“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 distant. 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.
&n
bsp; “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 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?”
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