The Lone Ranger and Tonto

by Fran Striker; Francis Hamilton Striker

  Chapter X

  TONTO IN THE ROYAL FLUSH

  The town was only half awake despite the fact that it was past noon. Dawn had come before the majority of the townsmen left the row of cafés, or abandoned the hunt for the masked man. When the Sheriff and his men arrived after giving up their search, they were told about the robbery at Langford's place and the appearance of the masked man and his escape. Shortly after that, the crowds broke up. Men were tired and went to bed.

  So at noon most of the men of Snake River still were in their homes. Tonto, riding Scout and leading Silver, headed slowly down the dusty street. Two men lounged on the porch of the general store and glanced at him as he passed them. He went by the two-story hotel with the false front, and noticed the clerk sitting in his shirt sleeves on the steps with a hat shading his eyes while he dozed in the hot sun. Butterflies and insects hummed and flitted and a four-foot snake lay in the middle of the road quite unmolested.

  At the Royal Flush, Tonto halted. He sat before the hitchrack for a moment, studying the battered sign that was pock-marked with bullet holes from the guns of waddies who occasionally came into town to blow a three month's payroll in a three-day spree. The Indian dismounted and tied both horses to the split-rail bar. Then he entered the café.

  The place was gloomy after the brilliant sunlight he had left. It reeked of stale liquor, and tobacco fumes still hung heavily in the air. The tables and chairs were pushed back against one wall and piled one atop the other. A red-haired boy slopped water on the floor in a somewhat futile attempt to clean it.

  Tonto stood at the door for a moment, unnoticed by the barman or the other occupant who talked with him. The Indian surveyed the room in one glance and then directed his attention to the two men who leaned their elbows on the polished surface, the bald-headed man in the white apron behind it and the man with the deputy sheriff's badge in front. Tonto's moccasined feet made no sound as he took a position at the opposite end of the bar and waited patiently.

  The Indian noticed that the deputy sheriff's eyes were red-rimmed and heavy-lidded. His hand made a rest for his chin as he listened to the bartender.

  "Yuh shore put on a first-rate act last night, Eph," the barkeeper said. "If I live tuh be a hundred, I'll never forget the way yuh slid across the floor on yer stomach, showin' how yuh dove at the masked man when he made his getaway."

  Eph Summers replied with a grunt.

  "Yes, siree," the aproned man went on, "yuh should be one of them stage actors that come through here once in a while. I bet a hundred men offered tuh buy drinks fer yuh."

  "I bet," replied Eph Summers in a gloomy voice, "that I slid on my stomach about twenty times. I sure as thunder got myself bruised up." He ran his tongue across dry-looking lips and asked for a glass of water. "I must've had a powerful good time," he said, "on account of I feel so ornery this mornin'."

  The barman filled a glass with water and offered it to Eph who downed it in a gulp and asked for more. "Tell me," he said, "was Steve Delaney sore at me because the kid escaped from the jailhouse?"

  "I dunno as he was, Eph. What makes yuh say that?"

  "You seen him this mornin'?"

  The bartender replied, "Yeh, he dropped in here an' looked around but he didn't have much tuh say. Fact is he didn't say anything. Jest nodded an' walked out again."

  "I saw him, too," replied the prison guard, "an' I was plumb surprised. He don't often show himself till noon, an' it was at least two hours ago that I seen him. He didn't speak to me at all. I figgered maybe he was carryin' a grudge ag'in me."

  "Delaney is a peculiar sort of man," confided the bartender. "He gits spells when he don't want tuh speak or be spoken to. You oughta know that, Eph, you been around town a long time."

  "I know he's odd all right, but I jest don't like to have a man like him sore at me. All he has tuh do is say a few words in the right places an' I'm out of my job as a deputy. Delaney has an awful lot of weight in this town."

  The bartender agreed. He held a glass up to the light that came in through the windows and scrutinized it carefully. He wiped an almost invisible smudge from the gleaming surface and stacked it with a dozen mates on the shelf behind the bar. Then he looked at Eph for a moment. "I wonder—" he mused.

  "Yuh wonder what?"

  "I reckon I c'n trust you, Eph, can't I?"

  "Sure you can. There ain't a man alive that c'n say Eph Summers ain't a man tuh be trusted."

  The bartender leaned forward and lowered his voice, but Tonto's sharp ears heard him say, "Delaney won this café from Jeb Larkspur."

  Eph said, "Is that so? I didn't know that!"

  "It's true. Delaney don't want it known around town, but he's the real owner. Larkspur is workin' fer him runnin' the Royal Flush. Now I'm tellin' yuh this, Eph, just so's you won't worry none about Delaney bein' mad at you. He's just got one of his grouches on this mornin', that's all. He ate his breakfast here a couple hours ago, and didn't have a doggone thing to say to me."

  "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?" demanded the deputy sheriff.

  "Couldn't decide if I should tell it or not. I reckon it's all right, though, if you be sure to keep your mouth shut."

  "I will," promised the lawman.

  "One more thing you maybe didn't know. He lives in the rooms in back of this place. He moved in there a while back, an' I think I savvy the reason why."

  "Why?"

  Once more the bartender became confidential in voice and manner. "I think," he said, "that someone is gunnin' fer Delaney."

  "Who'd it be?"

  "Dunno that, but he ain't takin' no chances on someone puttin' lead in him while he's asleep. He's let on that he still lives in that house o' his, but he's really livin' in the back rooms here."

  Eph Summers pursed his lips in a soft whistle of surprise. "So he thinks he's bein' gunned for. That's news all right."

  Tonto realized he had overheard some confidences that perhaps might cause complications. Indians were not liked by the white men in this district, and if this deputy had reason to believe that Tonto would reveal what he had learned, he would find some reason for clapping him in jail. So Tonto shuffled from the place unnoticed. He came right back in, making enough noise by coughing to attract the bartender's attention.

  The man behind the bar looked up at Tonto with an expression of displeasure. "You got any cash money, redskin?" he demanded.

  Tonto nodded.

  "Wal, yuh cain't buy no firewater in this café. We ain't bustin' the law tuh sell tuh Injuns, so yuh better vamoose."

  "Me not want-um firewater," Tonto replied.

  "What do yuh want? Speak fast or git out."

  "Me want food. Mebbe eggs."

  "Dad-rat it," growled the bartender, "I suppose I'll have tuh fix 'em fer yuh, if I don't, Jeb Larkspur'll say I ain't 'tendin' tuh business. Sit yerself down to a table an' wait till they're ready."

  Tonto obeyed in silence. He did not care about eating but he had to have some excuse to remain in the Royal Flush. He ordered eggs knowing it would take some time to prepare them, and he wanted to watch for further developments. He had no idea what the Lone Ranger had in mind, he simply knew that he was following the masked man's directions to the best of his ability. The load on Silver's back, the arrival in the Royal Flush, and even the suggestion to order eggs, had all been specified in the note.

  Tonto noticed that the man in charge was in no hurry to retire to the kitchen and prepare the order of eggs, but continued his conversation with Eph Summers. Now, however, his voice was barely above a whisper and all the Indian could hear was the sibilant sound he made.

  Presently the doors swung open and two more men came into the café. Both looked haggard and badly in need of a shave, but their keen eyes and firm chins marked them as individuals who demanded and received a large measure of respect. One of them wore a badge that was different from the others Tonto had seen. This man was Sheriff Dixon, whose reputation as a firm and just lawman extended
far beyond the boundaries of the county over which he had charge. His chief deputy kept step with him as the two went directly to the barman. Both wore their guns low, and lashed to their thighs.

  "Who," demanded the Sheriff, "owns those horses out front?"

  The bald-headed man jerked his head and pointed a thumb in the direction of Tonto. "The redskin," he replied. "Why?"

  Sheriff Dixon did not bother to reply. He advanced to Tonto and stood beside the table. "Those your horses?"

  Tonto nodded.

  "Pretty fine horseflesh for a redskin to own."

  "Those pretty fine horse," replied Tonto, "for any man to own."

  The Sheriff squinted appraisingly at the Indian. "I note," he said, "that there ain't any brands on 'em. Not even an earnotch."

  "That right."

  "What I want to know is where you stole them."

  Tonto shook his head. "Me not steal-um," he replied.

  "Where'd the horses come from?"

  "White horse come from valley where plenty wild horse live. Him wild horse at one time. Now him partly tame. Paint horse come from Indian tribe." It took the Indian quite a time to make so long a speech. He had to group his words carefully and pronounce them slowly to be understood. Without appearing to do so, the Sheriff noted that the Indian's shirt pocket showed the outlines of round coins.

  "Have you got cash on you?"

  "Me got cash."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  "Me get cash from silver mine."

  "Where are you from?"

  Tonto pointed toward the north. "High country," he replied.

  At least that checked in the mind of Sheriff Dixon. He knew that there were silver-bearing claims in the country to the north and knew also that many of these claims had been on land controlled by the Indians. There were, at that time, instances where white men had made a deal with the Indians to work the land and sell the ore at ridiculously low prices. But those low prices represented vast wealth to the Indians.

  "He might be tellin' the truth at that," offered the deputy.

  Sheriff Dixon nodded. "Tell me," he said, "where you aimin' to go from here?"

  Tonto pointed to the south.

  Once more the lawman nodded. "I reckon you're all right," he said, "but it might be a good idea if we were to look at some of the stuff you're packin' on the white horse."

  Tonto's face did not betray his inner feelings. This was the last thing he wanted the Sheriff to do. If the tarpaulin and the carefully packed supplies were removed, the magnificent saddle of hand-tooled leather with the silver trimmings would be found. This would be difficult to explain. And if the Sheriff probed still further, he would open the saddlebags. In these he would find some of the stains and dyes the Lone Ranger used in his disguises. He would find an extra mask that was carried for emergency, and also a supply of bullets that would arouse considerable curiosity. Bullets made of solid silver!

  "Come on," snapped the Sheriff, "lead the way outside and let us have a look at your duffel."

  "Why you want to look?" asked Tonto.

  "I don't have to explain why I want to do things to a redskin. For all I know you might be loaded down with liquor that you sell to other Injuns. That's one way you might have come by your cash. Now get started and let me see what you've got on the white horse."

  Tonto felt he could not stall longer without arousing more suspicion in the Sheriff's mind. He pondered the chance of a sudden surprise move to knock the Sheriff and his companion down, then make a break to get away from the vicinity, but this would not help matters. It would simply end his usefulness so far as the Lone Ranger was concerned.

  He rose and started for the door of the café with Dixon and the deputy behind him.

  Eph Summers called, "Hold on, Sheriff Dixon. I'll go along with yuh."

  The Sheriff studied the guard a moment and then growled, "You'd better go some place and get some sleep. You look mighty unhealthy to me."

  "Let me go and inspect the redskin's cargo," Eph coaxed, "I'm all right an' I'm curious about this particular Injun."

  "Come on then." Eph Summers joined the others as Tonto reached the door.

  Chapter XI

  TWO FRIENDS MAKE PLANS

  Tonto knew that within the next few minutes he would have to fight. As he crossed the porch of the Royal Flush ahead of the Sheriff and two deputies, he slipped his hand beneath his buckskin jacket and gripped the handle of a knife. He knew there would be no chance to draw the rifle from its scabbard on the side of Scout. He would have to depend entirely on the knife in a fight against three men, each of whom was well armed.

  Though the Lone Ranger had frequently impressed upon the Indian that there should never be killing by either of them regardless of what came to pass, Tonto felt that on this occasion he would be justified. He knew that the life of the Lone Ranger was at stake. He weighed the value of this mystery rider's life against the value of the lives of the three lawmen. The West, he felt, and the white folks who were settling there, would be much more benefited if the Lone Ranger were to remain alive than they would be by three ordinary mortals. The thought that he might lose his own life in fighting those three never entered his mind. Tonto never considered his own welfare.

  As he went down the steps he saw the fourth man! The secrets that lay beneath the pile of supplies on Silver's back had already been probed! Beside the big white horse stood a tall man with a top hat, gaudy clothes, and a flowing black moustache. One of the man's hands rested beneath the duffel. He could not fail to discover the saddle, and perhaps the saddlebags! Four men, he thought, instead of three. He saw the white-toothed smile of the stranger and heard him speak to Sheriff Dixon.

  "Good day, Mister Delaney," replied the Sheriff in a courteous voice. "We were just goin' to examine the redskin's horses. I figured he might be carryin' some liquor."

  "Why," replied the tall man, "have you time to investigate Indians? You must have found young Walters. Is that the case?"

  "Well, no, we haven't, Mister Delaney, and I don't think we will. We spent the night and part of the morning looking for some sign of him, but he's just disappeared from sight."

  "What about the masked man who returned to rob John Langford?"

  "We haven't found him, either," replied the lawman in a somewhat apologetic manner that was in direct contrast to the way he spoke in the Royal Flush. Tonto thought this man who was called Delaney must have rare influence in the community. Tonto knew his type. The gambler type was familiar in the Western settlements, and yet there was an odd contradiction in the tall man.

  Tonto noticed his eyes. They were steady and unwavering. His voice, too, had a fine quality and held no trace of the usual oiliness of the gamblers the Indian had known. There were things about the man called Delaney that Tonto liked. Especially the sharp way he addressed the Sheriff upon whom Tonto already looked as an enemy.

  "Disappeared has he?" Delaney snapped. "I don't know what you do around here to make you worth what you're paid, Sheriff Dixon. I can tell you where to find Dave Walters."

  "You can?"

  "Of course. I don't see why it's necessary for me to do your work for you, and I can't understand why it is that I can remain right here in town and learn more than you can while you're out on the manhunt."

  Sheriff Dixon scratched his head in a perplexed manner. "Doggone it, Mister Delaney, I can't understand that myself."

  Tonto had reached the side of the horses and stood slightly apart from the others as Dixon and Delaney talked. His right hand was still concealed beneath his shirt as he gripped the knife in readiness.

  "Where is Dave Walters? Is that what you wanted to tell me last night?" asked the Sheriff.

  "Last night?" echoed the man called Delaney.

  "Yeah. One of the Royal Flush waiters told me that you sat at your favorite table for a long time last night, waitin' for me to come back from the search. You wanted to see me."

  "I could have told you last night where to locate the man
you want."

  "Where?" asked the lawman eagerly. "Just tell me where and we'll be headin' there pronto."

  "First, there's one thing you've got to promise me."

  "What's that, Mister Delaney."

  "I want the boy brought back to town alive."

  "But if he puts up a fight…"

  "I don't care what sort of a fight he puts up. He's to be brought back alive and uninjured, and see that you take enough men along with you to make that possible."

  "Um-m," replied the Sheriff thoughtfully, "we'll try."

  "And you do it. I'm doubtful about his guilt, and I want to see him get a fair trial."

  Dixon showed surprise. "Gosh, Mister Delaney, you've sure changed your mind a lot in the past twenty-four hours. It was you who was so sure that Dave Walters killed Ma Prindle in the first place."

  "Was I?" asked Delaney.

  "You know you were. I was sorry for the kid, but you insisted that he was the murderer and I didn't have any choice but to lock him up."

  "If you have any doubt about your ability to bring him back alive," went on the tall man in a somewhat ironic manner, "I'll ride out and get him myself."

  "You don't have to, Mr. Delaney," promised the Sheriff. "We'll see that it's done. Now tell us how to locate him."

  Tonto had been studying the tall man carefully during the conversation. For some reason, he liked this man. There was a peculiar mixture of impressions in the Indian's simple mind that he could not straighten out. He waited, and watched developments. He wondered if it were in any way possible that the tall man who was so obviously a gambler, could have learned of the secret hide-out in the cave in Snake River Canyon. His doubts were dispelled when Delaney spoke again.

  "He's in a cave," he said, "in Snake River Canyon. Go to the canyon and follow it until you reach the bend about twenty miles from here where there's a waterfall."