Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

That left him with no suspects, yet the undeniable fact that somebody wanted vengeance and knew his identity, and was going about systematically implementing a plan to make certain their goal was accomplished.

“The foreman, Brent,” Tonto said, eyes squinting against the afternoon sun. “He said the gang had taken over this town. But I see no one.”

The Lone Ranger’s gaze studied the empty street, then lifted to the rooftops in search of lookouts or snipers.

“Strange,” he said. “I’ve seen towns taken over by outlaws before, lawless. They weren’t this… quiet.”

“A trap, Kemosabe?”

The Lone Ranger shook his head. “If it were it would have been sprung by now. We would have met some sort of resistance.”

“Perhaps someone is waiting, watching.”

Again the Ranger’s gaze fanned out, studying each window, searching behind barrels and into alleyways for signs of life.”

“If they are, they’re being damn clever about it.”

“Perhaps we should visit the marshal?” Tonto said. “Brent said he was one of the gang.”

The Lone Ranger considered it, but confronting a gang member right off might be more direct than he wanted until he got a better handle on things. Until he knew better who he was dealing with, he preferred to scout around a bit, employ a subtle approach, since their open entry into town had drawn no immediate attention.

“We’ll wait, Tonto, go after him if we can’t learn more about this gang leader and his plan first.”

Tonto’s face hardened into grim lines. “I do not think we will have to wait long before this leader makes a move. He is getting a look at you, taking your measure.”

“I have a notion he already had my measure before luring us here.”

“You are the stuff of legend, Kemosabe. Words from writers of dime novels to most. Often those words are more than the men they describe. You are being judged worthy. By riding in without fear… you have confirmed the words of those writers to this leader.”

The Ranger glanced at Tonto, a wry smile drifting onto his lips. “Always something to live up to…”

Tonto nodded. “In this case the man exceeds the legend. The leader will take no chances, now.”

“The leader might not take chances, but one thing I’ve learned from years of experience bringing in owl-hoots, you put more than one of them together and they get cocky and unruly. Only man I ever saw capable of preventing that was Cavendish, and men like him came along once in a blue moon.”

A man came out of the bank onto the boardwalk ahead and the Ranger and Tonto’s gazes swung in that direction. The man froze, fright welding onto his features, and he quickly shoved an envelope into his pocket, then spun. His boots echoed like gunshots as he bolted down the boardwalk and vanished around a corner.

“He thinks we’re outlaws,” the Lone Ranger said.

“I saw fright on his face, even before he saw us.”

The Ranger nodded. “Brent was right. The people in this town are dead afraid. They are not venturing out and that makes this leader even more dangerous. It takes a lot to instill that kind of terror in an entire town.”

“A lot…” Tonto muttered as a dark cloud drifted across his face and his arm came up, index finger stabbing toward a parked wagon a fifty feet on.

A chill snaked down the Lone Ranger’s spine, despite the oppressive heat of the day. Bodies were stacked in the back of the wagon, at least six. Flies buzzed around the corpses and the stench of decay reached his nostrils.

“Good God…” The Ranger’s voice came out a whisper.

“A reminder to anyone who might seek to oppose them,” Tonto said. “This leader kills without compunction.”

The Ranger nodded, forcing his gaze from the grisly sight. Ahead to the left, he saw the general store and again his blood went cold. Secured with ropes to a supporting beam of a wooden awning, was a saloon girl, partially clothed, wholly dead. Her arms had been tied above her head and she appeared to have been left like some sort of gruesome scarecrow.

“The leader left that there for us, Kemosabe. It is a warning.”

“Inclined to agree,” he said, slowing Silver and urging the great white stallion into an alley beside the store. Swallowing hard against the sight of that girl’s body in his mind, he dismounted, Tonto drawing up beside him and doing the same. The Ranger removed a rolled blanket from his saddle, then walked to the front of the store to the body. Tonto withdrew the Bowie knife sheathed at his calf and cut the girl down. The Ranger caught her, lowered her to the boardwalk, then draped the blanket over her form. Frowning, he glanced at Tonto. The Indian’s face was dark, his eyes hard.

Without words they went to the door of the general store. Tonto, who had sheathed his knife, tried the handle.

“Unlocked,” he said, pushing the door inward.

“We’re expected.” The Ranger stepped inside. In the afternoon gloom, the interior carried an air of death. His gaze went to each aisle, spotted no one.

“Appears deserted,” he said, moving deeper into the store. His attention settled on the wall behind the counter, on a splash of dried brown that smeared down the wall. He went to it, peered at the floor, where a dried brown patch stained the floorboards.

“I recollect Dan and I spending many a meal at Sanders’ home. His wife could out cook nearly anyone in Texas.” Sadness hung in the Ranger’s voice. The thought of Sanders dead sent a wave of grief shuddering through him.

Tonto came around the counter, his dark eyes sympathetic. “There has been much death in this place. It will never be the same.”

The Ranger sighed. “His body might have been one of those in the wagon. It’ll need burying. Not much else I can do for him, now.”

“There will be time for that, Kemosabe. But first we must find his killer.” Tonto knelt, his gaze going to a spot against the counter. He plucked a small object from the corner, stood.

The Ranger took it as the Indian held it up, frowning. “Another copper bullet.”

“Someone is mocking you, Kemosabe.” “Got that right, Injun,” a voice came from the doorway. The voice was accompanied by the skritch of a hammer being drawn back.

13

“S’pose you jest come around that counter nice and slowlike, Masked Man,” the man standing in the doorway of the general store said, motioning with his gun. The man wore a tin star, but it was plain he was no real lawman. His eyes lacked the intelligence and compassion for the job and the Lone Ranger would have spotted the fake even had he not known of Marshal Moore’s death. Beside the marshal, stood another man, plainly an outlaw, wearing a deputy’s badge. His gun was trained on Tonto, hand shaking. That was bad. A nervous man made mistakes and folks got dead at the slightest provocation.

“You’re no marshal,” the Lone Ranger said, setting the copper bullet on the countertop and easing around to the front. He noticed the marshal’s gun was trained on Tonto as well, though the man was doing his best to try to disguise that fact. There was a reason for that and the Lone Ranger didn’t like it. It confirmed his earlier suspicions.

“Well, course I am,” the man said, using bravado to cover the nervousness in his voice. He was antsy, too, like the deputy, but more experienced at hiding it. “This here star says so, don’t it, Beemer?”

The deputy’s head bobbed in affirmation and his gun hand jittered.

The Lone Ranger stepped left, making the move slow and easy, putting himself between Tonto and the deputy’s line of fire. The expression that crossed the fake marshal’s face confirmed the Ranger’s notion— they had been given orders not to kill him immediately, but Tonto was another matter. If an accident happened, it happened.