STALEMATE
The shooting's aftermath in Red Oak: Some insisted that a posse be formed at once to scour the country for the unknown rider who had taken Bryant Cavendish with him. Others were in favor of letting the law, represented by Slim Peasley, take its fumbling course, while the majority asked resentfully what the hell the disturbance was all about, then turned back to drinks, games, women, or combinations of the same. Wallie Cavendish was much in evidence, for once in his life looking hot-faced and somewhat disheveled. He insisted that prompt action be taken; that something be done about his uncle's abduction.
"A hell of a lot you care about him," snapped JimBates, the hotel owner. "Now he's gone, yuh know damn well yer ready tuh let out a war whoop of plain an' fancy cheerin'."
Wallie ignored the comment and spoke to the group assembled in the lobby.
"It's high time there was some law around this place. First Mort gets out of jail, without half-tryin', then Uncle Bryant's carried away, likely dead, an' all we got is that buzzard-bait Peasley. That man on the white horse was leaning over someone when he was seen, wasn't he?"
Someone in the crowd said, "Yeah."
"Well, what about him? Is anything bein' done?"
"He's bein' brought in here. Some of the boys went tuh see about him."
"High time," barked Wallie with a fire that was unusual.
"The boys that had horses handy went after that critter," explained Jim Bates. "Maybe they'll catch him."
"And if they do," said Wallie, "they'll jail him the same as they did Mort, an' ten minutes after Slim's back's turned, he'll be scot-free again."
"I thought you had a hunch," said Jim Bates, "that it was yer Uncle Bryant that let Mort out of the calaboose."
"That's what I thought."
"Mebbe thishombrethat rid away won't have no Uncle Bryant tuh let him loose."
The door opened, and men came in carrying a still form which they placed on the plank floor near the wall.
"He's dead," one of them said, looking at Wallie with a strange expression.
"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 theleg, 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 gunmanhad 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 sufficientillumination 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 tothe 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 yardsdistant. 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.
"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, thistime 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.
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. Hisface 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 theway 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 dothat. 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 wastold; 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?"
"If I wanted that known, Yuma, I wouldn't be masked."
Yuma spoke slowly. "When I took ahold of yer shirt, I felt somethin' in yer pocket. It was shaped mighty like a Ranger's badge. I been wonderin' if maybe you ain't a Texas Ranger, an' if so, why the mask?"
"Perhaps I used to belong to the Texas Rangers, Yuma."
"Well—" Yuma paused. "Look here, I can't go on callin' yuh 'stranger'; jest what should I call yuh?"
"My closest friend," the masked man said, "calls me 'The Lone Ranger.'" He heeled Silver, and the stallion lunged forward. Yuma had to cling to keep from spilling. "Hi-Yo Silver, Away-y-y-y," the Lone Ranger shouted.
Such speed in a horse was new to Yuma. He gasped at the power in the long, driving legs of white.
"G-g-gosh," he said against the wind, "this is shore 'nuff a ridin' hoss! I sort o' like that name 'Lone Ranger,' too!"
BRYANT GOES HOME
Bryant Cavendish, sitting in the cave, felt curiously at ease. His wound was almost superficial and, because of the first aid which his masked abductor had applied, caused him no discomfort whatsoever. His only inconvenience was the lashings about his wrists and ankles that made him helpless. Yet it was this helplessness that gave him the odd feeling of being relaxed. For the first time that he could remember, there was not a thing that he felt he should be doing or supervising. With nothing that could be done, he felt no pangs in idleness. He had been furiously angry at first when he realized that he'd been carried away bodily. It was a bitter blow to his pride.The trip from Red Oak had been humiliating as well as exhausting, but now the iron-jawed old man almost gloried in his helplessness.
He sat trying to recall vague moments in the past half day. He could remember little after the shot in his hotel room. He must have been unconscious during most of the trip from Red Oak to the Gap. The masked man was in the Gap when Bryant recovered his senses, and explained in a soft voice exactly where the two were going. Then there had been a session in the cave when the first aid was administered by candlelight. Darkness again, and a resonant, kindly voice that said, "You'll be all right here for the time being. I'm going to ride out again, but I'll be here when you waken at daybreak." Bryant had slept after that, and wakened to find the masked man's promise fulfilled. The stranger was with him, but not for long. He rode off on the horse called Silver.
Shortly after daybreak Bryant had heard a team and wagon coming close. His shouts were answered when the wagon stopped and an Indian scaled the ledge and entered the cave. Bryant had demanded that the Indian release him, but there had been no sign that the newcomer could understand the white man's tongue. Bryant resented the manner in which he had been inspected by the redskin, the way the ropes and their knots were critically examined; then the way his bandage was removed, the wound studied carefully and then redressed. The Indian had made no comment whatsoever. He finished his investigation and then left the cave. After a lapse of several moments the team and buckboard moved away. Bryant hadnoted that the outfit came from the Basin and headed in the opposite direction.
Another hour elapsed, then Yuma came. And when the cowboy came he made it known. His entrance was accompanied by a shout. "You—" he bellowed, "yuh damned dirty schemin' crook yuh, I had tuh come here an' tell yuh what I think!"
Bryant looked up with his jaw set in its customary stubborn way.
"Tuh think," roared Yuma, "that I took cash money from you an' worked on that murder ranch o' yores. Thinkin' o' that makes me turn green inside. If I had any o' that cash left I'd ram it down yer gullet an' hope it'd strangle yuh. Why, you—" Yuma launched into some of the most colorful expressions the Lone Ranger, still outside the cave, had ever heard. "Yuh tried tuh drill me," he went on. "Fer that I got every right tuh put a bullet through yer gizzard, but I ain't agoin' tuh do that. Shootin' you would be too damned easy fer you. Yore headin' fer somethin' aplenty worse than bein' kilt. Why, yuh even tried tuh double-cross Miss Penny, an', by damn, that's goin' too doggoned far. If yuh knowed the way that purty girl stood up in yore defense an' sassed right back at anyone that had anything tuh say ag'in yuh—but, shucks, loyalty O' that sort is somethin' yore kind wouldn't savvy."
"Yuma!" shouted the Lone Ranger from outside. "That will do."
The masked man entered the cave, and Yuma, turning, noticed that he held a folded paper in his hand. "I toldyou that you'd stop here just long enough to get a horse, then head for town."
"Aw-w, I know," said Yuma apologetically. "I seen this old crook, though, an' I jest couldn't help poppin' off an' lettin' him know what I thought o' him."
"Well, you've said enough. Now take the horse and get started."
Yuma nodded and passed his masked ally. He dropped over the ledge and checked the cinch on a big bay that stood near Silver. It was a horse that the Lone Ranger had provided. Before he rested in the cave, after his arrival there with Bryant, he had gone to the Basin, found the animal, then saddled it and brought it here. His intention had been to use it for Bryant when the two left their cavern hideout. Now, however, Yuma needed the horse, so the masked man and Bryant would both ride Silver.
Yuma mounted and called, "I'm on my way." In another moment the cowpuncher was gone. Then the Lone Ranger moved close to Bryant. He spoke softly, "Is there anything you'd care to say to me now?"
Bryant made no reply. He simply stared unblinkingly at the mask.
"Yuma was pretty hard on you," the Lone Ranger said. "I'm sorry that he acted as he did, but there is still a lot that you don't understand. Do you feel strong enough to leave here?"
Bryant snarled, "I'm strong enough tuh do anything you do!"
"Good. We are going to your home in the Basin."
"Sort of nervy, ain't yuh?"
"Why?"
"Yuh won't live ten minutes after I git there amongst my men."
"We'll see about that. There are some things that I want to tell you. We'll talk about them as we ride."
"I ain't ridin' in there hog-tied."
"I'm going to untie you." It was but the work of a moment to free the old man; then the Lone Ranger aided him to his feet. Bryant tried to push away the masked man's help, but found himself unable to stand without some aid. Grumbling something about "bein' weak from loss of blood," Bryant permitted himself to be helped down the ledge and to the saddle. The Lone Ranger leaped behind him, and the two were on their way.
Wallie was sitting idly on the front porch of the house when the two arrived. He leaped to his feet at the sight of Bryant riding with the masked man. The Lone Ranger already had a gun in readiness, and spoke quite casually when he saw Wallie reaching for a weapon. "I wouldn't if I were you."
Wallie's hand froze to the gun butt. He didn't draw. "Where did you come from?" he demanded. Then to his uncle he said in a more fawning tone, "Uncle Bryant, I been worried sick about yuh ever since last night when yuh was shot at."
"The hell you have," snarled Bryant. "Yuh didn't stick around town very long tuh see what happened to me."
"But there wasn't any use hangin' around there," explained the well-dressed one. "We all seen yuh carried off on that white hoss. Right after yuh left, we found that it was Mort that that stranger killed."
"Mort?" snapped Bryant. "Is he dead?"
Wallie explained the events of the previous night while he helped to ease Bryant Cavendish from the saddle to the ground. The Lone Ranger stood slightly back, letting Wallie help his uncle. His keen eyes shot quick glances in all directions.
The Lone Ranger saw men going casually about their various tasks, but he also saw men who seemed to have no tasks. At least six of these stood idly about, each one, he knew, watching him intently, waiting for a signal from Bryant Cavendish. His life wouldn't be worth much if the command to capture him were given. He dared not relax his vigilance for a split second.
"We'll go into the house," he told Wallie. "I'll follow you to Bryant's own bedroom. Get him into bed; he's pretty tired. I'll take care of him when he's there."
Wallie started to object, but Bryant cut him off shortly. "Do what he says!"
The three crossed the porch and entered the large living room. The masked man noticed that the cordwood, the chair, and the table still made a brace between the beam of the ceiling and the trapdoor in the floor. Bryant asked about the room's upset condition. Wallie said, "I'll tell yuh about that later, Uncle Bryant. First of all we want tuh get yuh in bed where yuh c'n rest up."
"You'll tell me now," barked Bryant. "I want tuh know what's been done tuh this yere room."
The Lone Ranger stood at the closed door while Wallie told, as briefly as possible, about the capture of the outlaws by the masked man and their subsequent guarding by Tonto. He explained that he had found the Indian on guard when he came in, and that between Tonto andPenelope he had been told the entire story. "I didn't have any idea," he said, "that we had killers on the payroll here. I never had much to do with the runnin' of things, you know."
"Yuh would have," retorted Bryant, "if yuh spent more time here an' less time in Red Oak saloons."
"I guess it must have been Vince an' Mort that hired those men," continued Wallie in a placating manner, "but we'll see that they're taken care of, now that we know who they are."
Bryant Cavendish "h'mphed," then demanded, "where's Penny?"
"Oh, I told you last night, Uncle Bryant, that she was to go to Red Oak with the kids an' stay with that woman I lined up there."
"I didn't say it'd be all right fer her tuh go. I told yuh tuh find some female that'd come here an' take care of the kids!"
"But I thought—"
"Never mind what yuh thought. How'd Penny get tuh Red Oak?"
"Well, she seemed to put a lot o' trust in that Indian, an' he was willin' to drive her there with the buckboard, so I let him do it. They left at daybreak, takin' the kids with 'em."
Wallie looked at Bryant as if anticipating an outburst because he'd permitted the girl to leave the Basin in an Indian's care, but Bryant simply nodded. "I reckon," he said softly, "Penelope must have passed right by me. Wonder why she didn't say somethin' when I yelled. The redskin heard me; why didn't Penelope?"
His question was not answered. He leaned heavily on the railing of the staircase while Wallie walked beside him with the masked man close behind.
A window in the hallway on the second floor looked out toward the corral. The Lone Ranger glanced in that direction and saw the cowhands, their work ignored, converging on the ranch house. He noticed also that their hands were on the butts of their holstered six-guns. He had noticed something else that didn't diminish his apprehension. The furniture and firewood that he had placed to block any attempt to leave the cellar vault had been moved since his last visit. True, the table still rested on the trapdoor, but in a slightly different position.
When Bryant finally entered his bedroom, the Lone Ranger closed the door and stood just to one side.
He studied every detail of the big room while Wallie helped old Bryant get into the heavy oak bed at the far wall. The room was well equipped with furniture. There were three large comfortable-looking chairs, a big round table in the center of the room, a desk against one wall, and the usual bedroom equipment of commode, pitcher, and basin. The desk was something to behold. It seemed to have half a hundred pigeonholes, each one of which bulged to the bursting point with folded papers. There was a curious thing about it: in some of the small compartments the papers were tucked in neatly, while in others the assorted documents were jammed in with what appeared to be a careless haste. Another point was that the sloppy-looking pigeonholes were all at one end of the desk. The masked man made a mental note to have a closer look at the desk at his earliest opportunity.
Wallie pulled a counterpane from the foot of the bed and covered Bryant. "Reckon you'll be all right now, Uncle," he said consolingly. "If there's anything more that I c'n do—"
"There ain't," barked Bryant.
Wallie looked at the tall man with the mask. "I'll speak to you in the hall," the Lone Ranger said.
Willie said, "Right."
"You lead the way."
Wallie opened the door and went out with the masked man close behind.
"There are a lot of things," the Lone Ranger said when the door had been closed, "that I must explain to you, Cavendish. You're no doubt wondering about the mask I'm wearing. I'll tell you this much about who I am. I'm a friend of the Indian you found here."
"I know that much," said Wallie.
"I came here to find out who directed the murder of those Texas Rangers who were killed in the Gap. You probably have heard that someone wearing moccasins attended to their burial." The other nodded. "You've probably guessed by this time that the man who buried them was that same Indian. Well, that's the truth. Those men I locked in the basement of this house, of course, had a hand in the massacre, but there was someone who gave them their instructions."
"Might have been Mort or Vince," suggested Wallie.
"It might have been, yes, but I doubt it. They wouldn't run things in such a high-handed way without being told to do so by the boss of the outfit."
"You mean Uncle Bryant?"
"He's the owner of this ranch, and all the different brands that are used here are recorded in his name. I understand that he isn't the type to let someone else boss anything he owns."
Wallie mused for a moment. "But Bryant ain't—" He didn't finish his remark.
"Wasn't it Bryant himself who helped your brother escape from jail last night in Red Oak?"
"Why should he?" argued the other. "He's the one that turned Mort over to the law."
"He turned him over to the law, because Mort was a murderer and Yuma knew it. That act on Bryant's part would remove him from suspicion. Yet someone helped Mort escape!"
Wallie said, "All this is sure surprisin' news to me, stranger. I don't know just what to think about it."
"I'm telling you," continued the Lone Ranger, "so you can be ready to tell anything you know when the law men come."
"Law men?"
"Yuma is bringing them. He's also bringing a warrant for the arrest of Bryant Cavendish."
"Arrest? He can't be arrested on suspicions like yours! No law man would jail an old man on anything as flimsy as that!"
"I didn't explain," said the masked man slowly. "Yuma is charging Bryant with attempted murder! That will be enough to jail him! In the meantime, you'll do well to get your own story straight!"
"Me?"
"You!"
"B-but, stranger," faltered Wallie, "I—I don't know anything about the things that go on around here. I'm hardly ever here myself. I don't like the place. I spend as much time in Red Oak as I can."
The masked man gripped the other's upper arm. He was a little bit surprised to find the muscles beneath the fine shirt hard and firm, not flabby as Wallie's disposition and habits indicated. "Just remember this," he said: "the mere fact that men like Sawtell, Lonergan, Rangoon, and Lombard are working here is going to call for a lot of explanation. Every one of those four has a substantial reward on his head. You'd better be ready to tell all you know. It will take a lot from you to convince the law men you aren't associated with this gang."
"I've got nothin' to hide," said Wallie. "I'll tell all I know, but that ain't much. Vince may know a few things, but me, I never hang around the Basin."
The Lone Ranger nodded. "Very well, then, but remember what I told you." He was about to re-enter Bryant's room, but Wallie halted him.
"What do you want?" asked the Ranger.
"You said somethin' about cattle-stealin' around here."
"A lot of cattle has been stolen from ranches around this part of the country." The masked man explained the means that had been used to rebrand the stolen cattle in the Basin, give the burns a chance to heal, then sell the stock with brands that suited bills of sale. He told of the trail down Thunder Mountain that had been used for shuttling cattle into and out of the Basin. Wallie seemed genuinely amazed to learn that things of this sort had gone on beneath his unsuspecting nose.
"You plan to stay here until the law men come, is that it?" asked Wallie when the masked man finished.
"Yes. I want to have a talk with Bryant. Perhaps I can persuade him to tell all he knows. It will save him a lot of trouble to talk first."
"He won't talk," replied Wallie.
"I don't know about that."
"I never knew a more close-lipped, stubborn man in my life. No amount of threatenin' could loosen his tongue. He'd put up with all the torture an Apache could concoct an' never say a word."
"Nevertheless, he's not a fool. He's a shrewd man, and his whole life has been made up of weighing the odds, then playing his cards. I have a hunch that he'll realize the advantage of telling all he can."
"Why?"
"If he doesn't, he'll be in no position to compromise with the law and he'll spend the rest of his life in jail for trying to murder Yuma. If he's willing to talk, he might get off scot-free and be allowed to guide the future of his niece."
Wallie nodded slowly. "Maybe," he said, "you're right. I'll be downstairs to see that those crooks don't get out of the vault. If there's anything you want, just holler."
"Thanks."
The Lone Ranger returned to Bryant's room.
WHO IS ANDREW MUNSON?
The masked man paused at the door until he heard Wallie reach the first floor of the big house. He waited another moment, listening intently, but heard nothing. He wondered where the men were whom he'd seen approach the house with guns drawn, and what they were doing at the moment. Then he closed the door and would have locked it, but he found no key.
Bryant Cavendish lay on the bed, flat on his back. His mouth was half-open and his eyes were closed. He slept noisily, breathing with a throaty sound. The old man had been through a strenuous ordeal. The Lone Ranger stepped to the bed and placed sensitive fingers on thepulse in Bryant's wrist. The heartbeat was firm and steady. The sleep, apparently, was normal sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion, not abnormal unconsciousness.
"Just as well," the masked man muttered. "If he'll stay asleep for a little while I'll have a look at that desk."
The desk was old and rather battered. It was a huge affair of oak with many drawers beneath the two-inch-thick top. Rising from the back of the desk there was a section divided into many squares. Filled with papers, as these pigeonholes were, it closely resembled an overworked post office. The sections on the right were neatly ordered, the papers folded evenly and tucked in edgewise.
The masked man glanced about the room. Meticulous order was apparent everywhere. On the dresser a brush, comb, a large knife and a smaller knife, and a razor were neatly arranged. A shelf above the washstand held a shaving mug. The brush, instead of being in the mug in sloppy fashion, had been rinsed, and stood on end. The rest of the room was equally neat. The ordered compartments of the desk were, then, as Bryant had fixed them. The lefthand pigeonholes were otherwise.
Papers were jammed in these without regard for order. Some were folded, others just stuffed in; some compartments bulged, while others were barely half-filled; some papers were on edge, some lay flat. The condition of things told a story of a search that had been started at the extreme left and continued methodically, one compartment at a time, until the object of the search was found. The Lone Ranger reasoned that the object, whatever it was, had been in the last disordered pigeonhole.
He glanced at Bryant and found him still asleep and snoring. He pulled papers from the pigeonhole and spread them on the desk top. A few receipts of recent date; an envelope with a penciled address on it; a bill of sale for twenty head of cattle; a clipping from a St. "Jo" paper that dealt with a railroad that was contemplated in the West; a pamphlet which described in glowing terms the curative qualities of Doctor Blaine's Golden Tonic; a sheet of heavy paper, folded twice across, and labeled, "Bryant Cavendish, His Last Will and Testament."
The Lone Ranger replaced everything else, then drew another legal document from the pocket of his shirt. He unfolded this, and laid it by the will. The writing in the two was identical; Lonergan's handwriting. The masked man had known there would have to be a will of some sort to accompany the agreement which the natural heirs had signed forswearing their rights to the Cavendish property. He had been anxious to know the name of the individual chosen as heir.
Penelope and her cousins were mentioned in the will. Each was to receive ten dollars in cash. A lawyer's foresight had, doubtless, dictated the mention of them, so that there would be no complaint that Bryant had forgotten relatives in preparing the will. The balance of the estate, after all just obligations had been paid, was to go to a man named Andrew Munson. The document described Andrew Munson as a man to whom Bryant felt a heavy obligation. It told how Munson must be identified, and omitted no detail. Bryant Cavendish had signed his name at the bottom, and in the proper places therewere signatures of witnesses. Until such time as Andrew Munson could be found, the Basin ranch was to be managed by Bryant's four nephews or, if all four were not alive, by the survivors.
"Who," the masked man asked himself, "is Andrew Munson?" He had never heard the name before. There might be some reference to Munson in the papers in the desk, but the search through these would have to wait until a later time. There was something far more urgent that must be done at once.
It took several minutes to waken old Bryant Cavendish. When he was fully awake and growling his complaints at being roused, the Lone Ranger sat beside him on the bed. "Get fully awake, Cavendish," he said.
Bryant squinted in the light that came from the windows. "Hurts my eyes," he complained in a somewhat sleepy voice.
The masked man crossed the room and drew the heavy draperies together, cutting out most of the light and making the room quite dim. "Better?"
"I heard your voice before," Bryant said. "Who are yuh?"
"We rode from Red Oak together last night, Cavendish. I was with you in a cave until this morning—don't you remember?"
"I seem tuh. How long I been sleepin'?"
"Only about half an hour. I'll get you a drink of water. You've got to get wide-awake and listen to me!"
"I've listened aplenty. I'm done with it. Now get the hell out of here, an' lemme alone. Where is Penelope?"
The masked man poured water from the pitcher andheld it to the old man's lips while he explained, "Penelope is in Red Oak. She went there this morning with the children. My friend, the Indian, went with her."
Bryant drank half the water, then pushed the cup aside. He rubbed his eyes, then studied the masked man, squinting slightly. "I reckon," he said, "I remember things now. So damn much has happened in the past couple o' days I can't somehow keep things straight."
"Are you wide-awake now, Bryant?"
"Course I am," retorted the old man in a nettled voice. "What d'you want?"
"I took your will from the desk. I want you to take a look at it." A paper was extended toward Bryant. "Is there enough light in here for you to see it?"
"I don't need tuh see it, I know what's in it!"
"Examine it anyway."
"Fer what?"
"See if it's just the way you want it!"
"I've got fed up with all these fool stunts of yores, stranger. Now, for the last time, will yuh leave me be?"
The Lone Ranger found it difficult to control his anger. Before him, sitting upright in the bed, was the man who was indirectly responsible for the murder of those Texas Rangers, whose graves were in the Gap; for Becky's death; the stabbing of Gimlet; possibly even of Rangoon and Mort. And this man was asking to be left alone! The masked man's clenched fists trembled while he fought for self-control. He must, above all, keep his voice down. He leaned forward.
"I want to know," he said softly as he put the will in his pocket, "who Andrew Munson is."
Bryant said, "Who?"
The Lone Ranger repeated the name.
Cavendish pondered. His eyes held a faraway expression as he gazed at a corner of the ceiling.
"Answer me, Cavendish—who is Andrew Munson?"
Bryant turned slowly, and looked at the mask. His frown was deep, and his voice without emotion. "I never heard the name before."
The Lone Ranger felt something in him snap. It seemed as if this stubbornness in Bryant was more than he could bear without an outburst! The strain of the past few days; the fight against his wounds, against fatigue and pain; the bitterness of seeing good friends die ... all of these things seemed to roll together in a choking bitter mass that made him speechless. His hands reached out and gripped Cavendish. "You," he whispered in a hoarse, tense voice, "must be shown!"
With strength born of desperation, the Lone Ranger lifted Bryant as if he weighed nothing, and hauled him from the bed. His unanswered question was ringing in his brain.
"Who is Andrew Munson!"