“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, the Lone 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, yuh would drill 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 vita
lly 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 and something 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.
CHAPTER XX
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 by manure 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. Slim Peasley 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 he wouldn’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. Betwe
en 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 the Lone 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 beneath his 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.
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