Copyright © 2013 Disney Enterprises, Inc.
All rights reserved. Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Disney Press, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.
ISBN 978-1-4231-9150-6
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Photos from the Film
San Francisco, July 1933. In the bustling City by the Bay, it was hard to tell that the rest of the country was in the midst of one of the worst years of its young history. Instead of dust bowls and depression, San Francisco was booming. Steamships dotted the harbor, while up on the hill, cranes lifted beams high into the skyline.
Amid all of it, a fairground had been set up, its bright lights warm and welcoming against the dimming sky. Families wandered the fair, children in tow, while young men attempted to impress their girlfriends with cotton candy and big stuffed animals. Amid it all, a carousel circled slowly, giving its passengers time to take in the San Francisco skyline and the tiny people below.
A young boy with a toy six-shooter strapped to his hip strode through the fair, a bemused look on his face. His name was Will, and he had seen it all before. The games, the shows, the silly carousel that was far too slow for the likes of him. There was only one thing that interested him about the fairground—the Wild West Show. It was supposed to be the “greatest show on Earth.” But Will wanted to see for himself. Reaching up, he adjusted the mask he wore over his eyes and ducked inside the tent.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Will made out several dioramas depicting scenes from the Wild West. There was a stuffed bison next to a big stuffed bear, both of their coats missing fur in spots. Nearby, a covered wagon was frozen in motion, its white canopy aged and yellowed. Walking along, Will sighed. Everything looked old and fake. He wanted to see something exciting. Something…real.
He came to a stop in front of one of the dioramas. The sign above read THE NOBLE SAVAGE IN HIS NATURAL HABITAT. Inside sat a lifeless Comanche Indian, his ancient face covered in white and black paint. On his head perched a stuffed crow with faded black feathers. As the rest of the crowd moved along to the next diorama, Will stayed back, absently eating from his bag of peanuts. He had never seen a real Comanche Indian. Even though he knew it was just a statue, he couldn’t help leaning in closer.
Suddenly, the Comanche Indian’s eyes flickered.
With a gasp, Will dropped his bag of peanuts and took a step back. Reaching down, he pulled out his toy gun and fired. The harmless caps sounded loud, but the sound of Will’s pounding heart was even louder.
“Kemosabe?” the old Comanche Indian said, his voice scratchy. He leaned forward, narrowing his ancient, watery eyes. “You bring horses?”
“I think you made a mistake, mister,” Will said hesitantly.
A sadness seemed to settle over the old man as he looked down at Will. The intense gaze made Will nervous and he took a step back, stepping on a peanut shell. The crack startled him anew and his heart began to race again.
Looking at the bag of peanuts that had fallen to the floor, the Comanche raised an eyebrow. “Make trade?” he asked.
Will glanced down at the peanuts and then back at the Comanche. With a shrug, he retrieved the snack and tentatively handed it over. The elderly man took the bag from Will’s palm, replacing it with the corpse of a mummified mouse. Will recoiled in disgust. Then, gulping, he nodded his thanks.
As the Comanche munched on a peanut, Will lowered his mask to try to get a closer look. He knew that he wasn’t imagining it. The Comanche Indian was most definitely alive. But how? And why had he chosen to speak to him of all people?
“Never take off the mask,” the man said, breaking into Will’s thoughts.
“Why not?” Will asked.
The old Comanche closed his eyes as a long-forgotten memory surfaced. He began to speak, so softly Will had to strain to hear his story.…
On a hilltop, hidden among the trees, the Comanche Indian, now clearly much younger, sat astride his horse, gazing into the horizon, the same stuffed crow perched on his head. Next to him, on a horse of his own, sat a man who wore a white hat and a black mask.
As they sat there, the man adjusted his mask, clearly uncomfortable. “You sure about this?” he asked.
The Comanche looked at him, then returned his gaze to the horizon before speaking. “Dead man strike fear into the heart of his enemies,” he said cryptically.
“All right,” the man replied with a sigh. “Let’s do this.”
Kicking their horses’ sides, the two men burst out of their cover and thundered down the hill. Within moments, they had reached a small town nestled into the hillside. Wooden buildings lined the one main street, and as they raced through, people scattered out of the way. The masked man and the Comanche Indian reined their horses to a stop in front of one of the larger buildings—the Colby Municipal Bank.
Jumping off their horses, the men burst through the doors. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the masked man announced, “my colleague and I will be making a withdrawal.…”
For a moment nobody said a thing. Then a man wearing a stovepipe hat took a step forward. “What are you two supposed to be?” he asked, sounding more confused than scared.
The masked man exchanged glances with his compatriot. “I told you,” he said under his breath. “I feel ridiculous. Maybe if we go out and come in again…”
Before he could finish his thought, the Comanche Indian whipped out his tomahawk and threw it across the room. It sliced the man’s hat in two before thudding into the clock on the wall behind him. Taking the cue, the masked man pulled out his gun and fired into the air. A huge chandelier crashed to the ground, shattering and causing the customers to scream.
“Guess I didn’t make myself clear,” the masked man said. “This is a bank robbery!”
Together, he and the Comanche Indian leaped over the counter and made their way toward the safe.…
Will had been listening wide-eyed to the old man’s story. But now he stopped him. “Wait a minute,” he said, realization dawning. He knew who the Comanche was! And the masked man! He had read all about them in his adventure stories. “You’re saying you’re Tonto? The Tonto?”
“There is another?” the old man asked.
“But…the Lone Ranger and Tonto were good guys!” Will protested. “I mean, they didn’t rob banks—did they?”
For a moment, Tonto was silent. Then he spoke, his voice stronger and full of the wisdom of many years. “There comes a time,” he said, “when a good man must wear a mask.…”
The air was dusty and full of the sounds of men hard at work. Hammers clanged against steel as men of every race and creed l
aid down hundred-pound railroad ties. Dirt billowed into the already thick air as other men hacked away, creating trenches out of the hard desert floor. Parked nearby, waiting to move forward, was the great and mighty Constitution—one of the biggest and fastest locomotives ever built.
In the midst of all the work, a man stood before a small crowd. Unlike the workers behind him, Latham Cole was impeccably dressed. He carried himself like the war hero and railroad man he was, his shoulders high and his chin higher still. Next to him, Sheriff Garrick P. Donovan stood, scanning the crowd to ensure no one caused any trouble. Cole had been clear. This was a very important day.
Clearing his throat, Cole stepped forward. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I have asked you here today to see firsthand what I believe to be the single greatest enterprise under God.” He paused and gestured to the tracks being laid behind him. “To unite this great country by iron rail.”
The crowd let out a round of applause and Cole soaked it in, loving the attention that his tracks, and he, were getting. His eyes drifted to one audience member in particular. Standing toward the back, her hands still, was Rebecca Reid. Even in her worn work clothes and dust-stained boots, she was beautiful, and Cole found himself losing focus. Shaking his head, he continued.
“Our crews are laying track at an unprecedented rate of ten miles a day, and God willing, we will reach Promontory Summit by summer’s end.” Once again, the crowd erupted in applause. Cole turned his attention toward a group of Comanche Indians standing together at the edge of the crowd. One of the men, Red Knee, returned Cole’s stare with his one eye, the other lost in battle years before. “To the Comanche,” Cole went on, “I say, you have nothing to fear. I fought four years with the army of Ulysses S. Grant and I too am tired of war. As long as there is peace between us, all land treaties will be honored.”
Red Knee’s face remained emotionless, the words falling on deaf ears. Turning, he walked away, the rest of his men following close behind.
Cole ignored the snub. He hadn’t expected anything different. After all, the war between them had been going on for a long time. Even now, despite the treaties and the peace offerings, things were tense, especially out here in the frontier. And not just because of the Comanche. Cole began to speak once more. “To the outlaws—those who prey on the weak—I say, make no mistake. Law and order has come to the Wild West.…”
On cue, Sheriff Donovan unrolled a large piece of paper and held it up. On the front were the all-too-familiar word WANTED and, beneath, the picture of an outlaw, his face burned on one side.
“That is why I am bringing the notorious outlaw and Indian killer Butch Cavendish here to hang for his crimes,” Cole said, gesturing at the poster. “The future is bright, ladies and gentlemen. And it’s just around the bend.”
As the crowd erupted into whistles and cheers, Cole waved and smiled. When the crowd had finally dispersed, he made his way toward a makeshift market that had been set up on the street. His speech had gone perfectly. The people loved him, and when he brought Cavendish to justice, they would love him even more. Nothing could mar his good mood.
“Afternoon, Latham,” a voice cooed in his ear, inter-rupting his thoughts. As he turned, the smile disappeared from his lips. Standing in front of him was a woman with shockingly red hair, a tiny waist, and a bright and flashy dress. Red Harrington. It made Cole uncomfortable just to be seen talking to such an improper lady. But she clearly didn’t care. “Just wanted to let you know how grateful I am for the chance to see that animal hang,” the woman went on.
“Indeed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Harrington, I have business to see to,” Cole said dismissively as he began to push past her.
Red Harrington raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Still having train trouble?” she asked his retreating back. Cole stopped and turned. With a wink, she spun on her heel and walked away, a barely noticeable limp to her step.
Stifling a groan, Cole continued through the market. Every other step or so, someone would come up to shake his hand or say congratulations, slowing his progress. But eventually, he found what—or rather who—he was looking for.
Rebecca Reid stood in front of a table covered in silk scarves and bright folded parasols. A newspaper ad was on display, showing beautiful women wearing the scarves in a bustling city, the epitome of high fashion. Rebecca’s seven-year-old son, Danny, stood beside her, using his finger as a pretend gun to shoot at the items in the various stalls.
Picking up a stunning blue scarf, Rebecca held it to her chest, admiring the soft texture and vivid color. Kai, a small Chinese woman who worked at the stall, smiled and held up a mirror. Gazing at her reflection, Rebecca smiled. For a moment, she actually felt…beautiful.
Suddenly, Kai put down the mirror. “For you,” she said, forcing the scarf into Rebecca’s hand. Confused, Rebecca tried to protest, but another voice stopped her. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Latham Cole.
“She’s right,” he said. “Matches your eyes.”
Embarrassed by the attention, Rebecca nodded her thanks to Kai and then stuffed the scarf deep into her pocket. Together, she and Cole walked on, Danny following close behind.
“I didn’t think you’d make it out, Mrs. Reid,” Cole said after a moment of silence.
Rebecca shrugged. “Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” she answered matter-of-factly. She felt Cole’s shoulder brush hers and stifled a shudder. She was a married woman. Yet he was always seeking out her attention. It was unnerving.
“And what do you think of our endeavor?” Cole went on, apparently oblivious.
“Looks to me like a lot of men digging in the desert,” she replied.
Cole didn’t reply. Instead, he turned to Danny. “Ever had a bluepoint oyster?” The young boy shook his head. “One day soon, you’ll be able to get on a train right here in Colby, ride it all the way to San Francisco, eating New York oysters packed in ice. Sail on to China and come back around the other side if you want to.”
“That true, Mama?” Danny asked, his eyes wide.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Rebecca replied warily.
They had come to a stop in front of a stall with various children’s toys displayed. Picking up one of them, Cole twirled it in his hand. Dropping a coin on the table, he handed the toy to Danny, who eagerly grabbed it. “I expect on a lawman’s salary, a lot must fall on you,” Cole said, looking at Rebecca.
Taking the toy out of Danny’s hand, she placed it back on the table. “We do just fine, thank you,” she replied icily. True, being on the farm all by herself while her husband and his men roamed the wilds wasn’t easy, but it did no good to dwell on it. It was her life—hardship and all. And it was the sacrifice she had made when she married Dan Reid, Texas Ranger.
Cole seemed to sense that he had pushed Rebecca hard enough. “I meant no disrespect,” he said, holding his hands up apologetically. “They don’t make men like your husband anymore. Kind that settled this country. Fact is, I envy him: a fine family, a boy to carry his name.” He paused, his eyes lingering on Rebecca for a moment too long. “I just hate to see a bird in a cage.”
Tipping his hat, Cole turned and walked away. Behind him, Rebecca watched him go, her eyes narrowed. The man gave her the willies.
At that moment, Dan Reid was standing on a train platform in another town in another part of the same godforsaken desert. Beside him, five other men in long, dusty jackets, their hats pulled low over their eyes, spread out along the platform, causing people to scuttle away nervously. Walking over to the telegraph operator, Dan pulled his jacket aside, revealing the bright silver badge that marked him as a ranger.
The telegraph operator eyed the badge, then looked down at the message he had just received. The name Cavendish was bold on the page. The deadly outlaw’s name was infamous throughout the West. “Run a man all the way to the state line, put him on a train, and ship him right back,” the operator said. “Don’t make no sense.”
Clayton, another one of the rangers, stepped up and dipped his hand into the candy jar on the operator’s desk. “Guess they run out of hanging rope in Oklahoma,” he said, unwrapping the candy.
“Mr. Cole wants to make an example,” said Navarro, a handsome ranger with dark hair and thick eyebrows, as he gazed at his reflection in the window.
“Word is, Cavendish is looking for payback with you, Dan,” said a ranger by the name of Martin. Next to him, Ranger Blaine nodded.
“They say he ate a red-legger’s heart in the Missouri wars,” Blaine said, eager to add his two cents. “Swallowed it whole, still beating the man’s blood.”
“Heard it was the eyes, and he used a toothpick like a pair of pickled onions,” Martin added.
Navarro shook his head.
“Which is it, Dan?” Martin asked, turning to the head ranger.
Squinting into the distance, Reid shrugged his wide shoulders, causing dust to fall off his jacket. “Don’t see how it makes a difference,” he said.
Dan Reid didn’t have time to listen to stories or argue over the outlaw’s rumored kills. The outlaw himself was heading their way on a speeding train. And when that train arrived, it would be up to Dan and his men to get Cavendish safely to Colby. If they didn’t, the stories wouldn’t matter, because the outlaw would be on the loose once more, free to make plenty of new ones.
John Reid sat, lost in thought, as the train he was riding on brought him closer and closer to his destination. Farther up in the car, a preacher led a group of women in prayer. But John hardly noticed. It had been eight years since he had been back to Colby. Nine years since he had left the comfort and safety of his home and family to go to college. When he had left, he had been an uneducated boy, rough around the edges. Now he was coming back a lawyer, complete with a new three-piece suit. Yet instead of being excited, he felt his stomach flutter and he nervously opened the book on his lap and took out a photograph. Its edges were rough with wear, but the photo was still clear. In it, Rebecca posed on a wooden chair beside a riverbank. Gently, John reached out and traced her face, a motion he had made countless times before.
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