ONE-EYE SEES DEATH
The Lone Ranger stood close to his horse at the edge of the Basin where
thick foliage marked the beginning of the rise of Thunder Mountain. He
strained his eyes and ears to detect what he could in the Basin.
Motionless and tense, the masked man waited like a hunter that tried to
catch a scent from a wind that held its breath. He heard the usual night
sounds of cattle, katydids, and frogs. There was an occasional call from
a creature of the forest that rose behind him. Nothing more.
On the downward path, the masked man had met no one. He had dismounted
on several occasions to examine the trail by matchlight, and near the
bottom, where it was overgrown with weeds, he had lighted a candle to
inspect it further. He found that many head of cattle had traveled where
the path was smooth, but the beef had been fanned out in many directions
near the bottom of the mountain and driven into the Basin at several
points. He decided that this had been done so that a path would not be
seen from the Basin itself.
The Lone Ranger guided Silver back among the trees where the white coat
wouldn't be so obvious if someone rode near. He whispered softly, then
left the horse untethered.
He paused to make sure that his mask was snugly in place. It had become
so much a part of him that he couldn't be sure of its presence unless he
felt it with his hand. When Tonto had, at first, suggested wearing the
mask all the time, he had thought it a bit dramatic, perhaps even silly,
but consideration made him realize that he already was hampered by the
determination not to shoot to kill, by great odds, and by the weakness
of his wounds and recent fever. He might have to fight, to rope and
shoot, and the mask must be no handicap. He checked his guns, making
sure that they were fully loaded by replacing the shell that had been
used to disarm Rangoon. Then he was ready.
An experienced black cat stalking a nervous bird could be no more quiet
than was the Lone Ranger as he moved across the Basin. His clothing had
no flapping superfluities; he wore no jingling spurs; his guns were tied
down so that the holsters could not slap his legs. Boots oiled to
preclude the slightest possibility of any squeaking leather, he moved
swiftly and surely toward the buildings of the ranch. He saw the house
and, not far from it, the row of lighted squares that marked the
bunkhouse.
Halfway to the buildings, the Lone Ranger froze. He wondered if his eyes
were playing tricks, or if he actually had seen someone, or something,
move at one end of the bunkhouse. Now he saw a moving figure in the beam
of light that slanted from a rear window. In an instant, whatever he saw
was obscured by the darkness. He glanced over his shoulder. Silver was
well out of sight. His own dark clothing would be barely visible unless
someone were quite close to him.
Then he heard the sound of hoofs. A horse and rider appeared as a vague
shadow against the lighted bunkhouse windows. The masked man dropped
flat on his stomach, hugging the ground as closely as possible. The
rider was coming straight toward him.
He drew a pistol, holding it in readiness if he should be seen. He knew
that his hat was light, and might attract attention, but he dared not
move it. He felt the ground tremble with the beat of hoofs. He heard the
crack of a quirt, cruelly applied, and a man's husky voice. Now the
rider was almost upon him, without slackening his speed. The racing
horse looked tremendous as it passed within twenty feet of the Lone
Ranger. It was impossible to tell who was in the saddle. All details
were shrouded by the darkness, but whoever that horseman was, he was in
a hurry. He swept across the Basin toward the foot of Thunder Mountain,
and the last the masked man saw was the barely perceptible shadow
breaking through the underbrush that hid the uphill trail.
The Lone Ranger presently rose to his feet, waited several seconds, and
then moved ahead again. This time his destination was the bunkhouse. He
could call on Bryant and Penelope later. First, he would investigate to
learn, if possible, the reason for the unknown rider's sudden departure.
There was no sound from within the bunkhouse. The masked man advanced
toward the side of the long and rather narrow one-story building. The
rear, from which the unknown rider had started, was on his right, the
front of the building on his left. He could see that a door which opened
out was wide, but from his point of view the Lone Ranger couldn't see
the inside of the place.
He could hear something going on inside the ranch house, a couple of
hundred feet away, but couldn't distinguish the sounds clearly enough to
know what they might mean. "Go there," he muttered, "later on."
With increasing caution, he approached the objective until his back was
pressed close to the slab side of the bunkhouse at the corner between
the lighted windows and the open door. Still there was no sound inside.
His gun in readiness, he rounded the corner and looked in the door. He
saw a well-lighted room. Double-deck bunks lined each of the side walls,
divided by a narrow aisle. In the front part of the room there was one
large table, and several chairs. At least twenty men slept here, but now
there was no one in sight.
The table had held a poker game which seemed to have been interrupted
suddenly. Freshly dealt cards lay face down on the table as they had
fallen, before the chairs of the players. The room was littered with
battered pictures, extra boots, blanket rolls, and other paraphernalia
that would naturally be accumulated by those who slept there. The Lone
Ranger stepped inside and drew the door shut behind him.
At the poker table he paused and examined a few of the cards. Riffling
through them he came across two aces. He held these cards close to a
coal-oil lamp and studied their backs. In one corner, he found a barely
discernible indentation that might have been made by a fingernail. He
nodded slowly.
"Looks like it might be Slick Lonergan," he mused. Slick hadn't been
seen in any of his familiar haunts since the time he had disappeared
before a trial in which he was to be questioned about a murder. The Lone
Ranger knew Lonergan's entire background; a crooked gambler, a crafty
lawyer, and a shrewd schemer, who should have been jailed long ago, but
who had repeatedly found loopholes that served as ratholes for him to
slip through and remain free.
Leaving the table, the Lone Ranger began a quick but systematic search
of the building. He moved down the aisle, studying the possessions near
each bunk. He found a handbill that had Rangoon's picture on it, but the
name at the time of its printing was Abe Larkin. Larkin apparently
hadn't taken any pains to hide the fact that he was wanted by the law.
Once he thought he heard a faint, low moan from somewhere close at hand.
He stood attentive, but the sound was not repeated. He continued in his
search, oppressed by a somewhat guilty feeling as a prowler and an
unexplainable sensation that there was someone else in the bunkhouse
with him.
He studied two more bunks and then heard the moan again. This time it
was unmistakable. The Lone Ranger hurried to the far end of the
bunkhouse, and there, in the lower bunk on his right, he found a man
unconscious. The window over the head of the still form was open. It was
outside this window that the unknown rider had been first seen.
The unconscious man--the Lone Ranger could see in the dim light that he
was old--was shadowed by the shelf-like bunk of the second tier. The
Lone Ranger unhooked a lamp that swung from the ceiling and placed it so
that the light fell across the bald head, which lay in a widening pool
of red. He jerked his bandanna from a pocket and soused it in a near-by
water pitcher; then he bathed the old fellow's face. A tremulous soft
sob broke through the white mustache. The eyes of the wounded man
fluttered slightly, then stared up. There was an empty socket where the
left eye should have been, but the other eye was bright with pain.
"Take it easy," the Lone Ranger whispered. "I'm going to have a look at
that wound and see what we can do for you. Don't try to speak just
yet--wait a little."
He turned the old man gently to his side and saw the handle of a knife
protruding from high up on one shoulder. The blade was out of sight. He
didn't touch the knife--there was no use. The wound was fatal; Gimlet at
best had only a few minutes.
He applied more water to the old man's face and forehead. "Tell me, if
you can, who did this?" he said.
Gimlet's lips moved feebly, but no words came.
"Do you know who stabbed you?" asked the Lone Ranger. "One word, just
the name of the man, can you tell me that?"
Gimlet lifted one hand very feebly, and pointed toward the open window.
The Lone Ranger nodded. "I know, he stabbed you through that window.
Tell me who it was."
The dying man seemed to be gathering himself for one supreme effort. He
swallowed hard; his eyelids closed, then opened.
"Tried," he said, then coughed and started again. "I--I tried tuh--get
Yuma--His bunk here--" More coughing choked the words. Blood drooled
from the side of the old man's mouth and stained his white mustache. The
Lone Ranger pressed water from his handkerchief against Gimlet's lips.
"I heard you," he said softly, "I heard what you said. You tried to get
Yuma. Yuma is a man who works here?"
Gimlet nodded.
"You said this was his bunk?"
Again the slowly moving head went down and up.
"Tell me some more. What about Yuma?"
"Felt o' his bunk ... lookin' tuh see...." Gimlet had to pause for a fit
of coughing so violent that it hardly seemed his fast-ebbing strength
could stand it. When he finished, his breath came in short and painful
gasps. "The ... the house," he managed to say. He struggled hard,
fighting the Grim Specter every step of its advancing way. There was
more he wanted desperately to tell. The old man was upon that borderline
between the living and the dead. From his position, he seemed to see
things in their true light. He looked beyond the mask and saw a man he
knew could be trusted. His gnarled, blue-veined hand clutched that of
the Lone Ranger while he fought hard to make a last statement. The
masked man leaned close to him, to catch the dying words if they were
uttered. But whatever Gimlet was about to say went with him across the
last threshold. His hand clutched convulsively and then relaxed. He
coughed once, and brought a flood of his life's blood to his mouth, and
then lay back.
The masked man felt and found no pulse. He closed the old man's fingers
and laid them across the bony chest.
"Yuma," he muttered. "This was Yuma's bunk. I wonder who Yuma is and
where I'll find him?"
His thoughts came to a lurching halt when a sharp voice snarled a curse
with cataclysmic violence.
"Yuh damned murderin' skunk, I'll kill yuh fer this!" It was Yuma who
shouted from the doorway.