The Pulp Hero

by Theodore A. Tinsley

  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?

  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.”

  Penny halted at the edge of the clearing. It was the first time she had seen Rangoon at close range, and she found him wholly repugnant. His face was pitted from smallpox, scarred from a knife brawl, and generally greasy with sweat, but it was his eyes that made him hideous. They were small, bloodshot, and set too close together. He had only one eyebrow, which extended clear across the ridge of his receding forehead, serving both eyes. The expression in the eyes was one of confidence and insolence.

  Instinctively, Penny felt that she should turn at once and ride back home. Rangoon advanced on foot, and held a hand toward her.

  “I’ll help yuh down from the saddle,” he said.

  “I’m not dismounting, I was just about to turn back.”

  “I don’t reckon you’ll want tuh turn back right now,” Rangoon said. “There’s somethin’ over here you’ll be right glad to have a look at.”

  “I doubt it.” Penny tried to jerk the reins around, but Rangoon was holding them. “Please let go of my reins, Rangoon. I’m going home.”

  Rangoon shook his head slowly. “I wouldn’t,” he said, “if I was you. I understand that yer uncle’d be right sore if he found you’d rid up here in spite of all he’s said about it.”

  Penny pulled suddenly and
hard, but vainly.

  “It ain’t no use tryin’ tuh pull free jest yet,” Rangoon advised her, “because I aim tuh have yuh take jest one look at what I seen. Then yore free tuh go, if yuh want tuh.”

  Penny was armed: she wore a small-caliber revolver on a belt around her waist. She felt that she could use this if necessary. She was more angry than frightened. She dismounted, ignoring the offered hand of the pock-marked man. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say it didn’t matter. She noticed that his own horse was tethered to a near-by tree.

  “What is it you want to show me?”

  “I suppose,” Rangoon said slowly, “you’re downright disappointed that it’s me yuh seen here instead of yer other friend.”

  Penny noticed the use of the word “other.” It implied that in his mind Rangoon had no intention of considering himself in the humble position of a waddie on her uncle’s ranch, but rather as one on an equal social footing. Penny made no comment.

  “Yuh wonder how I know about him, eh?” Rangoon said. “Wal, there is what I wanted yuh tuh see.” He pointed to the ground.

  Penny saw the marks of her small boots clearly showing where she had stood yesterday. Near by were the prints that Tonto’s moccasins had made. Penny stared and felt herself growing cold with fury at the realization of what she knew must be in Rangoon’s foul mind. Not only were the prints there together, but both pairs led toward the lean-to.

  “’Tain’t as if it was one of the boys from the Basin,” the tantalizing voice behind her said, “but a critter wearin’ moccasins! That might mean a redskin.”

  Penny acted instinctively. She whirled quickly and swung with all the force of her arm. Her gloved hand smacked against the scar on Rangoon’s cheek.

  Then she burned with embarrassment. Any explanation would be futile. She walked quickly toward her horse.

  “Not so fast,” Rangoon said sharply, grabbing Penny’s arm.

  “You let go of my arm, or I’ll shoot you.”

  “The hell yuh will!”

  In that instant Penny was ready to kill. All reasoning left her. The hand on her arm brought her fury to white heat. She snatched for her gun, but Rangoon slapped the weapon from her hand.

  Rangoon released his grip on her arm, and caught up the reins of her horse. “Jest git yer senses while I tie up yer hoss, an’ we’ll talk.”

  Released, the girl made a dive for her gun, which was on the ground. Rangoon saw the motion, and put his foot on the weapon.

  “I’ll fix that,” he growled. He picked up the gun and emptied it of cartridges. “Now you c’n have the shootin’ iron back,” he said, handing it to her while he tossed the ammunition deep among the heavy brush. Penny took her weapon mechanically and put it, empty, in her holster.

  Fear gripped her for a moment when she realized that she was practically helpless. To turn and race away on foot would be a futile gesture. She thought of fainting, but that wouldn’t help matters any. She looked defiantly at Rangoon.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Now, that’s more like it. Yuh needn’t be scairt of me; I don’t aim tuh hurt yuh none.” There was a definite sneer in both the voice and expression while the man tossed Las Vegas’ reins about a tree and knotted them.

  “Don’t get the notion that you gotta fight fer yer honor an’ all that sort o’ tripe like in the readin’ books. I don’t aim tuh git shot up by men in the Basin fer makin’ passes at you. I like my women without no killin’ fights tied ontuh them.”

  Penny stubbornly refused to let her face indicate her feelings. She stood, chin up, listening.

  “First of all,” Rangoon said, “I hanker tuh know why yuh rid up here.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Goin’ tuh be stubborn again, eh? Now you’ll git home a sight quicker if yuh answer my questions.”

  “Why are you here?” countered Penny.

  “That’s easy. I tell, then you tell,” Rangoon grinned. “Makin’ a sort o’ game of it, eh? Wal, yesterday I seen smoke comin’ outen the treetops. I wondered who was campin’ here, but couldn’t git away from the Basin tuh see. I rid up tuhday an’ found some downright interestin’ footprints. Now it’s yore turn tuh tell jest what they mean.”

  “And then you’ll let me leave here?”

  “Talk first.”

  “I used to ride up this way before I went to school. I came up yesterday and found a friendly Indian camped here.”

  “Why?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Yuh rid up here twice.”

  Penny hadn’t credited Rangoon with such skill at reading signs.

  “Yes, I came up twice.”

  “The redskin had two horses with him. What about ’em?”

  Penny, while hating herself for enduring the man’s insolence, felt that there was no use trying to evade the truth, which after all was harmless. She told Rangoon about bringing food for the Indian’s friend.

  When she mentioned the friend, Rangoon showed keen interest.

  “Who was that there friend?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where was he at?”

  “I don’t know that either. I’ve told you all I know, Rangoon.”

  The man shook his head slowly, “’Tain’t enough. I got tuh know the rest.”

  Penny was defiant. “I’ve told you all I know and now I’m starting back for the Basin. If I’m not there Uncle Bryant will wonder why, and I’ll tell him why I was delayed. You ought to know him pretty well, Rangoon. He won’t take this sort of behavior from you!”

  Rangoon threw back his head and laughed hard at this.

  “Yer uncle won’t hurt me,” he said between two roars of laughter.

  Penny made a sudden dive for the knotted reins. Again Rangoon was quicker. He caught her in strong hands.

  “Yuh ain’t leavin’,” he said, “till yuh tell who the redskin’s friend is, an’ where he’s hidin’.”

  “I tell you I don’t know.” Penny struggled to free herself.

  “I’ll wring it out of yuh,” Rangoon bellowed as he wrapped his long arms completely around the girl and nearly cut off her wind in a bearlike grip.

  “L-let m-me g-go,” gasped Penny.

  Rangoon’s grip was tighter. His arms were crushing the slim girl to him, bending her back until it hurt frightfully. His ugly face was close to her, his breath, foul with alcohol and half-rotted teeth, was hot. Penny felt nauseated, violently ill.

  Contact with the girl made Rangoon reckless. He seemed to forget any fear he might have had.

  His voice was hoarse as he shouted to Penny, “Who is that Indian’s friend?”

  His repeated question was simply an excuse to hold the girl. His voice was hoarse. “Who is that Indian’s friend?”

  “I am!”

  It was a new voice, a deeply resonant one that spoke from behind Rangoon.

  “Stand back,” the same voice snapped.

  Rangoon swore and whirled as he snatched out his gun with catlike speed and agility. The releasing of the girl, the turning, the drawing, and the firing, all seemed part of one smooth flowing movement that came from instinct.

  Wide-eyed, Penny saw Rangoon’s gun jump as it lashed flame and smoke toward the newcomer. The gun seemed a thing alive—it leaped free of Rangoon’s hand and flew in an arc across the clearing. Rangoon screamed a livid curse of pain as he gripped his gun hand.

  The stranger, standing ten feet away, had his own weapon back in its holster. Penny saw that the man was tall; his hat was white and clean, and his face was masked.

  Rangoon’s hand must have hurt terribly, to judge from his violent cursing. Penny had a dazed, detached feeling as she watched the two men. Rangoon, still cursing, held a hand that stung from the force of the bullet that had knocked his own gun away.

/>   The stranger with the mask stepped forward and slapped Rangoon on the face. The blow did not appear to be hard-swung, but it sent Rangoon sprawling on the ground.

  “That’s enough of that talk,” the stranger said in his crisp but nonetheless pleasant voice. Penny heard another sound, and turned as Tonto came from behind the trees.

  The masked man spoke again. “You’re not hurt badly. My bullet struck your gun, not your hand.”

  “You’ll pay fer this,” Rangoon cried. “I’ll see yuh shot up, a little at a time—I’ll have my men git yuh, you wait.”

  The Lone Ranger turned to Tonto. “You’d better gag him, Tonto,” he said. “It’s going to be hard to talk above that noise.”

  Tonto grinned and leaped astride Rangoon, who made no attempt to rise from the ground. What the killer said was muffled as Tonto jammed a knotted cloth into his mouth.

  “When he’s gagged, rope him.”

  Tonto nodded and his expression said, “Gladly.”

  Penny watched with interest. She knew she should mount and ride at once for the Basin, but there was something about the masked man that held her, and there were things she wanted to ask. Who was this stranger whose chin was so well shaped? Why was he masked? She instinctively liked him, aside from the help he’d given her. She liked his efficient manner of handling Rangoon.

  Beyond the trees she caught a glimpse of Silver. This, then, was the man to whom she had sent food. The man for whom Tonto had asked help. This was the owner of the magnificent stallion.

  “Friend,” she thought. “That’s who he is. Tonto’s friend.” She remembered the way Tonto had spoken of him, then understood the tone the Indian had used when he said, “My friend.”