The Lone Ranger and Tonto

by Fran Striker; Francis Hamilton Striker

  A hundred yards away a man let out a high-pitched yell. The Lone Ranger stood for a moment, frozen to the spot, wondering if the old man had seen him and fired at him, or if he had simply fired blindly to raise an alarm.

  Other men took up the cry of the first and in an instant a dozen voices rang out with cries of "John Langford. It's John Langford's place." The Lone Ranger could see men near the saloons leaping to their saddles and charging toward the Langford home. Meanwhile the white-haired man in the window continued his high-pitched cries of "Robbery!"

  Chapter VI

  SILVER TRAVELS ALONE

  If the Lone Ranger made any move to get away from where he stood, a dozen shots would have whizzed in his direction from the guns of the oncoming men. For the moment, at least, the safest place was where he stood, close to the trunk of a large tree near the house.

  The townsmen had spent half the night working up to this moment. They had waited patiently, telling of the things they would do if Dave Walters were to be brought back, or if his trail was found and there was the chance to ride in pursuit. Their horses had been tethered for long hours at hitchracks. Now the men found an outlet for their energies; and the horses, in sheer joy at being released, gave full vent to their urge for action.

  In scant seconds after the first of the old man's shouts, the first of the townsmen were on the scene, shouting to make themselves heard above the clatter of horses' hoofs and gunshots. Men fired blindly, just for the sake of shooting, without an idea of trying to hit anything.

  "What's the matter, Langford?" one of the men shouted from the back of his rearing horse. "What's this shoutin' about a robbery?"

  "He broke into my house," cried the old man through the shattered remains of the window, "and went out this window. I fired after him, but I guess he got away."

  The Lone Ranger had no trouble hearing what was said now. Each word was shouted. "What's stolen?"

  "Jewels! My wife's jewelry!"

  A lighted lamp appeared at the window behind Langford. The Lone Ranger saw a white-haired old lady whom he identified as Mrs. Langford.

  More men rode up to join those already on the scene. "Someone broke into Langford's place an' stole his wife's jewels," the first townsmen explained.

  "When did it happen?"

  Langford himself replied, "Just now. I don't know what caused me to awaken, but I saw the thief in my house. He was taking something from a little box which belongs to my wife—the box in which she keeps her jewelry."

  "We didn't know you had any jewelry," one of the men said.

  "It was the last of what I brought from the East," said Martha Langford, speaking for the first time. "The last of my jewels!"

  "I got my dueling guns," went on the husband, "and called to the thief to stand where he was, but instead of obeying me, he leaped for this window and ran out into the night. I fired after him but he seems to have gotten away."

  The Lone Ranger heard the old man's explanation, knowing there was not a word of truth in it. He could not understand Langford's reason for telling such a string of falsehoods. It had not yet occurred to anyone to search the proximity of the house.

  But then a new arrival spoke. "How do you know," he said, "that this thief got away?"

  "Of course I don't know for certain, but he seems to have done so," Langford said. "Didn't you fire at him?"

  "Of course."

  "How do you know you didn't drop him?" The speaker turned to the men. "Let's spread out fan-shape and ride out from this window an' see if there's any sign of the thief havin' stopped one of Langford's bullets."

  "That's better'n doin' nothin'," agreed a voice. Plans were quickly made, and the men rode away from the window. Two of them were heading straight toward the tree where the Lone Ranger stood. They came slowly, studying the ground in the moonlight. To remain where he was meant certain discovery, and to flee would be to invite death from a bullet. The men were ready to shoot on sight, and shoot to kill.

  The Lone Ranger formed a hasty plan. He crouched by the tree until the horsemen were but a few yards away. Then he removed his battered black hat and scaled it high up among the branches. The hat brushed leaves, and the horsemen, skilled in detecting the slightest unusual sound, were quick to catch the rustle.

  They halted instantly. "Hear that?" said one of them.

  "I heard it all right. It sounded as if someone moved up in that thar tree."

  "An' there ain't no breeze tuh stir the branches." The speaker raised his voice and shouted, "Come down from there afore we start blastin' yuh out."

  The Lone Ranger counted on this very thing.

  The men were concentrating their attention on the branches of the tree. He leaped from behind the trunk, and raced toward the house, and toward the nearest horseman.

  The man looked down as the Lone Ranger came close to him. "Thar he is," he yelled, bringing his gun down. But the Lone Ranger was upon the rider, clutching at him, and dragging him from the saddle. Wild shouts filled the air.

  No one dared to fire for fear of hitting their companion, but all leaped to the ground to join the fight. Rough hands tore at the masked man's clothing, trying to pull him away from the man with whom he grappled.

  The Lone Ranger fought desperately. His life depended on it.

  "Lemme at him, lemme at him," bellowed a familiar voice. It was Eph Summers, the prison guard, who pushed through the mass of men to clutch the Lone Ranger from behind. "It's him," he roared, "the masked man that's got Dave Walters!"

  The Lone Ranger brought his fist around in a short hook, and landed a blow flush on the jaw of the man nearest him. He ducked and whirled, breaking loose from Eph Summer's grip. He stepped back quickly to gather himself for a new attack, but guns glinted in the moonlight. Instead of doing the expected thing and running away from the mass of men, the masked man lowered his head and charged again into their midst. He struck one in the stomach with his shoulder, using all the strength of his driving legs. He heard the fellow's breath go out with a whoosh. Once more he jabbed with his balled fist, and felt the impact to his shoulder as his blow went home on someone's chin.

  The man would have gone down, if the Lone Ranger hadn't caught him. He lifted the man high above his head, and threw the fellow bodily at the others who sought to capture him.

  Men went down in a tangle of arms and legs. In that split second of confusion the Lone Ranger leaped to the back of one of the horses, heeled the beast's flanks, and shouted a "Giddap!" He accompanied his shout with a hard slap on the high strung mustang's rump, and the nervous animal was off like a flash.

  Guns roared and bullets came close as the Lone Ranger crouched low over the racing horse's neck. He set a course straight through the heart of the town, running a gauntlet of shouts and shots on both sides of the street. At the far end of the lighted lane, the masked man took a long chance. Without slackening the pace of the fast little horse, he threw himself from the saddle while the horse ran on without breaking its stride.

  The Lone Ranger landed on his feet, but his momentum made him fall forward and roll crazily along the ground. He was winded and badly shaken from the spill, but managed to regain his feet and duck into the shelter of the arroyo before the pursuing men raced by.

  For several minutes the masked man stretched his length on the ground, gasping for breath. At least, he thought ironically, I've given that old man's lies something to back them up. Now the law wants me as the robber of those jewels as well as for aiding a prisoner to escape.

  But for the present he was free. He gulped in huge lungfuls of cool air then examined himself to make sure no bones were broken. He could not linger here for long. Soon the men would overtake the mustang and know that their quarry had left the saddle. Then the search would begin in earnest. They would know he must be near the town, and they would doubtless form a circle around it, working in. They couldn't fail to find Silver.

  The Lone Ranger dragged himself painfully to his feet, and headed toward the spot where the
big white horse had been left. He could hear the men in town, and hoped fervently that he could release his horse before the search began in earnest.

  Silver was well-trained. The horse made no sound as the Lone Ranger approached. The masked man found his saddlebag and brought forth a pad of paper and the stub of a lead pencil. He wrote a hurried note, which he fastened to the horn of the saddle. He took his own white hat from the horn, and put it on his head. His own neckerchief replaced the bright one he had been wearing.

  "That note," the masked man whispered to the horse, "is for Tonto. Take it, Silver, find Tonto."

  The horse remained motionless. "It's all right, old fellow," said the Lone Ranger, "I know what I'm doing. I can't go back with you now, and you've got to get away from here in a hurry. Now go and—" He broke off with a trace of a smile showing on his face. "Sorry, Silver, I guess I'm getting absent-minded," he said. He jerked the reins loose from the shrub to which they'd been tied, and tossed them about the saddle horn. "Now," he said, "get going. Away, Silver."

  The horse responded. The great white head jerked up, the horse whirled and clambered up the bank of the arroyo. In another moment he was out of sight.

  The Lone Ranger stood there, listening and waiting. No shouts announced that Silver had been sighted. He heard the hoofbeats diminishing in the distance.

  He glanced overhead, the stars seemed to be swinging dizzily in the great bowl of the sky. The Lone Ranger felt his legs grow numb, unable to support his weight. He slumped to the ground, struggling and fighting to retain his reeling senses. Men on all sides hunted him. He must not stay there in the arroyo. Daylight would soon break, and discovery then would be certain. He'd be met by men who would welcome the chance to shoot to kill him; men he could not shoot to kill; men as honest as he himself, or Dave Walters, the boy in whose behalf he worked.

  His mind was racing, he was giddy with a confusion of disjointed thoughts. He slumped from his sitting posture to sprawl on the ground while he had vague visions of Steve Delaney—stolen jewels—Langford who looked like a gentleman and lied without conscience. "So many things to do," he thought, "locate the gambler and question him; see John Langford to demand an accounting of those lies; find the killer of Ma Prindle; save Dave Walters's life, and find his parents."

  But he couldn't think any longer. His strength had been taxed beyond the limits of endurance by the fight after hours of riding, and the hard fall from the saddle of a racing mustang. He couldn't hear the clamour in the town. He couldn't feel the pain of his bruises. His eyes closed, and the masked man slipped into a black pit of oblivion.

  Chapter VII

  HEARD AT THE WINDOW

  Over half the men in town had grown tired of waiting for the Sheriff to return from the manhunt. They were ready to go to their respective homes. Then Langford had raised the alarm and the masked man had raced through the town on Jake Lane's mustang. This sudden development gave everyone renewed interest in events. Another manhunt got under way at once.

  Though the Sheriff and his men were somewhere on the plains hunting for the friend who had taken Dave Walters from the jail, Eph Summers swore that the masked man the lawmen sought was close at hand. He vowed that the man who borrowed Jake's horse to escape was the one who, earlier in the day, had ridden away on the big white stallion.

  The mustang was found a couple of miles outside the town, and found without a rider. It was obvious that the masked man had leaped from the saddle and was at that very moment in hiding near by. The townsmen spread in all directions to conduct an intensive search, but the manhunt was a wholly disorganized one. Each individual felt that one of the others would locate the masked man with the result that no one person took his part in the search very seriously.

  Men would start out from town with loud threats and boasts to hunt the mysterious figure, but none of them would venture far away. They did not want to take the risk of meeting the masked rider alone, or of being away when someone else brought him in a captive.

  The Lone Ranger, while the hunt went on, lay unconscious in the old arroyo. Finally he opened his eyes and blinked a few times at the stars. He found himself flat on his back. His mind was whirling as he tried to remember what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a note he had sent to Tonto. He turned slightly to locate the moon, and from its position judged that he had been unconscious for about an hour. Every fibre of his being ached when he moved, and when he tried to sit up, he felt throbbing pain like sharp lances piercing his head.

  "Can't stay here," he muttered softly, "must get up. Must get away from here." He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples. This seemed to help a little. The ringing in his ears subsided, and in a few moments he could think more clearly.

  The grass was moist with dew. He removed his neckerchief and wiped it through the tall blades until it was quite moist. Then he wiped his face and neck. Though the moisture would remove the stain he used as part of his disguise, the coolness was refreshing and helped considerably in clearing his head. Still sitting on the ground, the masked man turned to view the row of buildings. They rose in square, dark blocks against the lights in the street beyond. He could hear the voices of men who still loitered around the cafés and realized that he was in a dangerous place.

  He rose to his feet, and once more his head seemed to ring, but the sensation soon passed. Standing there in the light of the moon, the Lone Ranger worked his arms, bent his knees and flexed his muscles. In his splendid physical condition, he found the stiffness and lameness disappearing as if by magic, after several minutes of simple exercising. Then he climbed up the bank of the arroyo. It was fortunate that he looked to his left as he came to the level ground. If he hadn't, the chances are he would have been seen by the approaching men before he sighted them. As it was, he caught a glimpse of dark forms coming toward him and quickly dropped flat on the ground.

  The grass concealed the masked man quite effectively. He parted the growth just enough to give him a view of the oncoming men. One of the men was tall and lanky with trousers that were inches too short. He wore a limp-brimmed hat and walked with something of a shuffle. The other man was in direct contrast, and his outline was an amazing one. He might easily have been mistaken for some kind of gigantic ape. Though he was quite short in comparison to the thin man, he had shoulders of tremendous breadth, powerful arms swung low from his shoulders, and his hands came almost to his knees. He was the sort of man who would be dangerous in any fight and particularly in a free-for-all struggle. The Lone Ranger, watching him, did not doubt for a moment that those long arms could snap a man's backbone in a bear-hug grip. The strange man's head seemed small in proportion to the rest of him, and looked as if it rose from the shoulders without benefit of a neck.

  As the two came nearer, the Lone Ranger pressed close to the ground. They were going to pass within a few feet of him. Swiftly, he snaked one of his six-guns from a holster and brought it close to his eyes to have it ready in the event of discovery. But the two men seemed engrossed in conversation. "Don' git me wrong," the tall man was saying, "fo' bits is fo' bits shore 'nuff an' I'm downright anxious tuh git the same. I'll keep my word an' point out tuh you whar Steve Delaney lives an' you'll pay me fo' bits fo' that info'mation."

  "That was the agreement," growled the stocky man in a throaty, husky voice. "Now how'd you like to git an extra four bits?"

  "Sho' nuff ah would!" replied the tall man enthusiastically.

  "Good enough. I'll pay yuh one dollar, which is eight bits all told, if you can just forget you ever seen me around Snake River."

  "Pahdnuh, already yo' an' me is total an' complete strangers. Ah nevah seen no sign of yo'."

  "And if anyone asks you if you've seen any strangers, you just tell 'em no."

  "Sho'nuff."

  "What's more, don't let Steve Delaney know that anyone has been askin' about him."

  "Ah won't, suh, now what about them eight bits?"

  "You'll get it," said the husky voice, "when you'
ve shown me the rear of Delaney's place."

  "Yo' stop right heah," the tall man. said. The Lone Ranger saw the two men stop less than twenty yards away, between him and the row of buildings.

  "We-uns has arrived, so perduce that thar cart-wheel an' I'll go on about mah business o' fergit-tin' all about yo'!"

  The short man drew something from his pocket and handed it to the tall, lean individual. This worthy bit it with his teeth, then muttered, "Thanks," and shuffled on in the direction he had been going.

  One of the apelike arms shot out and grabbed the skinny arm of the guide. "Hold on, you," the man growled, "you ain't done yet. I want to know where Steve Delaney lives."

  "Reckon ah fo'got tuh state that yore standin' right behind his place this instant."

  "What're you tryin' tuh put over on me? That's a saloon."

  "Jest so it is pahdnuh, an' a saloon is where Delaney makes his home. You can take that as a fact or leave it, but it sho' nuff is the truth."

  "Yer certain of that?"

  "Dead sure. Fact is, he owns that pertickler place o' recreation an' refreshment. He won it from Jeb Larkspur in a game o' stud poker, an' it's all his, lock, stock an' barrel. Jeb Larkspur has stayed right on, sort of managin' the place fer Delaney an' they ain't many folks knows that Delaney owns it, but he sure does. Yuh c'n take my word fer it."

  "And Delaney lives there?"

  "Got a couple o' rooms in the back. Them rooms that has the two winders in 'em. They ain't many gents knows he lives there neither."

  The Lone Ranger could hear every word of the conversation. Another man hunting Steve Delaney, he thought. I hope he doesn't gun me before I can have a talk with him.

  He heard the stocky apelike individual remind the other man that he was to say nothing about this meeting; heard the tall man renew his promise; and then saw the gangling fellow move away. The short man plumped his big bulk to the ground and sat there waiting.

  This was a turn of events the Lone Ranger hadn't counted on. He dared not leave his place of concealment while the other man remained there. He did not want to start another furor of excitement by engaging the fellow in a fight. Any noise would bring dozens of men rushing from the street beyond. The only alternative, if the Lone Ranger hoped to move away from that particular location, was to attack the short man and bind and gag him before he could cry out.