Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

The hardcase tried to lift his gun but his arm appeared crippled from the Ranger’s shoulder hit. The gun dropped from his fingers and the outlaw cursed, whirled.

“No!” the Ranger yelled, lunging forward as the man hopped to the lip of the roof and launched himself into space towards the next roof. It wasn’t much of a jump, but panic had caused him to misjudge it. He hit the side of the next building, tried to grab at the top, using one arm. His fingertips caught the lip, but couldn’t hold on. He dropped, and a heavy thud came a second later.

The Ranger halted near the edge, holstered his gun. A frown pulled at his lips as he peered over the edge and saw the twisted body lying in the hardpack below.

15

Tonto kept to the shadows as he skirted the smaller back street running parallel to the wide main one. His moccasined feet seemed to barely touch the ground as he moved, and only the occasional rustle of buckskin marked his passage. Anyone hearing it would have thought it the breeze.

This man who led the Blood Creek Gang was brutal, perhaps more brutal as Butch Cavendish had ever been. He killed without compunction, and was, as all outlaws were, a coward at heart. He would not face the Ranger man to man; he would trap him, use a bait the Masked Man could not resist, then kill him once he was helpless. Tonto knew too well what that bait had to be, himself or young Dan. That meant he had to be more alert than he had ever been, as the rabbit is alert for the shadow of the hawk, and that they had to bring this gang to ground before they tracked down the Ranger’s nephew.

He would not let this leader trap Kemosabe, especially by using him, even if it meant forfeiting his own life. Either would have gladly given his life for the other, and Tonto was prepared to sacrifice whatever it took to ensure the Ranger’s mission went on. It was too important. The West held too many men willing to kill and steal, rape and hurt, but only one man willing to give up all to protect the innocent.

A grim expression welded to the Indian’s lips. It was perversely ironic in a way. This man who led the gang, he had viciously murdered many to get to one man, and it was his type who called Tonto’s race savage. Without Kemosabe and men like him, Tonto doubted the West had much hope.

A clamor sounded from the front street and Tonto paused, ears pricked. Singing, loud and off key. Kemosabe might have been a man blessed with many skills, but carrying a tune was not one of them.

Tonto moved ahead again, the Lone Ranger by his boisterous song having given him the signal he was close to the saloon and would enter within a few moments. He pressed himself close to the walls of buildings, slipped towards an alley ahead that flanked the saloon. Reaching the edge of a building he waited until the Ranger’s singing stopped, telling him he was entering the saloon. He would wait another moment, give the Ranger time in case something went wrong and the plan for Tonto to sneak up into the saloon needed to be aborted. Even if some of the gang were in the saloon, there would be guards around Cooper if he were being held prisoner in one of the rooms above. If not, the rooms would be empty, with the possible exception of whores tending to the needs of gang members. Either way, no one would hear him coming.

He started to move around into the alley, suddenly stopped as a voice reached his ears.

“Don’t see what we gotta do it out here for,” a voice said. The voice belonged to a woman and held fear.

‘“Cause if she catches me with you I’ll end up like that idjit, Trent,” a male’s voice returned, tone brooking no argument. “She’s gone and made me her favorite.”

Tonto’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognize the name Trent or understand quite what the man was referring to, or who this “she” might be, but his instinct told him the man belonged to the gang. He edged his head around the corner, peered into the alley. Wan moonlight penetrated the passage, which was stacked with old crates and barrels, littered with garbage from the saloon, old beefsteak and chicken bones. Two people were in the alley, a man and a woman. The woman was jammed up against the building wall, her hard face tense with fear. She was dressed in a blue sateen bodice and frilly skirt—one of the saloon girls.

The man had his back partially to him, his face pressed close to the girl’s, his hands holding both her upper arms, fingers gouging in. A hardcase, and Tonto felt certain his conclusion of a moment before, that this man was part of the gang, was correct. The problem now became how to get into the saloon. An outside staircase ran up the opposite side of the place, but he had decided against using it in case guards were posted at the window it accessed. On this side, he could stack the crates and barrels and climb up to look through a window leading into one of the rooms, but these two were in the way and if he guessed correctly about what the man wanted from the girl, they would be there for more time than Tonto cared to wait. The problem complicated itself an instant later. The man let go of the girl, backhanded her with an explosive violence that made Tonto’s teeth clench. The girl let out a bleat and her head rocked. She slumped but the man caught her, held her up.

“P-please…” the girl said, the fear in her voice heavier now.

The man laughed, a mocking unsympathetic sound that burned like fire through Tonto’s mind. Balls of muscles stood out on either side of his jaw and his teeth started to ache from clenching.

“What’s wrong, you stupid whore?” the man said, then jammed his lips to hers. He pulled back, laughing again. “Don’t you know it’s better rough? She taught me that, missy. Showed me how pain and pleasure went together.” He slammed the girl against the wall; her body shuddered, her ringlets of blonde hair coming loose from a silk red ribbon she’d used to tie them up.

The man was going to kill the girl, if he kept it up. She appeared stunned, had hit her head against the wall. The hardcase was forced to hold her up with one hand. His other balled into a fist and he cocked his arm in preparation for another blow.

Tonto debated drawing his gun, shooting the man, but Kemosabe’s code against killing stopped him. And if he could take this man alive, perhaps the mission would not be for nothing. They could made him talk, tell them where Cooper was being held and who led this gang.

Tonto glided forward, giving it no more thought. His steps were silent as he approached the hardcase.

The man’s hand came up a fraction more then started down. His fist would crash into her face and whether she survived it or not the man would take her afterward.

The thought sickened Tonto. His hand shot out, clamped about the wrist of the hardcase, stopping his blow before it came halfway down.

“What the hell?” the man blurted, his head swinging around, eyes wide, half glazed by whiskey. His face held a number of scratches, a day or two old, marred his face and fury raged across his features.

“You no hit woman,” Tonto said, slipping into the speech white men expected from an Indian. Tonto had used that speech many times to his advantage, as protective technique to take outlaws off guard.

“Goddammit, an Injun!” the man said, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Where the goddamn hell didchu come from?” The hardcase tried to jerk his hand free but Tonto held it fast, fingers tightening.

“You leave woman be,” Tonto said, dark eyes narrowing.

The man let her be. He released his grip on her and she slumped to the ground, looking up, dazed, at the two men.

“What’s wrong, Injun? I thought all you redskins treated your women like property. Trade ‘em off for horses, doncha? Have yourself more than one at a time, I hear.” The man’s free hand was moving down toward his gun as he spoke, trying to distract the Indian. It was an old ploy and Tonto was ready for it.