Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

Tonto’s hand went to the Lone Ranger’s shoulder. “He could not live with his guilt, Kemosabe. It would have been slow torturous death for a man such as he.”

The Ranger nodded, wondering in that moment what made him so different from the dead man on the floor and finding the answer suddenly elusive.

9

Two days ago…

#

The ranchhouse appeared peaceful in the breaking dawn. The sun painted the grass with gold and glinted like sparkling diamonds from water troughs and window panes. A breeze carried the scents of bacon and coffee. White smoke wafted from the hacienda’s chimneys and a few ‘hands moved about the grounds, preparing for the day’s chores.

So serene. So mundane. It disgusted her, and soon the morning gold would run with scarlet.

She sat her horse on the outskirts of the Cooper ranch, eight other men reined up around her. Grim anticipation glinted in their eyes. Bloodlust.

“Branch off,” she told her men. “On my signal. I want no one left breathin’ to tell the tale—except Trace Cooper. We take him alive.”

“Why?” asked one of the men, the one known as Parker.

She glanced back at the outlaw, hands tightening with annoyance on the reins. “Trent asked a lot of stupid questions, too…”

The outlaw’s face washed pale, the threat in her tone plain. “Reckon I don’t need to know,” he mumbled.

“Reckon you don’t,” she said. Fact was, she wanted Trace Cooper for two things: Cooper had figured out the Ranger’s identity; he knew Dan Reid and where he was located. She wanted that information. He was also bait for the Masked Man and that savage he rode with.

“You’re coming with me,” she said, glancing at Matthews, the gouges still livid on his face. It appeared a struggle for him not to cringe at the order, and she decided once she got tired of him, which, as was her habit, would be soon, she would end his employment with the gang violently.

“Yah!” she yelled, spurs gouging into her mount’s sides. The big bay shot toward the ranchhouse. Behind her, outlaws gigged their horses into motion, half going right, the other half sweeping left. The young outlaw followed her lead.

The blood fever burned in her veins and her heart quickened in anticipation of the kill. Shots rang out, shattering the serene morning. The few ranchhands out on the grounds were caught unawares. They fell under a hail of lead.

The bunkhouse door flew open and men poured out, some half-dressed, wearing long underwear. Roused by the commotion they tumbled out unarmed and she laughed, an insane cackling thing, as her men fired on them, wholesale slaughter. The air filled with the scent of blood and gunsmoke and it enraptured her. She felt alive again, as alive as she had with Butch. She let out a whoop, yanking hard on the reins as she neared the hacienda.

She jumped from the saddle before the horse came to a complete stop. The younger outlaw reined up behind her, dismounted. Both drew guns.

The gunfire that crashed through the early morning seemed never-ending. It rang out like the roaring cackles of demons. Men, wounded, shrieked, went abruptly silent as their bullet-riddled bodies crumpled to the dew-wet grass. Plumes of gray smoke drifted across the compound.

She took the steps to the veranda in a single bound, her man following. Up came her Smith & Wesson, finger tightening on the trigger, blasting a shot. Lead mangled the door lock. She kicked the door inward, entered a small foyer.

A woman in a cook’s uniform was halfway down the hall to the left of the center staircase.

The Smith & Wesson shuddered with another blast and the cook bounded backwards, her ragged body sprawling on the hall floor, where it lay still.

She uttered a satisfied laugh. Behind her the young outlaw fired, obliterating the head of an older male servant stepping from the parlor. The old man was dead before his body hit the floor. The young outlaw stared at what he had done, eyes cold.

“What the hell, you feeling squeamish?” she asked, noting his pause.

He shook his head. “Cut the head off a chicken once. It danced around afterward for half an hour. Was hoping to see that with a man.”

She laughed, a dead sound. Maybe she’d let him live after all. She liked his spunk.

He started towards the staircase, but she halted him with an upraised arm.

“Thought I saw something move up there,” he said.

“Forget it. I see what I came for.” She stepped toward the parlor, duster whipping about her legs. A man in his early thirties dressed in a silk morning robe, came from near the window, a Winchester in his hands. Shock had frozen his face into hard lines. He jerked up the rifle.

“Uh-uh,” she said, leveling her gun on him. ‘“Less you’re feelin’ today’s your day to meet your Maker.”

“Who the hell are you?” he said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing in my home?”

“Drop the rifle,” she said, gesturing with the gun.

The young man complied, setting the Winchester on a table.

Outside, the shooting had stopped. She could only assume that meant there were no survivors.

“I asked you who you were…” Trace Cooper’s voice came steady, without fear.

She stepped up to him, smiled. “Why, we’re the Blood Creek Gang, ain’t you heard?” A laugh punctuated her statement and Trace Cooper didn’t change expression.

“There’s someone coming who’ll deal with the likes of you,” he said with such seriousness she wanted to laugh again.

She swung her gun with sudden violent force. It thudded against Trace Cooper’s temple and he fell to the floor.

“Aware of that,” she said. “And it’s exactly what I want.” Her hand went to a pocket in her coat, came out with a copper bullet. She tossed it to a small table flush against the wall. “Exactly what I want…”

10

The Lone Ranger’s hands tightened on Silver’s reins hard enough to make his forearms ache as he and Tonto rode into Bryant’s gap. His body went rigid in the saddle and a memory painted in blood and amber shuddered through his mind. It was no dream what had happened here those many years ago. Five men had lost their lives, gunned down in cold blood by a madman named Butch Cavendish and his gang. But one had lived; one had buried his identity in an empty grave and behind a mask. One had vowed to bring justice to the Blood Creek Gang and spread a message across the West, one that promised those who robbed and killed they were not above the law and there was no place they could hide that the Lone Ranger would not find them.

His mission; his vow; his promise to his brother and to those Rangers who perished here that day.

He slowed the great white horse to an easy gait, Tonto doing the same beside him. The Indian glanced at him, concern on his face.

“You are troubled returning to this place, Ke-mosabe…”

“I am… I feel them, Tonto. Those ghosts you spoke of.”

“There are no ghosts here, Kemosabe,” Tonto said with a slight shake of his head. “You brought their killers to justice. Those men you rode with, your brother… they are at peace. You are haunted by your memories.”

The Lone Ranger gazed at his friend, frowned. “Perhaps you’re right. Whoever struck at Cooper and the others, they’ve unearthed those memories.”

“Somebody has lured you to this place of death. Somebody uses the name of your enemy’s gang and attacks those with a connection to your old identity.”

The Ranger nodded. “But who? And why? I’m no closer to finding those answers. I just have more questions, and more death.”

The Indian’s gaze grew intense on the landscape ahead. “Perhaps more importantly, whom will they strike next?”