The Second Western Megapack

by Various Writers

  Mort said, “I’ll see you later, Becky,” and Penny caught the threat that the words implied.

  CHAPTER V

  Tonto

  The men were at the breakfast table when Penny entered the big dining room. She returned their abbreviated greetings and then took her seat to surround herself with the same wall of silence that seemed to confine everyone at every meal. The cousins, her uncle, and Penny had no common denominator of conversation. Though the food was good and well prepared, it all seemed flat and tasteless in the strained atmosphere of the Cavendish house. Nothing was said of Vince’s absence for the past few days. It was taken for granted that Mort would eat well with the others, while his wife ate otherwise with her brood.

  Penny was relieved when the meal was finished and she could leave the house. She avoided the swelling puddles between the house and the corral. It was easy to find her own mustang, Las Vegas. The small, strong beast advanced to meet her.

  A man came from the saddle shed carrying her saddle and bridle on his arm. “Sawtell,” she remembered. Another of the new employees. Sawtell was easier to look at than Rangoon, but he wore an expression on his bland face that made one feel that he was sneering constantly.

  “Saw yuh in the ridin’ outfit,” he said, “so I brought your leather.”

  “Thanks,” said Penny shortly.

  Sawtell seemed inclined to talk while he cinched up Las Vegas. “Not much of a day for ridin’. Looks like it’ll clear up by noon, though. Might be better for you to wait.”

  “I like to ride in the rain,” said Penny. Her face lighted as a thought possessed her. “Have you ever ridden up the side of Thunder Mountain?” she asked.

  Sawtell looked at her quickly. After a pause, he said, “Why?”

  “When I was younger, they used to tell me that no one could ride through the tangle of weeds and things on that mountain.”

  Sawtell nodded with a trace of a squint in his eyes.

  “But,” continued Penny, “I went there anyway, and I found a trail that could be followed right up to the peak. I wonder if that trail is still there.”

  Sawtell shook his head slowly. “I know about that trail,” he said, “but it’s all overgrown now and you’d break the leg of a horse you tried to ride up there.”

  Penny couldn’t conceal her disappointment. She mounted gracefully and swung Las Vegas away from the group of buildings.

  Most of Penny’s enthusiasm for her ride was dissolved by the statement that the old trail up Thunder Mountain was gone. She gazed wistfully at the huge tangle of green things that rose to such majestic heights. “Darn it, Las Vegas,” she complained to the mustang, “everything’s changed here.”

  She looked back toward the house and noticed that in riding without a definite direction she had unconsciously followed the route of her explorations of another day. She had placed the saddle shed between her and the house so that Uncle Bryant, if watching, would not see where she went.

  She pulled off her hat and drew the pins from her hair. It fell in soft waves, which were rapidly becoming wet, to her shoulders. Thunder rumbled somewhere overhead and rain beat her cheeks. She seemed to feel an uplifting as the wind swept her hair straight out. She thrilled to the stinging rain like an old salt returning to the spray of the sea.

  She slapped Las Vegas on the rump. “Come on!” she cried. Las Vegas dropped his ears and went.

  The horse stopped at the foot of Thunder Mountain where the tall brush and dense trees blocked the way. He turned his head as if to question Penny: “Right or left, which will it be?” This was the spot where the old trail had once begun. Penny glanced back toward the distant ranch house and the buildings that surrounded it. Sawtell had said the trail was now impassable. Penny was in the mood that Uncle Bryant had once termed “cussed contrariness.”

  “Well, what’re we waiting for?” she called to Las Vegas. “Are you scared of a few shrubs?” She heeled the mustang, at the same time whacking her hat against his flank. “Giddup!”

  The mustang lunged into the tangle. Thorns tore at his fetlocks and raked his sides. Penny was nearly swept from the saddle by a low branch. Brush slapped and scratched her. Only a streak of Cavendish stubbornness, and the fact that it was almost impossible to turn, kept her going. Las Vegas seemed determined to make the girl regret her decision as he plunged ahead.

  Then, surprisingly, the trail ahead was clear. Without warning the path widened where the brush had been carefully cut back. The route went around treacherous holes and rocks that were too large to move. Lopped-off branches tossed to one side showed that the trail was man-made, not accidental.

  This puzzled her. Sawtell had told the truth about the first hundred yards, but he had been mistaken about the part of the path the girl now rode. Interwoven branches of trees overhead blocked out a great deal of the rain. There was just a gentle dripping that would probably continue long after the rain had actually stopped.

  Penny took her watch from the small waterproof envelope that was pinned to her shirt. She thought she might have time to ride all the way to the top of Thunder Mountain if the path remained as clean as it was at present. Now that she no longer had to concentrate on staying in the saddle, her thoughts went back to the scene in her room when Becky had called. If it hadn’t been for the peculiar meeting between Mort, Vince, and Rangoon, she might have thought less of Becky’s warning. All things considered, however, she felt certain that there was something definitely wrong in Bryant’s Basin. What was it that Becky had started to say about her uncle’s eyes? What had she overheard in the clump of cottonwoods? Penny had no intention of following Rebecca’s advice. She was quite determined to stay in the Basin and see what happened next. Bryant’s eyes—what about them? Perhaps she could persuade Rebecca to say more when she saw her later in the day. She’d call on her in the humble shack and have a talk. Perhaps if she were there when Mort came in after his day’s work Rebecca would be spared some of her husband’s violence.

  Penny’s thoughts were broken when she had to rein up suddenly. The trail ahead was blocked by the most magnificent horse that the girl had ever seen. Pure white, with muscles that rippled in a way that made his coat gleam like sparkling silver, he stood there and looked at her.

  Penny dismounted, holding the reins of her horse while she advanced toward the white beast. “Gosh!” she breathed in admiration. “What a horse! Here, fellow!” She held a hand before her, but the white horse stood motionless. The girl moved one step nearer, and the white horse backed slowly.

  “Don’t be afraid of me,” the girl said, “I want to be friends.”

  “Silver not make-um friends.”

  Penny swung, startled, toward the thick, guttural voice. Then she saw the Indian.

  He was tall, fully six feet, without the advantage of heels. He was clad in buckskin and moccasins. His face was broad and characteristically high-cheekboned. Hair was drawn straight back from a part in the middle and done in a war knot low on the back of his head. Heavy revolvers, of the most modern make, swung from his waist, were a somewhat incongruous touch. A bow and arrows would have been more in keeping with the rest of the Indian’s equipment.

  The Indian was a striking-looking man. His face showed interest in the girl; intellect was indicated in his forehead. In his deep, dark eyes, instead of hostility there was a warm friendliness.

  “I—I was admiring your horse,” the girl stammered.

  “That not my horse. My horse yonder.”

  Penny looked beyond the white horse, where the Indian pointed, and for the first time noticed that the trail had widened to a clearing fully thirty yards across. The open space was bordered by huge trees, and just beyond one of the largest of these she saw a paint horse.

  “My horse there,” the red man said. “This horse not mine. This horse name ‘Silver.’”

  “Silver,” repeated the girl. “It certainly suits him.” She thought her uncle would delight in owning such a beast.

  “Is—is Silver
for sale?” she asked.

  The Indian’s face showed a faint trace of a smile, as he shook his head slowly.

  There was a somewhat awkward period of silence. The Indian stood as if waiting for Penny to make the next move. She had a fleeting thought that she should have been afraid. She knew that she was far from anyone who might help her. Yet she felt quite at ease. The Indian had been friendly so far, respectful too, and there was something magnetic about his personality.

  “Me Tonto,” the Indian finally said.

  “Tonto—is that your name?”

  The man nodded.

  “Do you live here?”

  “No’m,” replied Tonto, “me stop-um here short time. Maybe leave soon.”

  Then Penny saw the crude lean-to fashioned from spreading branches of pine. Inside there was considerable duffle, packed for quick loading on a horse. “Do you mind,” said Penny with an impulsiveness that later surprised her when she thought of it, “if I sit in your lean-to and get out of the rain for a few minutes?”

  Tonto looked a bit surprised, then glad that he was so trusted by the girl. He seemed to be bending every effort to put her at ease.

  When she stepped on the soft boughs of evergreen that carpeted the lean-to, the Indian removed his belt and the heavy revolvers and tossed them on the floor close to her. “Me not need guns now,” he muttered. Penny understood, and appreciated the red man’s gesture. He was putting his only weapons where she could reach them if she cared to. He remained just outside the roof of the small shelter, ignoring the drizzle as he sat on the trunk of a fallen tree.

  “I’m from the Basin,” the girl explained. “I used to come up this trail a lot, but it was always pretty hard riding. It’s been cleared since the last time I used it.”

  The Indian nodded. “That plenty strange,” he muttered.

  Penny looked at him sharply. “Strange? Why?”

  Tonto didn’t reply. He seemed deeply preoccupied. “Do any of the men from the Basin ride this way?” asked Penny after a pause.

  Tonto didn’t reply.

  “Who owns the white horse?”

  There was another pause; then Tonto said, “My friend.” The way he said it was peculiarly impressive. Penny wondered if the friend were another Indian or a white man. She said, “Does your friend live in the Basin?”

  Once more the Indian gave a negative shake of his head.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Him plenty sick. Tonto come here, look for feller to ride by. Get food for friend.”

  Penny could be very adroit at questioning when she chose. She talked with the big Indian at length and learned that his friend was close to death. She further learned that men from Bryant’s Basin had been known to travel on the Thunder Mountain trail. This surprised her. Tonto needed certain kinds of food for his friend, food which couldn’t be shot or caught with hook and line, and he was waiting to take what he needed from the first men who rode through the clearing. As Penny listened to what Tonto said, she felt herself becoming keenly interested in his needs. She tried to determine which of the Basin men had used the Thunder Mountain trail, but Tonto couldn’t describe them. He knew only what he’d read in the hoofmarks on the ground.

  It was a day of surprises, and most of all Penny was surprised at herself. Before she realized what she had done, she had promised to ride back to the Basin and secure the things that Tonto needed. The look of gratitude that showed in the Indian’s face was a thing to behold. It was radiant and said “thanks” more effectively than any spoken words.

  Then Penny mounted Las Vegas and started her return.

  “I must be a darn fool,” she told Las Vegas. “I don’t know what possessed me to make me promise to take food to that Indian. If Uncle Bryant knew about it, he’d be frantic. He mustn’t know.”

  She rode in silence for a time. She tried to tell herself that she was working in the interests of her uncle in taking food back to the clearing. Further talk with Tonto might bring out more facts concerning men from the Basin who rode on Thunder Mountain secretly. Yet, in her heart, the girl knew this wasn’t the real reason for helping the Indian named Tonto. It was something far more subtle; something she couldn’t name; something that moved her when she heard Tonto say, “My friend.”

  CHAPTER VI

  Silver

  After Penny left the clearing, Tonto stepped to the side of the big white horse. He stroked the silken sheen of the stallion’s nose and said, “Soon girl come back with plenty food. Then we go to white friend.”

  A rare bond of friendship existed between the wounded Texas Ranger in the cave, the Indian named Tonto, and the mighty stallion, Silver. Tonto and Silver were of royal blood. Tonto was the son of a chief; Silver, a former ruler. But these were honors of the past. Destiny had even greater things ahead for the white man.

  Tonto lost his chance to reign when his tribe was wiped out in his boyhood. Silver had abdicated. The stallion’s background is a story in itself:

  Wild Horse Valley, nestled in the heart of green hills, was a sanctuary where men had never been. The grass was green and lush; great trees spread leafy boughs to cast soft shade. Here, from the living rock, came waterfalls that were sweet and pure. King Sylvan and his gentle mate, Moussa, ruled this land. Their court was made up of untamed horses. Horses that had never known restraining bit or binding saddlestrap. Happy, carefree horses they were, that had never seen men nor known men’s inventions. Sylvan had won the right to rule his followers by might and courage. He was the fleetest of foot, the quickest of eye, the greatest of strength. Sylvan, the King!

  Then Moussa bore the king a son—a prince—and Sylvan’s happiness was complete. His fleet hoofs pounded the turf, racing, turning, flashing a white coat in the bright sun. He hoped his little son would see his strength, his speed, and emulate them. Less than two hours after his birth, the prince was trying his slim, straight legs. In the months that followed, the white colt developed the strength and fearlessness of Sylvan. Added to these were the gentleness, grace, and beauty of Moussa.

  For many weeks the prince of Wild Horse Valley stayed close to his mother’s side, and his little shadow merged with hers as the two moved through the valley, guided by Sylvan, who knew where water was sweetest and grass most tender.

  Then came the days when colthood was left behind, and the son could outrun Moussa and keep pace with mighty Sylvan. Like the wind, the white one and Sylvan raced side by side. How the sun flashed from their sleek bodies as they raced, cut back, reared, and whirled in sheer joy! Life was good. Life was sweet. And Moussa watched with pride.

  Tragedy came into the prince’s life when Moussa went to the everlasting happiness of other green pastures. By this time the prince was fully grown and the equal in strength of his father. Day after day, the prince met and defeated new challengers in the field of combat. While Sylvan remained king, the prince fought to hold his own exalted position. The battles were furious. No quarter was asked, none given. The white prince never paused in the fray until his opponent lay conquered at his feet. Finally, when the last challenger was beaten, the prince called out in his victory. Sylvan responded with mighty pride. A king and his son, both conquerors and champions. Stronger, greater, than any other in their herd. Acknowledged by all as the ones who should lead while others followed.

  Then, one day, at the narrow entrance to the valley, strange creatures waited with cruel weapons; creatures new to the horses. Men who came with tragedy and pain. These were intruders who were looked upon as enemies to be driven away. The king sounded the attack, and led the charge. Fire, like lightning, flashed before the horses. Thunder roared deafeningly close at hand. The fury of those hammering hoofs could not long be withstood, and the men retreated—then rode away to save their lives.

  The prince raised his strong voice in shrill exultation, but his cry was short. The king was on the ground beside him. Mighty Sylvan was dead.

  Burning hatred for men grew in Silver’s heart while he gently nuzzled his
father’s prostrate form. There was little left for the prince in that valley. Nothing to conquer or to love. For some time he stood motionless, looking at the soft grass, the trees, the valley that had been his home. Then he turned to leave the valley.

  Alone, the white horse made his way through the mountains. Hour after hour he held a steady lope that carried him ever further from the place where he had known happiness and joy, then tragedy and sudden death. The white stallion wanted to travel far, far from the place where he had seen those hated men who had killed his father. The mountains gave way to level plains.

  Here was a new world! Level land, as far as he could see. He raced across it, ignoring the danger of gopher holes and rocks. Then, suddenly, quite out of wind, he stopped. Ahead of the prince there was a challenger. Not another horse, and not a man. A dirty beast, of muddy color, with a tangled mane and a huge hump on its back. A buffalo. The prince saw tiny blood-red eyes that seemed filled with evil and hatred. As if in anger at intrusion of its domain, the huge beast stamped and pawed the ground. From the monster there came a horrible bellow, and then the muddy fury charged.

  With all the agility the white one could command in his exhaustion, he stepped aside to dodge the charge. Here was a new kind of battle! As the buffalo raced past him, the prince felt the rough fur brush his body, and a foul odor assailed his nostrils. Mad with fury, screaming with rage, the buffalo turned and charged again. Again the white horse sidestepped. Time after time, the game was played, but it could not last forever. Soon the two must come to grips, and this would be a battle to the death.

  Great bellows filled the air. Mountains of dust rose from beneath the churning hoofs as the battle began in earnest. The buffalo drew blood from the horse’s side. The prince reared high, and struck down, with all his strength. The power of the huge horse’s hoofs seemed ineffectual against the hairy beast. The massive head was a battering ram, driving relentlessly into the white body of the prince. Trembling and weak, the white one grew unsteady, but his gallant heart knew no defeat. He fought on, desperately and hopelessly, against the greater strength of his opponent. Utter exhaustion robbed the brave horse of the power to stand. He slumped to the ground, legs useless.