ANNOUNCEMENT EXTRAORDINARY
Tonto was visibly agitated by something that had happened while he lay hidden in the darkness near the clearing. The Lone Ranger glanced over his shoulder at Penelope, on guard in the house, then closed the door.
"Plenty happen," said Tonto.
The Lone Ranger interrupted, "Just a minute." He looked toward the bunkhouse, still brilliantly lighted, and then at his prisoner. Yuma was regaining consciousness, and squirming about uneasily in his uncomfortable position.
"Could you hear what was said inside, Tonto?"
The Indian nodded, and once more started to speak.
"Before you tell me what happened in the clearing, let me tell you about a murder down here."
The Lone Ranger hurriedly sketched the recent grim events, making no effort to soften his voice so that his prisoner couldn't hear. He didn't mention the document taken from Penny, but he did tell about locking the killers in the cellar.
"Now," he finished, "tell me, did that man who passed me find Rangoon?"
Tonto said, "That right. Him come to clearing. Rangoon call. Him stop."
The Lone Ranger noticed that Yuma had stopped squirming. He seemed to be listening intently to what the Indian said. Tonto explained how the unknown rider had dismounted and had talked for a few moments in an undertone to Rangoon. Their voices were too soft for the Indian to get the gist of the conversation, and he dared not move closer for fear of detection. The unknown rider had then untethered Rangoon's horse. A moment later a shot was fired and hoofbeats signified the fast departure of both horses, one ridden by the killer, the other led.
It had been too dark for Tonto to distinguish anything. He didn't even know which man had been shot until he struck matches and identified Rangoon.
When Tonto finished his narration, Yuma broke in impatiently.
"Look here, stranger, how long d'yuh figger on leavin' me like this? My belly's fit tuh meet my spine."
The masked man, with Tonto's help, untied the big prisoner, and slid him from his horse.
"You all right?" he asked.
"My head's achin' fit tuh split. What in hell did yuh hit me with?"
"You tripped, and your head rapped the floor."
"Oh!"
Yuma made no resistance as he was retied, his hands behind his back. He obediently climbed into his saddle when ordered to do so.
"Who," he asked, "are you?"
"If I wanted you to know, I'd take this mask off."
"Would I know yuh then?"
"I doubt it—I don't remember ever having seen you before tonight. Now listen to me, I'm letting you sit in the saddle so that you'll be more comfortable. I'm not going to gag you unless you start yelling. There are a few things I want to talk to you about, and you'll save yourself a lot of trouble if you'll answer my questions." While he spoke, the Lone Ranger connected Yuma's feet with a rope tied to each ankle and drawn beneath the belly of his horse.
"If you try to run away, I'll lasso you and you'll find yourself in a bad way, because you can't get out of the saddle."
"I ain't no damn fool," retorted Yuma in a sulky voice.
"Get going," said his captor.
Yuma heeled his horse obediently and started ahead. The Lone Ranger rode about ten feet behind, next to Tonto, whispering softly. Tonto frowned heavily at everything that was said, and tried several times to persuade the white man to relax for at least an hour and rest. The day and night thus far had been punishing for any man,and especially so for one who had still a great deal of his strength and endurance to regain.
"I'm going to ride into Red Oak," the Lone Ranger told Tonto, "and that's a good two hours in the saddle. I can doze on the way. Silver knows the trail back there."
Tonto countered with a comment, but the masked man explained that he was quite used to spending days and nights on end in the saddle, sleeping there quite easily. "And, anyway," he finished, "I think we're right on the verge of discovering who the leader of those outlaws is. Lonergan said it was the same man that Gimlet mentioned, but I don't think so."
"Tonto at door, then. Hear-um name, 'Yuma.'"
"That's what Lonergan said. I think he lied."
"Who you think leader?"
"I'm not sure yet, Tonto. I've been doing a little thinking while we've been riding." The masked man slowed Silver, and Tonto followed suit. Yuma continued on at the same gait. When the distance had widened so that it was unlikely that conversation would be heard by the captured man, the Lone Ranger outlined what he wanted Tonto to do.
"Turn back," he whispered in a voice that was husky with fatigue. "I'll take care of the prisoner. I'll leave him in the cave, and then ride on to Red Oak."
He spoke rapidly, and Tonto's head bobbed comprehension and approval of the plans. "—the man who rode uphill—" was one of the points the masked man emphasized, "—slimy ground on the mountain, different from that of the gravel-bottomed Gap—" As he talked, theLone Ranger kept an eye on the big cowpuncher he had captured.
The level Basin ended in steep walls divided by Bryant's Gap. It was here that Tonto halted, lifted his right hand high in a parting gesture, and wheeled Scout about. The Lone Ranger watched his friend sweeping across the Basin on a back trail toward the ranch house. Then he turned, and in the light of an ascending moon, three-quarters grown, he saw that Yuma too had halted and was waiting in the Gap.
It took but a moment for the Lone Ranger to join the prisoner, and then the two rode side by side. After a period of silence, Yuma spoke.
"Can't git it tuh save me," he growled.
"What's that?"
Yuma looked across the space between the horses. "What in hell's yore part in things around here?"
"Why?"
"First yuh ride here like one of the killers. I figger you've murdered Gimlet, yuh knock hell outen me. Then, yuh lock them skunks in the cellar!"
The Lone Ranger liked the outspoken manner of the man.
"I reckon, from what I heard, you ain't the gent that finished Gimlet."
"No."
"Yer huntin' the leader o' them outlaws. Ain't that so?"
The masked man said, "Stop here for a minute."
Yuma reined up.
"Take a look over there," the Lone Ranger said.
Yuma saw six mounds of stone and earth at the base of a sheer cliff. A crude cross surmounted each of those piles. He nodded grimly.
"I know about 'em. Texas Rangers, ain't they? I heard about the shootin', then a couple of the boys said someone had buried 'em."
"Someone buried them," repeated the Lone Ranger.
"A redskin, or someone wearin' moccasins."
"An Indian," the masked man agreed softly.
After a thoughtful pause, Yuma said, "That pard of yores?"
"That's right."
"Um-h'm." Yuma pondered further while the Lone Ranger waited. "Yuh figger I got somethin' more tuh say?"
"Have you?"
"Reckon so I have. As I size it up, yore out tuh do fer the ones that ambushed those men."
"That," said the other, "is the whole thing in a nutshell. Whatever else may happen, the most important thing to me is to avenge the men who fill those graves."
"You wasn't especial interested in shootin' up some of the skunks that done it," reflected Yuma with regret in his voice.
"They can be picked up later."
"Not if the rest of the pack get back. They'll let 'em out an' then all hell is goin' tuh break loose till you an' that Injun are fillin' a couple more graves."
"I'm interested in the leader of this outfit."
"What about that purty girl?"
"What about her?"
"Holy smoke!" exploded Yuma, "Can't yuh see the spot the poor girl's in? Or maybe yuh don't savvy. She's got four cousins, an' not one of 'em has the guts tuh protect her. Every skunk in the Basin would like to make a play fer Miss Penny, an' it ain't nothin' exceptin' Bryant Cavendish that keeps 'em from it. Yuh figger Bryant's the leader, don't yuh? Wal, maybe so he is. But I'd a damn sight sooner he kept on orderin' them crooks around in cattle-stealin' an' sellin' than tuh see him jailed an' Penelope left without him."
"I was told that the leader was a man called 'Yuma.'"
"I heard that. I heard what you told the redskin."
"Gimlet mentioned the same name just before he died."
"But that's a blasted—" Yuma broke off, leaving his speech suspended.
"We'll push ahead now," the Lone Ranger said.
When they were on their way again, the masked man noticed that his prisoner was deep in thought. There were furrows across his forehead; his eyes were half-shut in heavy concentration.
"You haven't told me who you are yet," the Lone Ranger said finally.
"Tain't none of yer business," was the reply. Yuma went on as if simply voicing the thoughts that had been broken by the speech. "Don't make sense at all," he muttered. "Bryant wouldn't let Penny git hurt." The volume of his speech increased a bit. "Dammit all tuh hell an' gone, I never seen a man like you. I bet by gosh, yuhwoulddrill Bryant if yuh thought he bossed the murderin' o' them Rangers."
"Don't you think that would be justified?"
"Yuh wouldn't jest take him tuh the law. You'd deal with him personal, eh?"
"That would all depend. Unless I could find witnesses it would be pretty hard to prove a case against him. I understand that he fired at this fellow called Yuma."
The clump of horses' hoofs was the only sound for several moments. The Lone Ranger saw the stream of water shimmering in silver light ahead. Just beyond, he knew, was the cave.
"Suppose," muttered Yuma, "Bryant wasn't the leader of the pack?"
"Who else could be? Certainly Cavendish wouldn't let those outsiders run his ranch for him, and I don't think any of the nephews could pull such thick wool over his eyes."
"Jest suppose that what Lonergan told yuh was the truth."
"What was that?"
"That Yuma was the boss an' that he had a hold on Bryant an' Bryant had tuh do what he wanted? Suppose that was the case, what'd you do?"
"Naturally, I'd hunt for Yuma."
"Bryant went tuh town. Now he couldn't have got back in time tuh have killed old Gimlet, then rid away up that mountain trail yuh mentioned, an' drilled Rangoon like yer Injun pardner told of. Now could he?"
"If he went to Red Oak, he couldn't have been there and back in time, but we don't know that he did go to Red Oak."
"But this gent called Yuma—didn't Miss Penny tell yuh he was still around after Bryant left?"
"Yes."
"So ain't it logical tuh think he might o' kilt Gimlet, jest like Gimlet said, then rid up the mountain, an' killed Rangoon?"
The Lone Ranger could scarcely suppress a smile at the thorough reasoning of his companion. He urged the blond man to continue. "What are you getting at?" he said.
"Me, I ain't nothin' but a cowhand an' ain't been in here long. I ain't had much of anything tuh do yet. I ain't no way important tuh you. Now, if I was tuh tell yuh where you could locate this Yuma yer huntin', would yuh let me go free?"
"But it's Bryant I want."
Yuma became confidential. "Yer wrong."
"Wrong?"
The other nodded. "That's what I said. 'Tain't Bryant yuh want at all. It's Yuma is the leader of the bunch, just like Lonergan said."
The Lone Ranger took this announcement calmly. Yuma, having thought the thing over from all angles, felt that it was vitally important for Penny's sake to keep this masked rider, whose resolute purpose was to capture Bryant, from doing so, since Bryant was the only living man who could protect the girl. He pressed arguments on the Lone Ranger, using everything that Penny had previously told him in her uncle's behalf.
"The old man don't know what's goin' on about the place no more," he said. "He can't walk around no more, can't ride much, can't even see good. Yer barkin' up the wrong tree, stranger, an' I'm agoin' tuh put yuh right."
The irony of it. If only Yuma, in the misdirected chivalry of his glib lies, could have known that it was he, and not the uncle she felt had proved faithless, that the girl wanted. But Yuma didn't know. He went on at great length.
"I'll tell yuh jest where you c'n find Yuma," he concluded, "if you'll promise tuh turn me loose."
The Lone Ranger agreed.
"Then cut the ropes on my hands."
"Whoa, Silver."
"Whoa thar, you, hoss."
The ropes were cut. Yuma chafed his hands for several moments while he scrutinized the Gap in both directions, and weighed his chances. His own horse was fresh, the masked man's had already covered many miles. His rifle was still in its leather scabbard, his six-guns still in place.
"You," he said, kneeing his horse aside, "want tuh know whar Yuma is at, eh?"
The tall masked man nodded.
"Wal, yer lookin' right at him!" A gun leaped into Yuma's hand. "I'd as soon as not drill yuh clean," he barked in a harsh, loud voice, "but if yuh leave me git away, you'll stay alive." He spurred his horse with such a force that the beast fairly leaped off all four feet at once. Another instant, and Yuma was clattering through the Gap away from Bryant's Basin.
"Should o' shot him," he thought, "I should o' shot him, but instead I'll git away. Let him trail me, let him spend a lifetime huntin' me—it'll keep him off'n Bryant's trail." Heedless of the risk, he tore ahead, wind whipping at his face, and neckerchief. He thought of Penelope andsomething choked in his throat. At least, the girl would be safe while Bryant lived.
It was a heedless, a crazy thing he'd done, but at the time it seemed the only thing. There were half-formed hopes in his mind. Hopes that he could circle back and reach Bryant. Tell him what he'd done and beg the patriarch to provide for Penny's future happiness. Then he'd have a two-gun showdown with those men like Sawtell and Lombard and the worthless cousins. Kill them, as many as he could, before he himself was dropped. Wild plans, plans that only a foolhardy cowboy like Yuma could concoct. He didn't know why he hadn't shot the masked man; perhaps because he knew there would be others to investigate the Texas Ranger murders and the Basin gang.
No. Murder would not have helped. It would simply have delayed the end of Bryant. In making himself the confessed criminal, the leader of the wolf pack, he had done the only thing that his simple mind could think of.
"Git up," he bellowed, and the horse lunged on.
RED OAK
Red Oak as a town was badly misnamed. It was utterly devoid of the implied qualities of sturdiness, solidity, or well-proportioned size. A far more appropriate name might have been chosen. Something, perhaps, like the night-blooming cereus, or the cloyingly sweet nicotine, that sleeps all day and spreads its glory of white petals and sweet odors through the night. But that would be slanderous to the blossoms.
Red Oak slept all day behind the drab, sun-bleached, false-front buildings on both sides of the only road. In rainy weather, fattening sows and lame old mongrel curs would wallow side by side in mudholes made reeking bymanure and garbage. When it was hot, the dust was equally intolerable.
The men of town, men who ran or worked in the resorts all night and slept all day, were tallow-faced, and gave the impression of having lived beneath a log or rock or in a woodwork crack. The women by day were sallow, wan, unhappy, and consumptive. Their nocturnal luster was washed out by sunlight, so they remained out of sight until after oil lamps were burning to flatter them and help them sell their wares.
Red Oak's only reason for existence was to serve as an oasis for the men from countless miles of surrounding ranch and range land, and after dark she served and served and served. Proprietors understood their patrons and catered cunningly to their demands for reckless, dangerous sport. They offered varying risks, from loss of cash, through loss of health and reputation, to loss of life itself.
Young cowhands in their 'teens fraternized with gamblers, and killers, each calling for the drink he could afford. Easy women, whose garish, imitation jewelry reflected the glitter of lights through the nebulous tobacco smoke, flaunted their soft hips freely before eyes that were accustomed to longhorned cattle and hard fists of men. For those whose recklessness in younger years had dulled their desire for women, there was gambling and drinking to suit any taste or pocketbook. Bets could be made in thousands, and covered; on the other hand, loose change would buy an evening.
There was a jail, a one-room flimsy structure, designed to hold obnoxious drunks whose cash was spent. SlimPeasley was the turnkey. The office was one that would have been beyond his scope if he had tried to fulfill the duties of a deputy sheriff, but Slim didn't. He shuffled about town, his heavy badge weighting down his dirty, limp shirt, cadging a drink where he could and prying his long nose like a chisel into things that were none of his concern, while he closed his eyes to flagrant violations of civil, moral, and spiritual law.
Slim seemed to have no chin at all. His chest was in a hollow made by rounded shoulders. In profile the most striking things about him were his nose and Adam's apple; he had a close resemblance to a question mark.
His stretched suspenders let his pants drop low, and his shirt and underwear were generally apart at his stomach, so that he could scratch. There seemed always to be some part of Slim's anatomy that needed scratching, and the degree of his absorption in whatever he might be looking at could be measured by the part he scratched.
It was Slim Peasley who had locked Mort Cavendish up. Bryant had turned his nephew over to the deputy at nine o'clock, before the evening in Red Oak got really started. Slim had actually looked frightened when he found he'd have to guard a sober man until the sheriff came from the county seat to take over. When Bryant placed the charge of murder against his nephew, Slim grew pale. Only stern Bryant's blustered threats made Slim accept the responsibility as the lesser danger. Then Bryant had limped his way along the street, cursing the trollops who accosted him. He had entered the hotel and rented a room in the rear of the first floor so that hewouldn't have to torture himself needlessly with stairs. He was asleep when the evening reached a peak at midnight.
At midnight, or shortly after, the Lone Ranger reached the outskirts of Red Oak, not far from the center of the town. He turned off the trail and guided Silver to the rear of the row of buildings on one side. He felt considerably rested after dozing in the saddle during the ride from the Gap, and ready for whatever might be ahead. His original intention to talk with Bryant Cavendish had not been changed by the confession of his prisoner, who had escaped.
In the shadow of the buildings he dismounted and left Silver, to proceed on foot. Coming to the back of the hotel, he turned and passed through the space between the buildings. At one end of the porch he halted. A man was coming along the road. The Lone Ranger held cupped hands close to his face, as if in the act of lighting a pipe. The gesture, together with his forward-tilted hat, served to conceal the fact that he was masked. He had to be extremely careful in Red Oak. There were people there in the town who had known him as a Texas Ranger. He had hoped that the clerk in the Red Oak Hotel would be a stranger, and that with his mask removed and his face somewhat concealed by dust, he could inquire as to the location of Bryant's room.
He was, however, spared this trouble. Between his fingers he saw the overdressed man who passed him mount the steps and enter the hotel lobby. There was something about the man that was vaguely familiar, yet theLone Ranger was sure he never had seen him before. He heard the high-heeled, beautifully shined boots clatter on the floor to the accompaniment of jingling spurs.
He could see through the door at an oblique angle. He heard the stranger ask about Bryant Cavendish.
"Room ten," the clerk said curtly, "an' he left strict orders that he wasn't tuh be pestered."
"That's too bad," replied the other, "because I'm going tuh disturb him plenty right now."
The clerk tried to argue but got nowhere. "Room ten," marked the Lone Ranger. He left his post beside the porch and hastened to the rear of the building. A dark window from room ten was opened wide. The masked man crouched beneath it as he heard an insistent pounding on the door.
Bryant Cavendish groaned first in sleep and then in waking. "What the hell?" he grumbled.
The bed creaked. Then the rapping on the door again.
"G'way," snapped Bryant, "I'm sleepin'."
"Open the door," replied a muffled voice.
"Who is it an' what d'ya want?"
"Wallie."
That accounted for the familiarity in the man's face. Wallie Cavendish, who had a resemblance in the eyes and forehead to both Vince and Jeb.
A matchlight flickered in the room, and then the steadier light of a candle. The Lone Ranger risked discovery to peer over the edge of the window. He saw Bryant, shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes sleepily. The man muttered something beneathhis breath, then rose and steadied himself by gripping the edge of a table.
"I'm comin'," he called, "wait a minute." The old man had to resume his seat on the bed and rub his knees. Again he stood, and this time managed to get to the door and slip the bolt.
The Lone Ranger felt guilty at his eavesdropping, yet he felt that he was justified in gathering what facts he could in any way that he could get them. The game he played had life itself as the stake, and the odds were against him to begin with.
Wallie entered the bedroom with a swaggering manner and closed the door behind him. "Yer stayin' in Red Oak all night, eh?" he asked.
"Did you wake me up tuh askthat?" snarled Bryant. "What the hell does it look like I'm doin'? It's too hard a trip fer me tuh go back home. I'll go back in the mornin'."
"That's not what I came for, Uncle Bryant," said Wallie hastily. "Don't jump me so till I finish."
"Wal?"
"I found a woman that'll look after the kids."
"Humph! I didn't think you could tend to a job as complete as that. When'll she come to the Basin?"
"That's just it," replied the fop hesitantly. "I—I tried tuh talk her intuh goin' there, but she wouldn't. She said that she'd look after 'em, if we paid her of course, an' if we brought the kids here tuh live with her."
"I knowed it. Well, find someone else! Find someone that'll come tuh the Basin."
Wallie shook his head slowly.
"I dunno as I can. It ain't easy tuh find a woman around here that'd take good care of the youngsters."
While Bryant appeared to ponder this, Wallie went on quickly. "I thought maybe Penelope could come along with 'em fer a few days, till Mrs. Hastings gets sort of acquainted with 'em. Wouldn't that be a good way?"
"Maybe so."
"Good enough then, Uncle Bryant. I didn't want tuh do nothin' till I'd talked tuh you about it. I won't bother you no more now. I'm sorry tuh disturb you, but I figgered on ridin' back home with the rest of the boys, an' I wanted tuh get yer okey on this Mrs. Hastings so's I could tell Penelope."
"You through talkin' now?"
Wallie rose. "Reckon so. You'll be comin' back on the buckboard, won't yuh?"
"How else could I git home? Didn't I fetch the buckboard?"
"That's right, Uncle Bryant, I'm sorry not tuh have thought it out."
"Now get the hell outta here an' lemme git some sleep."
Still Wallie didn't go. He shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "There-there's somethin' I wanted tuh say," he fumbled. "I—I don't want yuh tuh git sore about it...."
"Wal?"
"I thought it was a right smart scheme of yores, the way yuh handled Mort."
"Mort kilt his wife, didn't he?"
"That's right, Uncle Bryant."
"I wouldn't let that squirt called Yuma know I turned Mort over tuh the law; he'd figger I done it on account of bein' scairt o' him. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowin' Mort was jailed fer murder."
Wallie grinned synthetically. His whole manner before Bryant Cavendish was one of cowering subjugation, of fawning in a way that must have been revolting to the hard old man.
"Yuh done jest right," he said. "I'd never o' thought of it, Uncle Bryant. Yuh jailed Mort, an' that took care of the legal angles; of course yuh couldn't be expected tuh let him be swung from a rope."
Bryant looked up sharply.
"No one'll ever know how he busted out. Fact is, he might o' broke outen that jail without no outside help."
"He's out?" exclaimed Bryant.
Wallie nodded, a look of surprise on his face. "Didn't you know it?"
"No. I didn't know it. I been sleepin' here. How in the devil would I know?"
"Gosh! Then he must've got out without no help, unless be bribed Slim Peasley."
"Where is he now?"
"I dunno. I jest heard a while ago in one of the saloons that he was loose. Peasley acted real upset about it."
Surprisingly, Bryant made no further comment.
Wallie waited a moment longer, then turned and opened the door. "Good night, Uncle Bryant," he said.
Bryant said nothing. The door closed, and the old man sat there for fully five minutes, muttering unintelligibly.Then he rose and would have blown out the candle, but he was halted by a voice from the window.
"Stay right where you are and don't yell."
The Lone Ranger stepped easily over the low windowsill and into the room, as Bryant Cavendish turned.
AN ADMISSION FROM BRYANT CAVENDISH
A close-range view of Bryant Cavendish fulfilled everything the Lone Ranger might have expected from what he had heard about him. His face looked as if it had been chopped out of a block of granite. His eyes, small, deep-set, were the coldest, hardest eyes that he had ever seen. They were the eyes of a man who would die before he would forgive a wrong; a man who had lived with hate. Bryant showed not the slightest trace of fear. Even in his undershirt he could look haughty and arrogant. He met the steady gaze of the masked man, his mouth clamped hard-shut.
"Cavendish," began the Lone Ranger in a low but very decisive voice, "I've come a long way to talk to you."
There was no reply.
"First of all, what do you know about the murder of some Texas Rangers in Bryant's Gap?"
There was no change in the older man's expression. His chin lifted just the slightest bit, but he said nothing. Neither did he nod or shake his head.
"There are men working for you who are wanted by the law," continued the Lone Ranger. "Six Texas Rangers went through the Gap to arrest men you know as Sawtell, Rangoon, Lonergan, and Lombard. Those Rangers were ambushed. Did you know that?"
Cavendish spoke. His voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but the intensity of it, the suppressed emotion that was dripping from his words, seemed to make the ends of the masked man's nerves vibrate.
"You—" he said. "Git!"
"Not yet, Cavendish; we have a lot of things to talk about." The Lone Ranger moved nearer to the flint-faced Bryant and sat down, facing the open window, with his back against the door.
"There's a renegade army of bandits across the border. They've been buying Cavendish-brand cattle. That in itself has been handled in a perfectly legal manner. The cattle have been sold on this side of the border. There's another angle to it, however. Ranches surrounding your basin land have been struck by thieves. A lot of cattle have been stolen and several men have been murdered. These assaults have been generally blamedon Ricardo's renegades. But that hasn't been the case. Ricardo has bought your cattle, and the stolen cattle have been herded into your basin."
The Lone Ranger paused. It looked as if Cavendish were about to speak. He trembled a little as he said, "Fer the last time, stranger,git."
"Not yet, Cavendish. I'll tell you some more. The stolen cattle are taken into the Basin by a trail that comes straight down one side of Thunder Mountain. Once in the Basin, the cattle are treated to a running iron and the brand changed to one of the many brands that are registered in your name. 'Circle Bar' stock is changed to the 'Eight Box.' 'Lazy S' becomes the 'Eight-on-One-Side.' I could go on with many other brands you've registered; brands that can be made out of the marks on stolen cattle. The newly branded stock is held in the Basin until the scars heal over. Then it is taken out through the mountain trail, while other stock is brought in. Now you realize that I'm aware of what is going on."
Bryant's agitation could never have been caused by fear; therefore it must have been an anger that was almost consuming him. The Lone Ranger's voice became sharper as he went on, driving home every point emphatically. He himself was angry. The stolid manner of Bryant, the refusal to acknowledge that he even heard the masked man's statements called for will power that was almost incomprehensible in the face of the cold facts.
"In connection with the cattle-stealing, you've furnished a haven for any outlaws who wanted to hide there. I don't know how you contacted all those fugitives, but itwas managed somehow. They learned that Texas Rangers had been sent for, so they ambushed those men. If others go there, they will either meet the same fate or find a perfectly innocent-looking ranch, while the 'wanted' men hide in the mountain retreat. Am I right?"
Bryant Cavendish spoke again.
"If you're right, what're you goin' to do about it?"
"You have a niece, a girl named Penelope."
Mention of the girl's name brought a quick reaction. Bryant's hard jaw shot forward and he snapped, "You leave her out o' this."
"I'm sorry, but I can't leave her out. It's for her that I'm speaking. She has always trusted you, Cavendish, in spite of everything she saw; the type of men you hired; the trail on Thunder Mountain; in spite of the murder of the Texas Rangers, that girl has believed in you. She would never have believed you capable of leading a gang to steal the cattle that Ricardo and his men did not dare to steal, and selling them to him at a low enough price so that he could resell at a profit on the other side of the border.
"You ask what I'm going to do? I'm going to ask you to help put thieves in jail, and send murderers to pay in full. You're an old man, Cavendish. At best you have but a few years left, and after that what is there for Penelope? Who is going to take care of that girl when you're gone? Would you leave her to the mercies of those cousins of hers, or the killers like Sawtell and Lombard?
"I'll lay my cards right out on the table. I can't, at the present time, do anything. That's why I've come to you.There must be something that's turned you from an honest man ... to this. What is it? Tell me, and let me help you straighten things out. Tell me, who has a hold over you, who's making you do these things?"
The Lone Ranger drew a folded paper from his pocket and spread it on the table before Bryant Cavendish. His eyes were fixed on Cavendish, who seemed to be waging an inward battle for composure. Cavendish glanced at the paper, then at the Lone Ranger.
"This," the masked man said, "is a document that Lonergan drew up. It has a place for your relations to sign their names. And when they do so they accept a certain consideration from you, and agree that when your will is read they—"
"I know all about that," snapped Bryant.
"That's what I was uncertain about. Your signature isn't required on this, and it would have been a simple matter for Lonergan to have written it and had your relatives sign, without your knowledge."
Cavendish showed more of an inclination to talk.
"It's legal, ain't it?" he asked as if there were some doubt in his mind.
"It is legal."
"That's all I want tuh know."
"You wanted it prepared?"
"Sure."
"But there must be a will, your will, with your signature. That would have to be left to name the people who inherit all your land."
"There's a will too. All signed an' witnessed."
Bryant pushed himself to his feet, and stood above the seated masked man.
"I never explained nothin'," he barked. "I never asked fer help or favors, an' I never will. When the time comes that I can't handle my affairs, I'll be ready tuh lie down an' die. I dunno how yuh got that paper, but yer goin' tuh hand it tuh me right now. It's mine an' I'll have it."
"You won't explain a thing?" repeated the Lone Ranger.
"You heard me!"
The masked man rose and turned to face the other squarely, taking his eyes away from the window to do so. "I hoped," he said, "that we might work together, but you won't have it that way. If you're sure this paper is just the way you want it—" The Lone Ranger broke off when a shot crashed into the room from a gun beyond the window.
Bryant Cavendish gasped, then staggered back, clutching with both hands at his broad chest. He stumbled and fell across the bed. The Lone Ranger's gun leaped up while the masked man sprang to the window. He saw a man's form running fast. It was too dark in the shadows to determine much about the fugitive, but it was obvious that it was he who had fired the shot at Bryant. The Lone Ranger's gun barked, and a silver bullet flew. The running man spilled forward, rolling from his own momentum.
There was hammering upon the door. Men's shouts demanded to know what the shooting was about. The Lone Ranger holstered his gun. Ignoring the yells andshouts outside the room, he bent over the wounded man. Bryant still breathed, but his pulse was ragged and his eyes were closed.
Another instant and those outside would smash the door and force their way inside. To be found there masked, with Cavendish shot, and one bullet gone from his own gun, would mean the certain capture and probable lynching of the Lone Ranger. He had no choice. He lifted Bryant Cavendish and carried him toward the window.
The dead weight of the unconscious man was too much for the Lone Ranger, in his fatigued and weakened condition, to handle quickly. He rested his burden on the window's sill then whistled sharply once.
The whistle brought renewed shouting from the men beyond the door. Their cries were wild and unorganized. Some cried to the world at large, "Bust in—bust down the door—don't let 'em out—he's in thar, I heard him." These and other cries were mixed with shouts of warning and advice: "Don't yuh try tuh git away—we got yuh trapped—come out an' surrender or we shoot tuh kill."
If only the door and the bolt would withstand the assault of the first few blows! Silver was coming fast, racing toward the window where the masked man waited. The big stallion clattered close and whinnied shrilly while the men in the hall yelled new suggestions. "He's got a hoss outside. Git around tuh the winder. I hear a hoss. Thar's a hull gang o' them in thar."
In a moment Bryant was thrown across the saddle.The masked man leaped behind him as a shattering blow shivered the door and the wall that supported it.
"Come on, Silver!" the Lone Ranger called.
He couldn't leave the vicinity just yet. There was one thing of which he must make certain. He rode to the man he'd shot. Leaping from the saddle, he found the wounded man quite conscious, but in pain from a bullet in the fleshy part of his thigh. "Not serious," he muttered. "You'll be all right as soon as—"
He broke off with a gasp of surprise. This man's bullet wound was slight, but the man was dying. There was another weapon, a knife of the sort that can be easily thrown. All that showed was the handle, sticking straight out from the back of the stranger's neck.
It took but an instant for the Lone Ranger to visualize what had happened. This fugitive, having fired point-blank at Bryant Cavendish, had raced on foot to reach a clump of trees. Perhaps his horse was waiting there, perhaps a trusted friend. This "friend" or someone else within the shelter of the trees had thrown the knife after the Lone Ranger's shot had dropped the man, probably to seal his lips with death.
Whatever the purpose of the murder, the man on the ground would never talk. It was little short of miraculous that he had lived at all after taking the knife in such a vital place. The Lone Ranger could do nothing. The man slipped into unconsciousness, with death a few seconds away.
Meanwhile the Lone Ranger was in danger.
Yelling, shouting men were charging, some on foot and some on horseback from the rear of the hotel. There wasno time for thought or planning. The only important thing right now was escape.
The Lone Ranger leaped, and shouted, "Hi-Yo Silver!"
The stallion lunged ahead while bullets buzzed too close.
Leaning low over the strong neck of Silver, the masked man clung to Bryant Cavendish. "Now," he thought, "those men will not only think I've shot Cavendish, but shot and killed that other man as well." He slapped Silver on the neck. "Old boy," he cried, "from now on we've got to travel fast. If they catch us, it will mean a lynching."