The Lone Ranger Rides

by Fran Striker

  Chapter II

  THE GAP

  The lifeless forms that littered the floor of Bryant's Gap had butrecently been men who lived a vital, hard life in the outdoors; men whocould shoot fast and straight, whose every sense was tuned to a pitchthat made them aware of any danger that lurked. The dead men had beenTexas Rangers.

  In a roundabout way, these riders had been told that men they sought asoutlaws could be found in Bryant's Basin. To reach the Basin they hadridden through the Gap--almost through the Gap--but Death had cut theirjourney short. Killers, waiting behind protecting rocks, had firedwithout warning. Half of the small band had spilled from the saddle,either dead or wounded, at the first fusillade of bullets. The others,with the intuitive action of men who live and often die by the gun, hadleaped to the ground to fight from behind the scant protection of fallenhorses. Empty cartridge cases gave mute evidence of their gallant stand.

  The Rangers all had fallen, but in one a tiny spark of life stillglowed. The man, wounded in several places, looked dead. Even thebuzzards, circling ever lower, experts at recognizing death, weredeceived. The gaunt birds seemed to dart away in surprise when the lonesurvivor moved. A dazed sort of consciousness came slowly to him. Atfirst he was aware of heat--heat from the sun overhead and the rockssurrounding him. Then the heat became a frightful burning, concentratedin his right leg and left shoulder. Blood, seeping from a gash acrosshis forehead, blinded him. He tried to move, but the effort made himgiddy. He fell back to rest, while he fought to gather his scatteredsenses.

  As the mists lifted from his mind he remembered sudden shots--hiscomrades falling--stabbing pain shooting through his left side from theshoulder down--left hand useless--a bullet in his foot--falling to theground--oblivion. Ambush--treachery--_must_ live--must bring the killersin!

  Sheer courage, and the will to ignore the pains that racked his entirebody, brought the wounded man to a sitting position. At the time, thethought that murderers might still be lurking close at hand did notoccur to him.

  His first thought was to see if any of the others needed help, but whenhe tried to rise he was amazed at his own weakness. He realized that hewas beyond the point of helping others.

  He could barely move. He wiped the blood from his eyes, but his visionwas fogged. Only large objects could be discerned, and these notclearly. He tried to locate the horses, but all except his own had diedor disappeared. The white stallion that he himself had ridden stood ashort distance away, as if waiting for the next command of its master.He tried to give the familiar whistle, but no sound issued from his dry,bloodless lips. He called to the horse, and his own voice startled him.It was an unfamiliar voice, one that he had never heard before--almostcroaking. But the stallion heard it and came obediently to the side ofthe sitting man.

  The big horse lowered its head at a whispered command. The reins fellclose to the hands of the man on the ground. He clutched for them andhad to grope before he found them. Then, clinging to the bridle, hefinally gained an unsteady footing. With the instinct of the hunted hesought for his means of defense. His right hand fumbled at his waist forthe familiar cartridge belt and the brace of heavy guns. The belt wasmissing. This discovery should have been cause for alarm, but in hisdesperate condition, the loss of the weapons seemed of small consequenceto the Texas Ranger. He did, however, wonder vaguely where it had gone.He couldn't remember taking the belt off, but there were many details ofthe short battle that had escaped his recollection. He felt about hiswaist once more before he would believe that his weapons were not intheir familiar place. Convinced then, he knew that but one hoperemained--flight.

  Sensing that his master was in difficulty, knowing that somethingunusual had taken place, the big horse stood motionless while the Rangerdragged his body to the saddle. It called for an almost superhumaneffort to mount the horse. He made no attempt to sit erect. Instead heleaned far forward, fighting desperately against the constantlyincreasing nausea that threatened to deprive him of consciousness. Henudged the horse with one heel, and Silver trotted forward. Directionwas a thing far out of the question, and the rider made no effort toguide his horse. He clung to the saddle, fighting every moment of thetime to stay alive, while the horse carried him from the scene of suddendeath where buzzards circled lower, ever lower.

  When he could gather the strength to speak, he whispered in a huskyvoice, close to the ear of the horse, "Away, Silver--away." A trail ofred that continually dripped from his right boot warned the Texas Rangerthat he must stop soon and try to make some sort of inventory of hiscondition. But he could inventory nothing. He could remember next tonothing. He could not see fifty feet ahead or behind.

  He knew, however, that the wound in his right foot was the one most inneed of attention. He managed to examine this without slackening hisspeed. The sight inside his blood-soaked boot was anything butreassuring. He rode on, sparing neither his horse nor his own condition.Spells of dizziness, recurring with increasing frequency, made himrealize that he could not continue much further without stanching theflow of blood from the boot. He pulled the white horse to a halt andslid to the ground. With relief he found that his vision had improved,and he could scan the Gap behind him. There was no sign of pursuit.

  He cut open the boot and found that a bullet had severed a small artery.Making a rude tourniquet, he succeeded in checking, to some extent, thespurting flow that was sapping his strength.

  He bandaged the wound as best he could with dressings torn from hisshirt. He tried to stand, and found that the loss of so much blood hadsapped his strength to a surprising degree. He could, however, supporthis weight by the aid of his horse. His mind was clearer. He foundhimself trying to analyze the events that had led up to the massacre,while his eyes studied the Gap. Why had the Texas Rangers been sent for?If they were not wanted in Bryant's Basin, it would have been a simplematter to have ignored them as had always been done in the past. Someonehad sent for the Texas Rangers. Someone had objected with bullets totheir coming.

  Did outlaws actually live in Bryant's Basin? If so, why were they there?Why had the Rangers been sent for? What could possibly happen in theCavendish domain that the stern old man could not handle himself? These,and countless other questions, raced through the Ranger's brain while hecontinued to observe the Gap.

  He noted that the sun was gone, and it was growing dark. This left himin less danger of capture, but increased the difficulty of the ride. Therocky footing was hazardous under the best of conditions. In the dark,this peril was increased tenfold.

  He remounted after a struggle with weakness. At first he tried to guidethe horse away from Bryant's Basin, but this seemed only to confuse thebeast, so he gave up the attempt and let Silver have his head. Atintervals he was compelled to steady himself like a drunken man.

  A starless night fell into the Gap, and with its coming the danger ofpursuit was ended. A chance encounter was all the rider had to fear, andthere was little likelihood of this. For a while his mind went blank. Hewas roused from a sort of stupor by the sound of running water. Thehorse had halted, while the Texas Ranger dozed, and was drinking from acreek. A sudden uncontrollable thirst assailed the man. Once more heclimbed painfully from the saddle. Slumping to the ground, he crawledtoward a stream that gurgled over stones.

  Cold water had never tasted sweeter. He sipped slowly, then raised hishead to let the cool draft quench the burning in his throat. About todrink again, he paused and grew tense. The sound he heard might havebeen a night bird, but the trained ear of the Ranger detected a peculiarquality in it.

  "Odd," he thought. "That sounded as if it came from a human throat."

  He waited to catch the next call if it were repeated. He didn't see thatSilver, too, was tense. The birdlike trill sounded again, nearer thistime. The horse reacted unexpectedly to the call. Silver jerked back,and the reins slipped from the wounded man's hand. While he watched inconsternation, the white horse scampered off in the direction of thesound.

  Stunned by this new misfortune, the wounde
d man listened to thehoofbeats until they were swallowed by the night. Not until then did hetry to call. His voice was barely a whisper. Desertion by Silver was theworst possible thing that could have happened. Pursuit of the horse wasout of the question. The wounded man couldn't even stand alone. Withsuch philosophy as he could muster, he turned and finished the drinkthat might cost him his life. Then he dashed water over his face, whichhad become caked with blood, sweat, and alkali dust. The wound on hisforehead was a minor one, but it smarted frightfully as the watertouched it.

  He determined to make himself as comfortable as possible while he hadthe opportunity and plenty of water. He turned his attention to hisother wounds. Removing his shirt, he felt gingerly of his left shoulder.His left arm had been useless to him. Now he knew why. The bullet wasembedded in the flesh. He realized that this might cause considerabletrouble later on, but there was little he could do there in thedarkness, other than to wash the wound and bandage it clumsily. Thebullet was sunk deep, probably to the bone. He rightly reasoned thatsome of the force had been lost by the bullet's first striking a rock,and entering his arm on a ricochet. Otherwise the bone would have beenbroken.

  His shoulder fixed to the best of his ability, he looked at his woundedfoot again. It was difficult to determine much about the wound in thedarkness, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. When he had bathedand redressed the foot, he found that he could stand. He had to supporthimself by clinging to a rock, and most of his weight was taken on theuninjured leg, but he was definitely stronger.

  One thought remained uppermost in the Texas Ranger's mind. "Must live,"he breathed, "must fight through somehow so I can tell what happened tothe others. Come back with more men--learn what's going on at theCavendish place."

  If he could stay in the stream, he'd leave no trail. He started slowly,working his way along against the current, clinging to rocks when theywere within reach, crawling on his stomach when his wounded leg gaveout. Frequently he paused to rest, still remaining in the stream. He wassoaked through, but the cold water was pleasant. It chilled the burningof his wounds and made the pain more tolerable.

  The stream took him close to one wall of the canyon, the wall on hisleft. Against the current, his progress was painfully slow, but it wasprogress.

  Somewhere in the darkness ahead, he heard the sound of falling water.This animated him. A falls might mean some sort of gorge, a tiny caveperhaps, in which a man might hide until his wounds were healed. Byresting frequently, the wounded man kept going longer than he thoughtpossible. At length he reached the falls.

  The water dropped a scant four feet from a ledge. With his one goodhand, the wounded Ranger pulled himself up on the ledge, and there hisstrength abandoned him. He slumped half in the stream, half out of it,and sank, completely spent, into a dense void of unconsciousness.