Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

“Who are you?” the ‘keep asked, voice low, with a hint of a tremble.

“Why, name’s Gabby,” the old man said. “Yep, in-deedy, it is. Come down from Colorada way after seekin’ my fortune in silver and gold. Figgered on doin’ me some prospectin’ ‘round these parts.”

“There’s no gold here…” The barkeep cast another glance at the man with the bargirl.

“I’m not prospectin’ for gold…” the old man said, not making a move to pick up the whiskey glass. His hand dipped into his pocket a second time, this time coming out with a double eagle and setting it on the counter.

The ‘keep peered at the coin, greed nearly overriding the fear in his demeanor. “What are you prospectin’ for?”

“Information.” The old man’s voice had steadied, and any sign of dullness had vanished from his eyes. They now appeared intelligent and probing.

“You’ll get us all killed, whoever you are.” The ‘keep’s voice dropped to a whisper and the fear returned, stronger.

“That man behind me,” the prospector said, ignoring the barman’s words, his own voice now sounding much younger than his appearance. “A hardcase. Who does he work for and where is the leader?”

“Please…” the ‘keep said, a plea haunting his voice. “Just go. Leave us be. They’ll leave soon. They have to. Outlaws always do.”

“They generally leave after a lot of death. You want more of that on your conscience?” The old man’s eyes drilled the barkeep and the man flinched under their gaze.

“It’s not my fault. I just want to mind my business and live my life.”

“Enough men thought like that the West would be run by lunatics.”

“Ain’t it?” the ‘keep said. “What’s the difference to you?”

“It’s the difference between humanity and the likes of his type. Who’s leadin’ them and where is this man?”

“Ain’t a man…” the ‘keep said, then clamped his mouth shut. He swallowed hard, backed up a step. “Oh, Christ…”

A hand fell on the prospector’s shoulder, landing with a degree of force calculated to cause pain to one as aged as the man appeared. The prospector shuddered, winced, his head swiveling.

“Son, I’m an old man. What you gotta go hurt me fer?”

The hardcase peered at the old man, and if he had been a bit more sober it might have been over right there. Makeup only went so far to hide a young face.

“You’re takin’ up a lot of the man’s time,” the hard-case said, voice cold. “Best drink up and be on your way ‘fore my boss comes along.”

“Who might your boss be, gent?” The prospector yanked his shoulder free, rubbed it.

“You knew the answer to that you’d be leavin’ in the back of a wagon. Boss don’t like newcomers in this town, especially those who ask too many questions.”

“Jest makin’ conversation, son. And I ain’t leavin’ till I’m durn good and ready.”

The man stared at him as if surprised the old one had defied the order. Then he grabbed the prospector and hurled him off the stool.

The old man stumbled, almost going down, only righting himself at the last moment. He made a brushing motion at both arms again, cursed under his breath.

“Told you to leave, old man. You best pay attention.”

“And I told ya ta go to the Devil.”

Without warning, the hardcase swung a fist. Even so, the old man could have gotten out of its way, for the punch was sloppy, targeted at someone who had no chance of escaping it. But he didn’t. He took it, jerking his head just enough at the last moment to lessen the effects of the blow. Still, he went backwards and down, hitting the floor of his rump in a cloud of sawdust. He swiped at a dribble of blood that came from his lip.

The hardcase froze, shock crossing his features, sobering him. “Oh, Christ on a crutch…” he muttered, gaze fixed on the old man.

The prospector didn’t know what had given it away for an instant, then he saw it. His poncho had come up in the fall, revealing an ivory-handled .45 at the old man’s right hip.

“You should be more careful who you’re hitting,” the old man said, voice now young, vibrant. He whipped the hat off his head. The gray wig came with it. He started to rise.

The hardcase let out a startled gasp and grabbed a table, hurled it over onto the old man and ran. He weaved through the sea of tables, aiming for the staircase at the back of the room.

The old man flung the table away and came to his feet. He shucked off the poncho, tossed it aside, revealing both .45s in holsters about his waist.

The tinkler had gone silent and cowboys and bar-girls backed out of the way, fear on their faces. The Ranger couldn’t blame them; they had seen enough death in the last few days and wanted no part of riling up the outlaws who’d delivered it. He did not have that option. He’d gotten what he came for and he hoped Tonto was having success sneaking into the back of the saloon. Regardless, he could not let the hardcase stumble across the Indian upstairs.

The outlaw had made it to the top of the stairs. He drew his gun, fired a shot down into the saloon, but had taken no time to aim. The bullet buried itself in a floorboard and a bargirl shrieked.

The Ranger lunged into motion, leaping to a chair, then propelling himself to a table top and launching himself into the air. Up he went, his hands stabbing out, catching the far edge of the iron chandelier, swinging, his feet whipping up before him. He let go at the exact instant his heels came up over his head and momentum carried him up and over the mezzanine rail. He landed hard, in a crouch. The hardcase swept a backward look, fired again, but the bullet went far wide.

The outlaw bolted down a red foil-papered hallway. Buttery light from a low-turned wall lantern barely illuminated the hall.

The Ranger came after him, gaining. His hand went to a .45, snatched it from its holster. He fired a shot ahead, aiming wide, not seeking to kill the man, merely slow him. But the hardcase, now panicked, poured on more speed.

The outlaw reached the end of the hall and a window there that led to an outside staircase. He thrust the window up faster than the Ranger would have thought possible, and a swung leg over the sill before the Ranger made it halfway down the hall. An instant later, the hardcase disappeared outside.

As the Ranger reached the window, he paused, not eager to eat a bullet if the outlaw was waiting for him. He glanced back into the hallway, at the rows of doors to either side, wandering if Tonto was in one of the rooms. He didn’t have time to check. If he did he would lose the man, and a possible lead to the gang leader.

The Lone Ranger eased his head through the window, prepared to instantly draw it back if the hardcase was lying in wait for him. He glimpsed the man scrambling up the stairs, reaching the top and leaping to grip the edge of the roof.

The Ranger went through the window, gun in hand. The top was only a flight up and he took the stairs in seconds, momentarily holstered his gun and leaped, catching the edge of the roof. He hoisted himself up, flung a leg over and tumbled onto the flat roof. He kept rolling, drawing his gun again, ready to fire if the hard-case tried a shot at him.

But the man didn’t. He bolted along the roof, reaching the opposite edge behind the false front that extended above roof level. Once there, he spun, triggered a shot. Lead whined past the Ranger’s ear and he crouched low, firing back. He had hoped to hit the man’s gunhand but in the poor light it was an almost impossible shot.

The hardcase fired again, and this time the shot went wider. The man was scared, taking no time to aim. The Ranger triggered another, too, and the man staggered as silver punched into his shoulder.