ranger said, “You were going to say something, Cavendish.”

  “I was,” said Bryant, “an’ still am.”

  The Lone Ranger rose again, feeling slightly stronger, and while Bryant talked, did what he could to dress the broken arm of Lombard.

  “I got aplenty tuh explain,” said Bryant. “It’s as you said, I didn’t want tuh let on that my eyes was bad because I knew I’d be took advantage of by everyone, so I tried tuh hide it. I told Mort that I wanted a good lawyer tuh come here an’ help me make up my will. I didn’t know anything about this Lonergan, except that he talked like he knew law.”

  “He did,” said the Lone Ranger.

  “I had him make out my will an’ I signed it. When he read it tuh me, it sounded like I wanted it. The lyin’ crook didn’t say anything about anyone called Munson.”

  “You don’t know anyone by that name?”

  “No. When I told yuh I’d never heard the name, I told the truth.”

  “What about that other document?”

  “I had Lonergan write that up, too. It’s just like you said it was. I planned tuh have all these no-good nephews sign that paper. Penelope wasn’t never supposed tuh sign it.”

  “She wasn’t?” asked the Lone Ranger quickly.

  “No, she wasn’t supposed tuh sign that any more than a man named Munson was supposed tuh inherit my ranch. I left all I own tuh Penelope. That’s how the will was supposed tuh read an’ that’s how Lonergan read it tuh me. When I took Mort into Red Oak last night, these skunks seen their chance tuh make Penny sign that damned paper. I savvy what their dirty double-crossin’ scheme was. I ain’t no fool. Them crooks knowed that none o’ them could be named in my will without arousin’ a hell of a lot of suspicion, so they put in the name of Munson. If yuh want my opinion there ain’t an’ never was no Andrew Munson.”

  “That,” said the Lone Ranger, “is about the way they planned it. They knew the claimant to the Basin would never appear and they’d go on running the place in accordance with the terms of the will and using it as they have been for the past weeks in their cattle business.”

  Wallie yawned in feigned boredom. “When you get through with all this talk, you’d better spend a little time deciding whether you want Penelope to live—or die!”

  The Lone Ranger said, “There’s one more thing we haven’t learned.” His voice grew flinty. “Who was in the party that ambushed those Texas Rangers?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Answer me!”

  “An’ if I don’t?” replied Wallie in a bantering tone.

  The masked man stepped back a pace and drew his gun. He held it at a hip, the muzzle pointing at the stomach of the other. “You saw how Lonergan died,” he said softly. “It wasn’t easy to watch.”

  Wallie glanced at the gun, then at the masked man’s face. He saw something in those steady eyes behind the mask that made him almost feel the frightful drilling of a slug in the pit of his stomach. “I—I didn’t know anything about it,” he said. “Mort an’ Vince planned it by themselves an’—”

  “Yuh damned squealer!” yelled Vince.

  “Go on.”

  “Rangoon bossed the job—”

  “You’d o’ done it yer ownself,” bellowed Vince, “if yuh hadn’t been so damned yeller. All of us all the time had tuh take orders from you while you strutted around in fancy clothes!”

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” the masked man said, holstering his weapon.

  “That’s a confession,” shouted Bryant, “an’ I heard it. I’ll witness that in court.”

  “But wait,” fairly shouted Wallie. “You’ve nothin’ to gain by hangin’ us! It’ll just mean that Penelope dies too! You don’t understand.”

  One of the windows in the room looked out across the Basin to the Gap. The masked man had glanced toward this frequently throughout the conversation. Now he saw horsemen coming from the canyon.

  “Yuma will be here in a few minutes,” he said. “He’s crossing the Basin now.”

  “Then you’ve got damned little time to decide. I made arrangements in Red Oak, like I told you last night.” Wallie addressed himself to Bryant. “There’s a woman there that’s agreed to take care of Penny an’ those kids. I didn’t say how she was goin’ to take care of her! It’s Breed Martin’s wife!”

  “Breed Martin!” Bryant roared the name. “A skunk that’ll do anything includin’ murder fer the price of a drink! Why you—” The old man was trembling in rage, struggling to get on his feet; his hands were working as if his fingers itched to feel Wallie’s thick throat.

  “That’s just it,” said Wallie. “I admit all you’ve said here, I admit it tuh prove that I was willin’ to go to any lengths to have my way! I planned to be the richest man in this part of the country!” Wallie’s voice was shrill and getting shriller. “I wanted every killer in this state takin’ orders from me. I was goin’ to control the state an’ I wouldn’t let the life of one girl stand between me an’ what I wanted. I told that Redskin where tuh take Penelope. I described the house! He can’t miss it! Two hours after she gets there, Breed an’ his woman’ll have everything all set to take her an’ the kids south of the border, an’ that’ll be the last of ’em! You know damned well what’ll happen to a girl as pretty as Penelope in some of them outlaw greaser dives!

  “I told Breed an’ his wife to get her out of Red Oak an’ go in hidin’ till they heard from me! They’ll do just that! If I don’t show up, they’ll go on south with her.”

  “Where’s that hidin’ place?” barked Bryant. “Where is it? Answer me, yuh louse!”

  “Answer you an’ then go an’ get hanged? What d’ya take me for, Bryant, a damned fool? Not on your life! You’ve got to make your mind up quick!”

  Hoofs clattered outside the house. Wallie glanced through the window and saw a score of horsemen coming close with Yuma in the lead. “Quick,” he cried. “It’s us or Penelope! You can put all the blame on the dead men! If me an’ Vince an’ Lombard can ride out of here, we’ll promise that Penelope comes home before dark! Turn us over to the law an’ I swear you’ll never see that girl again!”

  Bryant raged and stormed. His fury broke all past attainments. The louder the old man shouted, the more he said, the more poised Wallie became. During the furor the Lone Ranger made no comment.

  The hoofs clattered in halting, and men’s voices carried to the room. The Lone Ranger saw with satisfaction that the men with Yuma were not weak-willed deputies like Slim. They were grim man-hunters—Texas Rangers—and they lost no time in herding the men of the Basin into a close-packed group with hands upraised. A door was opened downstairs, and heavy boots clattere
d on the stairs.

  Bryant Cavendish, sweat dripping from his face, looked beaten. He cast an appealing glance toward the masked man.

  “I,” he said, “don’t have no choice. You gotta stand behind me. That girl’s life means more ’n these crooks’ death! That skunk has played an ace.”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  An Ace Is Trumped

  The Lone Ranger closed the door. Wallie looked at him and smirked. “Now yer showin’ good judgment,” he said. “I’ve got a story all fixed up. It’ll put us in the clear an’—”

  A shout outside the door.

  “Come in alone, Yuma,” the masked man replied, stepping back against the wall. There was a hurried conversation in the hall, then Yuma came in. His face was red and sweaty. His eyes went wide with surprise at the scene before him.

  “Close the door,” said the masked man softly.

  Yuma slapped it closed and then exclaimed, “What in hell’s been goin’ on?” He saw Bryant, then the others with their hands still held slightly lifted.

  “Yuma,” the masked man said, “Jeb is about the house some place. You might have a couple of the men look beneath the living-room floor.”

  “But what’s been goin’ on here?” repeated the big cowboy. “Has that old buzzard confessed?”

  “Bryant is in the clear. Get the story briefly. Wallie led the gang. Bryant’s half-blind, but I know of a doctor who can help him. Bryant didn’t know what went on here. Penelope is supposed to inherit everything, but I have an idea that she and Bryant will be together for a good many years before there’s any inheritance to talk about.”

  Yuma nodded, still wide-eyed. He looked from Bryant to Wallie, then at the men on the floor. He said, “There’ll be a nice hunk o’ reward money comin’ fer the capture o’ these critters.”

  “I won’t be here to collect any reward, Yuma. You helped capture them. Perhaps you and Bryant can split the rewards.”