GUNS TALK BACK
The murder-bent quintet went up the stairs like Indians stalking single
file through wooded land. Each man carried his gun in his left hand and
braced himself with his right against the wall. They stayed as close to
that wall as possible to minimize the creaking of the stairs. The only
sound was a faint, leathery whisper from the dusty boots. Wallie cursed
inwardly at his lack of foresight in not having his men go
stocking-footed to the double murder.
Wallie was in the lead, Vince in the rear. In this order they gained the
upstairs hall. Any apprehensions Wallie might have had about the
squeaking boots were dispelled as he drew close to Bryant's door. A
resonant voice, undoubtedly that of the masked man, was speaking.
Wallie felt no qualms of guilt or conscience at the cold-blooded
ruthlessness of his plans. He hadn't the slightest intention of giving
the men who were marked for execution a chance to defend themselves. The
code of Western fair play was missing from Wallie's personality. This
was to be no duel, but simply the extinction of two men whose deaths had
become essential to his plans.
Wallie halted at the closed but unlocked door and motioned Lonergan and
Lombard past him. As the leader faced the door those two were on his
left, while Vince and Sawtell, guns now shifted to their right hands,
stood upon his right. All but Wallie were balanced on the balls of their
feet, tense and ready to charge through the door, but Wallie hesitated.
He could hear the masked man's voice, with a vibrant quality carrying
through the door. He could hear, distinctly, each word that was said.
The masked man was scolding old Bryant Cavendish.
Wallie crouched and placed one eye close to the keyhole. The room, he
saw, was dimly lighted. It was difficult to see details. The blankets
were mounded on the bed as if they'd been pulled over Bryant's big body.
On the far side of the bed Wallie could make out a white sombrero, and
judged that to be where the masked man sat while he conducted the
one-sided conversation.
Wallie now knew just where he should direct his men to fire when he
threw open the door. He hesitated, listening to what was being said
inside.
"You're the most unreasonably stubborn old fool I've ever known,
Cavendish." It was the masked man speaking. "It's high time for you to
drop this false pride of yours; admit you've grown old, let someone
help you.
"Cavendish, all these murders are yours. I know you aren't the killer,
personally, but none of them could possibly have happened if you hadn't
been so foolishly stubborn! You'd never admit that you found it hard to
walk. You thought you hid that fact, but you didn't! You didn't fool
anyone at all. Then when your eyes began to fail you, you tried to hide
that fact too. Why, right now, you're so nearly blind that you have to
_feel_ your way."
Wallie heard a low-toned response from his uncle. Then the masked man
continued.
"All of those nephews of yours realized that you not only were incapable
of getting about, but that you couldn't even see what went on. They felt
secure in doing whatever they pleased, so they organized a regular crime
ring here in the Basin. They replaced all of your former hands with
crooks whom they selected. They let it be known in the right places that
this Basin would be a safe hideout for men the law was looking for. You
couldn't see what your cowhands looked like, so you had no cause to
distrust them. You wouldn't go to a doctor and have your eyes treated
and your sight improved, because you wanted to conceal your condition."
Wallie reasoned that inasmuch as neither of the two beyond the door was
to survive much longer, he might as well hear what else this
incalculable masked man knew.
"Penelope tried her best to find reasons for your unconcern over the
ways things were going here. She thought more of you than you deserved.
She tried to convince herself that you were not aware of things, and
tried to find out if blindness was the reason. She defended you when
Yuma turned against you; and what was her reward for that loyalty? You
turned against her, the same as you did against those graceless cousins.
She was made to sign away her rights just as they were. Don't interrupt,
Cavendish--I've more to say. Yuma felt that as long as you were alive,
that girl would be guarded and protected. How wrong he was! But that was
what he thought, and when I captured him he tried to convince me that he
was the leader of these Basin killers. He was ready to spend the rest of
his life as a fugitive in hiding, and keep the law off your neck. When I
showed him the document that Penelope had been made to sign, he realized
that he'd made a mistake. He saw then that the girl he loved could look
for little enough happiness or security through you. Who, in the name of
Heaven, is this Andrew Munson? What do you owe him that you'd deprive
Penelope of any future comfort, in his favor?"
Wallie strained to hear what Bryant's reply would be, but there was
none. In the brief pause, he heard the heavy, emotional breathing of the
masked man.
"It wasn't until this morning that I learned some truths," the masked
man continued. "I knew that someone had slipped into this Basin and
murdered Gimlet, because the killer rode within ten yards of me, but I
didn't know who he was. Tonto was halfway up Thunder Mountain when this
same man went by. It was too dark there for the Indian to identify him
when he killed Rangoon. Then he went on to Red Oak, where he let Mort
out of jail with instructions to kill you in your hotel room. You know
what happened there. I told you how I shot him in the leg, and how he
was later stabbed to death. Since then, I've learned _who the killer
is_!
"I told you about Tonto. He was here, waiting for the riders to come
back from Red Oak. The trail from Red Oak is on hard ground, as you
know. The trail over Thunder Mountain is marshy in a lot of places. The
loam there is soft and black, and different from anything that could be
found on the trail through the Gap. Well, Tonto watched when each horse
came into the corral. He found one, just one horse, Cavendish, that had
black loam caked to the fetlocks. He gave me the name of the man who
rode and owned that horse, in a note which he left at the cave. _That
man is your nephew, Wallie!_"
Wallie, listening, frowned heavily, and thanked his lucky stars that
this man with such a keen and logical mind was to be killed. He would
prove a dangerous adversary if left alive.
"You don't believe me," the masked man said, "you won't let yourself
believe, or trust anyone, but I'll _prove_ Wallie is what I've told you.
If I can prove that, will you talk?"
Wallie had heard enough. "Come on!" he cried, and threw the door wide
open.
Lombard and Sawtell plunged into the room, and dropped to one knee while
they opened fire. Lonergan and Vince were close behind, firing over
them, while Wallie remained in back. Guns crashed deafeningly in the
confines of the room. The white hat near the bed became a thing alive,
leaping across the room in crazy circles. The mound of blankets on the
bed became a shaking mass as bullet after bullet bored deep. A score of
shots roared in the blink of an eye.
Then, back talk, in the voices of six-shooters, came from a corner of
the room.
Sawtell's gun jumped from his hand as if by magic. His fingers were
suddenly a bloody mass, at which the killer stared in stupefaction. More
flames lanced from the corner, and Lombard's extended gun arm snapped as
a forty-five slug tore through flesh and bone between the wrist and
elbow. Sawtell felt no pain in the heat of battle. Instinctive gunman
that he was, he fell flat upon his belly, jerking out a second revolver
with his left hand. Loud snarls and curses came from pain-maddened
Lombard, while Sawtell took careful aim. He steadied his weapon at a
point directly between the eyeslits of the mask. His finger tensed upon
the trigger.
Then, suddenly, his arm dropped, his gun unfired. He went limp and
slumped. In his forehead there was a tiny hole, but the back of his head
was an awful sight where a soft-nosed bullet had gouged out his skull.
Half-blind Bryant Cavendish fired at sounds with an instinct that was
supersensitive. Somehow the old man had found one of his guns, and cried
aloud in savage hate as he rocketed shot after shot toward the doorway.
"They're all ag'in me," he cried out. "I'll show 'em I don't need sight!
I can locate skunks by smell." His gun whammed again, and death spat at
the doorway.
Wallie screamed his orders. "In the corner--shoot 'em--drill 'em!" He
pushed from behind at the instant that the lawyer Lonergan took a bullet
from the masked man's gun on the hand, and one from Bryant's big
revolver in the belly. He pitched forward, and fell across the writhing
form of Lombard. Shrill yells and cries of pain rose far above Wallie's
livid curses.
The Lone Ranger snatched the gun from Bryant's hand. "No more shooting,"
he cried.
He leaped toward the doorway, head low, and charged. Vince had swung to
face the surprise counterattack. His gun blazed, but the Lone Ranger was
beneath the slug. He crashed into Vince with such force that the runty
killer was fairly lifted off his feet and tossed across the room, while
his gun was jarred out of his hand.
Wallie, knowing his life depended on the fight, scrambled up from the
floor. The thought of losing made him frantic as he swung his empty gun
in a vicious blow at the Lone Ranger. The blow struck the Lone Ranger on
the bandaged shoulder. A sudden stab of pain like a white-hot iron
gripped his side as Wallie followed up his advantage. Still clutching
the heavy revolver, he rammed it muzzle first into the masked man's
chest.
The Lone Ranger couldn't breathe. The blow must have broken at least one
rib, possibly more. He felt his legs caving beneath him, while his brain
fought valiantly against the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. He
threw both arms about Wallie and locked his hands behind his adversary's
neck. He was falling, and helpless to prevent it. He was barely
conscious of the fact that Wallie kept driving more blows to his
stomach; blows that were too short to have much power behind them. Close
to his ear, he heard the other's voice as a meaningless jumble of
hissing syllables.
Somehow the Lone Ranger's weight threw Wallie off his balance too. The
masked man had the fighter's heart that dictates action after the mind
has ceased functioning. A mighty heave--a wrench that split the
half-healed wound wide open. Still falling--it seemed that time stood
still--and split seconds were like hours--and then a crash.
The masked man's fall was padded by the body of the man he fell on. His
superhuman effort had thrown Wallie beneath him as the two went down.
Wallie's head smacked hard against the floor.
Now Vince had a gun, was on his feet and coming close. His ugly face
looked like a leering demon's as he raised his gun. The Lone Ranger
rolled, and as he did so, drew his extra weapon. Two guns spoke as one,
their muzzles so close that the flames were intermingled. To the Lone
Ranger, close to acrid fumes and scorching flame, it seemed that hell
had burst into the room. And then--oblivion.