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 managed 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."