Wallie entered the bedroom with a swaggering manner and closed the door behind him. “Yer stayin’ in Red Oak all night, eh?” he asked.
“Did you wake me up tuh ask that?” snarled Bryant. “What the hell does it look like I’m doin’? It’s too hard a trip fer me tuh go back home. I’ll go back in the mornin’.”
“That’s not what I came for, Uncle Bryant,” said Wallie hastily. “Don’t jump me so till I finish.”
“Wal?”
“I found a woman that’ll look after the kids.”
“Humph! I didn’t think you could tend to a job as complete as that. When’ll she come to the Basin?”
“That’s just it,” replied the fop hesitantly. “I—I tried tuh talk her intuh goin’ there, but she wouldn’t. She said that she’d look after ’em, if we paid her of course, an’ if we brought the kids here tuh live with her.”
“I knowed it. Well, find someone else! Find someone that’ll come tuh the Basin.”
Wallie shook his head slowly.
“I dunno as I can. It ain’t easy tuh find a woman around here that’d take good care of the youngsters.”
While Bryant appeared to ponder this, Wallie went on quickly. “I thought maybe Penelope could come along with ’em fer a few days, till Mrs. Hastings gets sort of acquainted with ’em. Wouldn’t that be a good way?”
“Maybe so.”
“Good enough then, Uncle Bryant. I didn’t want tuh do nothin’ till I’d talked tuh you about it. I won’t bother you no more now. I’m sorry tuh disturb you, but I figgered on ridin’ back home with the rest of the boys, an’ I wanted tuh get yer okey on this Mrs. Hastings so’s I could tell Penelope.”
“You through talkin’ now?”
Wallie rose. “Reckon so. You’ll be comin’ back on the buckboard, won’t yuh?”
“How else could I git home? Didn’t I fetch the buckboard?”
“That’s right, Uncle Bryant, I’m sorry not tuh have thought it out.”
“Now get the hell outta here an’ lemme git some sleep.”
Still Wallie didn’t go. He shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. “There-there’s somethin’ I wanted tuh say,” he fumbled. “I—I don’t want yuh tuh git sore about it.…”
“Wal?”
“I thought it was a right smart scheme of yores, the way yuh handled Mort.”
“Mort kilt his wife, didn’t he?”
“That’s right, Uncle Bryant.”
“I wouldn’t let that squirt called Yuma know I turned Mort over tuh the law; he’d figger I done it on account of bein’ scairt o’ him. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowin’ Mort was jailed fer murder.”
Wallie grinned synthetically. His whole manner before Bryant Cavendish was one of cowering subjugation, of fawning in a way that must have been revolting to the hard old man.
“Yuh done jest right,” he said. “I’d never o’ thought of it, Uncle Bryant. Yuh jailed Mort, an’ that took care of the legal angles; of course yuh couldn’t be expected tuh let him be swung from a rope.”
Bryant looked up sharply.
“No one’ll ever know how he busted out. Fact is, he might o’ broke outen that jail without no outside help.”
“He’s out?” exclaimed Bryant.
Wallie nodded, a look of surprise on his face. “Didn’t you know it?”
“No. I didn’t know it. I been sleepin’ here. How in the devil would I know?”
“Gosh! Then he must’ve got out without no help, unless be bribed Slim Peasley.”
“Where is he now?”
“I dunno. I jest heard a while ago in one of the saloons that he was loose. Peasley acted real upset about it.”
Surprisingly, Bryant made no further comment.
Wallie waited a moment longer, then turned and opened the door. “Good night, Uncle Bryant,” he said.
Bryant said nothing. The door closed, and the old man sat there for fully five minutes, muttering unintelligibly. Then he rose and would have blown out the candle, but he was halted by a voice from the window.
“Stay right where you are and don’t yell.”
The Lone Ranger stepped easily over the low windowsill and into the room, as Bryant Cavendish turned.
CHAPTER XXI
AN ADMISSION FROM BRYANT CAVENDISH
A close-range view of Bryant Cavendish fulfilled everything the Lone Ranger might have expected from what he had heard about him. His face looked as if it had been chopped out of a block of granite. His eyes, small, deep-set, were the coldest, hardest eyes that he had ever seen. They were the eyes of a man who would die before he would forgive a wrong; a man who had lived with hate. Bryant showed not the slightest trace of fear. Even in his undershirt he could look haughty and arrogant. He met the steady gaze of the masked man, his mouth clamped hard-shut.
“Cavendish,” began the Lone Ranger in a low but very decisive voice, “I’ve come a long way to talk to you.”
There was no reply.
“First of all, what do you know about the murder of some Texas Rangers in Bryant’s Gap?”
There was no change in the older man’s expression. His chin lifted just the slightest bit, but he said nothing. Neither did he nod or shake his head.
“There are men working for you who are wanted by the law,” continued the Lone Ranger. “Six Texas Rangers went through the Gap to arrest men you know as Sawtell, Rangoon, Lonergan, and Lombard. Those Rangers were ambushed. Did you know that?”
Cavendish spoke. His voice was scarcely more than a whisper, but the intensity of it, the suppressed emotion that was dripping from his words, seemed to make the ends of the masked man’s nerves vibrate.
“You—” he said. “Git!”
“Not yet, Cavendish; we have a lot of things to talk about.” The Lone Ranger moved nearer to the flint-faced Bryant and sat down, facing the open window, with his back against the door.
“There’s a renegade army of bandits across the border. They’ve been buying Cavendish-brand cattle. That in itself has been handled in a perfectly legal manner. The cattle have been sold on this side of the border. There’s another angle to it, however. Ranches surrounding your basin land have been struck by thieves. A lot of cattle have been stolen and several men have been murdered. These assaults have been generally blamed on Ricardo’s renegades. But that hasn’t been the case. Ricardo has bought your cattle, and the stolen cattle have been herded into your basin.”
The Lone Ranger paused. It looked as if Cavendish were about to speak. He trembled a little as he said, “Fer the last time, stranger, git.”
“Not yet, Cavendish. I’ll tell you some more. The stolen cattle are taken into the Basin by a trail that comes straight down one side of Thunder Mountain. Once in the Basin, the cattle are treated to a running iron and the brand changed to one of the many brands that are registered in your name. ‘Circle Bar’ stock is changed to the ‘Eight Box.’ ‘Lazy S’ becomes the ‘Eight-on-One-Side.’ I could go on with many other brands you’ve registered; brands that can be made out of the marks on stolen cattle. The newly branded stock is held in the Basin until the scars heal over. Then it is taken out through the mountain trail, while other stock is brought in. Now you realize that I’m aware of what is going on.”
Bryant’s agitation could never have been caused by fear; therefore it must have been an anger that was almost consuming him. The Lone Ranger’s voice became sharper as he went on, driving home every point emphatically. He himself was angry. The stolid manner of Bryant, the refusal to acknowledge that he even heard the masked man’s statements called for will power that was almost incomprehensible in the face of the cold facts.
“In connection with the cattle-stealing, you’ve furnished a haven for any outlaws who wanted to hide there. I don’t know how you contacted all those fugitives, but it was manage
d somehow. They learned that Texas Rangers had been sent for, so they ambushed those men. If others go there, they will either meet the same fate or find a perfectly innocent-looking ranch, while the ‘wanted’ men hide in the mountain retreat. Am I right?”
Bryant Cavendish spoke again.
“If you’re right, what’re you goin’ to do about it?”
“You have a niece, a girl named Penelope.”
Mention of the girl’s name brought a quick reaction. Bryant’s hard jaw shot forward and he snapped, “You leave her out o’ this.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t leave her out. It’s for her that I’m speaking. She has always trusted you, Cavendish, in spite of everything she saw; the type of men you hired; the trail on Thunder Mountain; in spite of the murder of the Texas Rangers, that girl has believed in you. She would never have believed you capable of leading a gang to steal the cattle that Ricardo and his men did not dare to steal, and selling them to him at a low enough price so that he could resell at a profit on the other side of the border.
“You ask what I’m going to do? I’m going to ask you to help put thieves in jail, and send murderers to pay in full. You’re an old man, Cavendish. At best you have but a few years left, and after that what is there for Penelope? Who is going to take care of that girl when you’re gone? Would you leave her to the mercies of those cousins of hers, or the killers like Sawtell and Lombard?
“I’ll lay my cards right out on the table. I can’t, at the present time, do anything. That’s why I’ve come to you. There must be something that’s turned you from an honest man…to this. What is it? Tell me, and let me help you straighten things out. Tell me, who has a hold over you, who’s making you do these things?”
The Lone Ranger drew a folded paper from his pocket and spread it on the table before Bryant Cavendish. His eyes were fixed on Cavendish, who seemed to be waging an inward battle for composure. Cavendish glanced at the paper, then at the Lone Ranger.
“This,” the masked man said, “is a document that Lonergan drew up. It has a place for your relations to sign their names. And when they do so they accept a certain consideration from you, and agree that when your will is read they—”
“I know all about that,” snapped Bryant.
“That’s what I was uncertain about. Your signature isn’t required on this, and it would have been a simple matter for Lonergan to have written it and had your relatives sign, without your knowledge.”
Cavendish showed more of an inclination to talk.
“It’s legal, ain’t it?” he asked as if there were some doubt in his mind.
“It is legal.”
“That’s all I want tuh know.”
“You wanted it prepared?”
“Sure.”
“But there must be a will, your will, with your signature. That would have to be left to name the people who inherit all your land.”
“There’s a will too. All signed an’ witnessed.”
Bryant pushed himself to his feet, and stood above the seated masked man.
“I never explained nothin’,” he barked. “I never asked fer help or favors, an’ I never will. When the time comes that I can’t handle my affairs, I’ll be ready tuh lie down an’ die. I dunno how yuh got that paper, but yer goin’ tuh hand it tuh me right now. It’s mine an’ I’ll have it.”
“You won’t explain a thing?” repeated the Lone Ranger.
“You heard me!”
The masked man rose and turned to face the other squarely, taking his eyes away from the window to do so. “I hoped,” he said, “that we might work together, but you won’t have it that way. If you’re sure this paper is just the way you want it—” The Lone Ranger broke off when a shot crashed into the room from a gun beyond the window.
Bryant Cavendish gasped, then staggered back, clutching with both hands at his broad chest. He stumbled and fell across the bed. The Lone Ranger’s gun leaped up while the masked man sprang to the window. He saw a man’s form running fast. It was too dark in the shadows to determine much about the fugitive, but it was obvious that it was he who had fired the shot at Bryant. The Lone Ranger’s gun barked, and a silver bullet flew. The running man spilled forward, rolling from his own momentum.
There was hammering upon the door. Men’s shouts demanded to know what the shooting was about. The Lone Ranger holstered his gun. Ignoring the yells and shouts outside the room, he bent over the wounded man. Bryant still breathed, but his pulse was ragged and his eyes were closed.
Another instant and those outside would smash the door and force their way inside. To be found there masked, with Cavendish shot, and one bullet gone from his own gun, would mean the certain capture and probable lynching of the Lone Ranger. He had no choice. He lifted Bryant Cavendish and carried him toward the window.
The dead weight of the unconscious man was too much for the Lone Ranger, in his fatigued and weakened condition, to handle quickly. He rested his burden on the window’s sill then whistled sharply once.
The whistle brought renewed shouting from the men beyond the door. Their cries were wild and unorganized. Some cried to the world at large, “Bust in—bust down the door—don’t let ’em out—he’s in thar, I heard him.” These and other cries were mixed with shouts of warning and advice: “Don’t yuh try tuh git away—we got yuh trapped—come out an’ surrender or we shoot tuh kill.”
If only the door and the bolt would withstand the assault of the first few blows! Silver was coming fast, racing toward the window where the masked man waited. The big stallion clattered close and whinnied shrilly while the men in the hall yelled new suggestions. “He’s got a hoss outside. Git around tuh the winder. I hear a hoss. Thar’s a hull gang o’ them in thar.”
In a moment Bryant was thrown across the saddle. The masked man leaped behind him as a shattering blow shivered the door and the wall that supported it.
“Come on, Silver!” the Lone Ranger called.
He couldn’t leave the vicinity just yet. There was one thing of which he must make certain. He rode to the man he’d shot. Leaping from the saddle, he found the wounded man quite conscious, but in pain from a bullet in the fleshy part of his thigh. “Not serious,” he muttered. “You’ll be all right as soon as—”
He broke off with a gasp of surprise. This man’s bullet wound was slight, but the man was dying. There was another weapon, a knife of the sort that can be easily thrown. All that showed was the handle, sticking straight out from the back of the stranger’s neck.
It took but an instant for the Lone Ranger to visualize what had happened. This fugitive, having fired point-blank at Bryant Cavendish, had raced on foot to reach a clump of trees. Perhaps his horse was waiting there, perhaps a trusted friend. This “friend” or someone else within the shelter of the trees had thrown the knife after the Lone Ranger’s shot had dropped the man, probably to seal his lips with death.
Whatever the purpose of the murder, the man on the ground would never talk. It was little short of miraculous that he had lived at all after taking the knife in such a vital place. The Lone Ranger could do nothing. The man slipped into unconsciousness, with death a few seconds away.
Meanwhile the Lone Ranger was in danger.
Yelling, shouting men were charging, some on foot and some on horseback from the rear of the hotel. There was no time for thought or planning. The only important thing right now was escape.
The Lone Ranger leaped, and shouted, “Hi-Yo Silver!”
The stallion lunged ahead while bullets buzzed too close.
Leaning low over the strong neck of Silver, the masked man clung to Bryant Cavendish. “Now,” he thought, “those men will not only think I’ve shot Cavendish, but shot and killed that other man as well.” He slapped Silver on the neck. “Old boy,” he cried, “from now on we’ve got to travel fast. If they catch us, it will mean a lynching.”
CHAPTER XXII
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 Jim Bates, 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 this hombre that 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.
The Pulp Hero Page 28
