Transcriber's Note:
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
The local dialog has been retained including the following:
page 54: "Take's more thinkin',"
-- possible typo for "Takes more thinkin',"
page 114: strong, stanch friend
-- possible typo for strong, staunch friend
The author's use of both addleheaded and addle-headed has been retained.
THE
LONE RANGER
RIDES
By FRAN STRIKER
Illustrated by W. A. SMITH
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1941, by The Lone Ranger, Inc.
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, must
not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Manufactured in the United States of America
VAN REES PRESS, NEW YORK
TO
GEORGE W. TRENDLE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Basin 3
II. The Gap 8
III. The Cave 16
IV. Gray Dawn 22
V. Tonto 33
VI. Silver 42
VII. Yuma 50
VIII. A Matter of Murder 61
IX. Bryant Talks 69
X. The Lone Ranger 83
XI. The Lone Ranger Rides 90
XII. A Legal Paper 96
XIII. Help Wears a Mask 102
XIV. The Trail Leads Down 111
XV. Intrigue Comes Closer 119
XVI. One-Eye Sees Death 132
XVII. Penelope Signs Her Name 140
XVIII. A Gambler Talks 151
XIX. Announcement Extraordinary 162
XX. Red Oak 173
XXI. An Admission from Bryant Cavendish 182
XXII. Stalemate 191
XXIII. Yuma Rides Behind a Masked Man 201
XXIV. Bryant Goes Home 207
XXV. Who Is Andrew Munson? 219
XXVI. Disaster Gets Organized 225
XXVII. Guns Talk Back 235
XXVIII. Wallie Leads an Ace 243
XXIX. An Ace Is Trumped 252
XXX. The Badge of a Ranger 261
THE
LONE RANGER
RIDES
Chapter I THE BASIN
In a remote basin in the western part of Texas, the Cavendish clan
raised cattle. From the vast level acreage, where longhorns grew fat on
lush grass, the surrounding hills looked verdant and hospitable; but
this was pure deceit on Nature's part. Those hills were treacherous, and
Bryant Cavendish loved them for that selfsame treachery.
Sitting on the porch of his rambling house, the bitter old man spat
tobacco-flavored curses at the infirmities that restricted him. His
legs, tortured by rheumatism, were propped on a bentwood chair, and
seemed slim and out of proportion to his barrel-shaped torso. His eyes,
like caves beneath an overhanging ledge, were more restless than usual,
as he gazed across the basin. He rasped a heavy thumbnail across the
bristle of his slablike jowl.
There was something in the air he couldn't explain. He felt a vague
uneasiness despite the almost pastoral scene before him. He scanned the
hills on all sides of the basin, knowing that no stranger could come
through the tangle of underbrush and dense forest. Those hills had
always been practically impassable.
Then his restless eyes fell on the weird riot of color to the north.
That was Bryant's Gap. Water flowing from the basin springs had
patiently, through countless ages, cut the deep cleft in solid rock. The
walls towering high on each side reflected unbelievable hues. Bryant's
scowl deepened as he observed the Gap.
He could see but a few yards into it, and then it turned and his view
ended abruptly on a rainbow wall. That wall had often reminded Cavendish
of a rattler, beautiful but dangerous.
"If it uz only straight," he growled, "I c'd see when someone comes this
way. But the damn canyon is as fickle as a wench's disposition."
Once more his finger scraped across the two-day beard. Cavendish had
survived a good many years there in the West. He had risen above the
many forms of sudden death, to know an old age of comparative security.
But, like men in that region, where eternal vigilance was the price of
safety, his intuition was developed to a high degree. In a poker game he
played his hunches. And in life he listened to that little-understood
sixth sense.
"Somethin'," he decided, "is goin' on in that Gap, as sure as I'm
sittin' here."
As if to echo his words, a distant rumble reached his ears. It came from
the Gap. At first he thought it must be another of the frequent storms.
He listened, then his face grew harder than before. His jaw set firmly.
"That ain't thunder," he muttered. "That's gunplay!"
His first impulse was to call for some of the men to investigate.
Instead, he listened for a moment. His niece, Penelope, could be heard
humming a gay tune inside the house. She, at least, had not heard
anything unusual. Bryant knew his eyes were failing him of late, and he
began to doubt his ears. Perhaps, after all, it might have been thunder.
Wouldn't do to start a lot of commotion over nothing at all. Mustn't let
the boys know how the old man's slipping.
He struggled to his feet and, half-supporting his weight by gripping the
back of a chair, moved to the end of the porch and looked toward the
south, where two of his nephews stood idly smoking near a corral. His
lips moved with unuttered comments when he saw the men. Scowling, he
made his painful way back to the chair.
"Must've been mistaken," he muttered.
There was no proof that Bryant Cavendish did not like his relatives. On
the other hand, he never had shown affection for them. That wasn't
unusual, because he never had cared particularly about anyone.
His bitter outlook on life made him feel that affection and softness
went hand in hand. He had lost all respect for his two brothers when
they married. The fact that Bryant had outlived them both proved to his
own satisfaction, which was all that mattered, that marriage and the
problems of the benedict make men die young.
One brother had left four sons, the other a daughter. Bryant, the last
of his generation, had raised the brood. His domination cowed the boys,
but Penelope escaped. An inherent sense of humor saved the girl. When
Penny left for an Eastern school, in accordance with the written will of
her foresighted father, she was without a trace of the sullen,
subservient manner that marked her cousins. Bryant frowned on the idea
of sending the girl to school. To him it seemed a waste of time and
money, but he followed the terms of his brother's will with meticulous
care.
Superlatives cannot be used in connection with the boys of the second
generation of Cavendishes. So instead of stating that Mort was the most
courageous, it is more accurate to record that Jeb, Vince, and Wallie
were even less courageous than Mort.
It was Mort who, as a pimpled adolescent, suggested meekly that he and
his brothers leave the Basin. It took three days for the flames of rage
that exploded from Bryant Cavendish to die down, and their embers
smoldered for weeks thereafter. It took several years for Mort to build
up the spunk to assert himself again. He married Rebecca and brought her
to the Basin. The hurricane blasts from Uncle Bryant made all previous
Cavendish tirades seem like the babblings of brooks that inspire poets.
Bryant was an old man, and even his iron will could no longer ignore the
rheumatism that made his legs almost useless. As it became increasingly
necessary for the nephews to assume responsibility, his resentment
toward them grew proportionately.
Cool water, piped from a mountain spring, gurgling and splashing into a
trough ... a sheltered basin, blanketed with grass ... sturdy,
comfortable houses ... contented cattle, growing fat ... the song of a
girl ... the laughter of a child ... clumping hoofs ... lazy smoke from
cowboy cigarettes.... "Yew got the makin's?"... "Ain't Mort's wife
startin' t'git big again?"... "I heered a doggoned funny story las'
week, it'll bust yer sides."... "Gimme the lend of a chaw, will yuh?"...
"My feet're killin' me."... "I gotta git me some boots next payday."...
"Thunderstorm due about t'morra."
In the Basin, normalcy.
But in Bryant's Gap, majestic in height, gorgeous in color like the
rattlesnake, six men sprawled on rockstrewn ground, and buzzards circled
overhead.