Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

“The saloon?”

“A good possibility. And if anyone would know, it’d be the barkeep or one of the line girls. I need to question them.”

“If they’re as frightened as the rest of the town, they will not talk freely.”

With a sigh, the Ranger folded his arms and his eyes narrowed on the flowing stream water. “No, they won’t. And if the gang is using the place as a headquarters, that will make it even less likely one of them will dare say something.”

“Especially to the Lone Ranger.”

“I have to try. I can’t wait for them to kill more innocent people.”

“How?” Tonto’s brow furrowed. “You cannot just walk in there. If the gang is using the place, they will have men posted in the saloon, to intimidate the townsfolk. The leader might not want you dead immediately, but he will take you if he has the chance.”

The Ranger nodded. “The thought occurred to me. If that fake marshal had put us in a cell, this would be over by now.”

“I can sneak in the back, Kemosabe. If they have Cooper there, perhaps I can free him.”

“The leader will suspect we’ll make a move on Cooper and be ready for it—unless I divert his attention. Questioning the ‘keep and some of the girls might just serve a dual purpose, information on the gang if they are holed up there or close by, and creating a diversion.”

The Ranger, unfolded his arms, walked over to Silver, who was tethered loosely to a low scrub branch next to Scout.

“You plan to walk right in there?” A look of disapproval mixed with concern crossed Tonto’s face.

The Lone Ranger grabbed his saddlebags, swung them over a shoulder and glanced back at the Indian, giving him a slight smile. “No, I don’t. But Gabby does…”

#

An hour later an old man staggered down the boardwalk toward the saloon. A worn poncho, too big for his frame, hung to his knees, tangled there, and nearly sent him sprawling to the boardwalk. He let out a string of muttered curses and righted himself, kept onward. A gray beard touched the top of his chest and straggly gray hair flowed from beneath a low-pulled battered hat with a too-wide brim. Dark circles nested beneath his eyes and deep-set wrinkles spider-webbed from around his mouth. His skin had a ruddy scrubbed complexion that spoke of many a day in the blazing sunlight and many a night under the cold stars. He hunched as he walked, taking inches off what probably was his true height when he stood straight. He appeared a prospector who had seen better days and had taken to the bottle to wait out his remaining ones.

A song suddenly tumbled from his lips, coming at the top of his voice, an old mining ditty as worn as the man himself. Few were out to hear it. He noticed a marshal standing outside his office, smoking a rolled cigarette and giving him a curious eye. The marshal’s hand was bandaged and livid bruises formed half circles beneath his eyes. After studying him for a moment, the lawman appeared to decide the prospector posed no threat and flicked his cigarette toward the old one.

“Picked the wrong town to come into jest now, you dirty old bastard,” the marshal said, a vicious expression washing across his face. “You best leave.”

The old prospector stopped his song, mumbled something uncomplimentary about the lawman’s lineage, and spat at the boardwalk.

Anger reddened the marshal’s face and his hand slipped to his gun. It paused there, and he muttered a pffi of a sound, made a vulgar gesture, then turned and went back into his office.

“Oh, Susanna, don’t you cry fer me!” the prospector sang again, and resumed his stumbling course toward the saloon.

When he reached the saloon, he stopped, clamped his mouth shut, and cast a causal glance about him, as if he were merely half in his cups and his actions aimless. From within the saloon the sounds of a tinkler piano banging off key floated out into the night, along with a smattering of curses and rowdy laughter.

He pushed through the batwings, paused just inside on the short landing that led to the barroom proper. The scene might have been that in any of a hundred such establishments scattered across the West. An iron-wheel chandelier hung in the center of the barroom and a stairway rising to the upper rooms where the doves plied their trade flanked the south wall. A mezzanine hallway ran the length of the back, disappearing into a hallway beyond. A number of cowboys from local ranches sat around green-felted tables playing poker, chuck-a-luck or sliding cards from a tiger-emblazoned box in a game called Faro. Rotgut whiskey flowed freely and saloon girls in sateen bodices and peek-a-boo blouses leaned over the shoulders of winners, exhibiting generous portions of their bosoms and giggling wooden nickel giggles, or whispering of secret promises for a dollar a turn.

The scene came through a layer of Durham smoke, and the stench of old vomit, cheap booze and even cheaper perfume applied far too liberally assailed the old prospector’s nostrils, but it made no difference to him.

Despite the frivolity of the atmosphere, a subdued feeling of somberness permeated the saloon. It was palpable, like a threat, and many of the cowboys seemed antsy, the saloon girls more so.

One man did not appear to share that feeling. He sat at a table, whiskey glass in hand and bottle before him. A bardove sat on his lap, her face tense as his free hand fondled her breast. His features showed he was enjoying the situation a great deal, and he peered at the old man through glazed eyes, half-closed. He wore the look of a cat in a room full of mice.

The old prospector didn’t linger on the landing for long. He took the three steps to the saloon floor, nearly tumbling down them in the process, which elicited a vacant laugh from the man with the dove sitting on his lap. The old man brushed at his arms, as if dust had fallen onto his poncho, and the man with the whore raised a whiskey glass to him, the look on his face saying he thought the old one was clearly loco and it was a hell of a funny thing.

The old man’s boots hit the sawdust-covered floor as if he’d expected another step to be there, then he weaved his way through the tables toward the bar. The tinkler began playing “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” adding wrong notes, but no one in the room appeared to care. The player was nervous, fingers missing keys, not unskilled. His hands shook and the old prospector frowned a bit.

As he reached the bar, he pulled out a stool and managed to get himself onto it after nearly tumbling off on the first attempt. A redheaded saloon girl leaning on the far end of the bar cast him a look that said he was no prospect, then ignored him.

“What’s your poison, gent?” the barkeep asked, wiping out the glass in his hand. He set the glass on the counter before the old man.

The old man’s head lifted, briefly focused on his reflection in a big gilded mirror behind the bar between two hutches stocked with bottles. He was a sight, that was for sure, he thought.

“Whiskey,” the old man said, and the bartender grabbed a bottle from the hutch. He poured two fingers, capped the bottle.

“Two bits,” the barman said, little expression in his voice, but a measure of fear in his eyes.

The prospector dug in a pocket of his poncho, brought out an object and slapped it on the bartop, then pulled his trembling hand away.

The ‘keep stared at the object, and the fear in his eyes became a wounded animal. His tongue flicked over chapped lips and his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“What’s wrong with ya, son?” the old man asked, eyes suddenly intense. “Ya never seen silver bullet before? Make them from my own mine, I do.”

The barkeep snatched up the bullet, as if wanting to make certain no one got a look at it. He cast a sideways glance towards the man with the bardove in his lap, then looked back to the prospector.