Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

Tonto let go of his wrist, brought his knee up and buried it in the man’s groin. The hardcase doubled, making gagging sounds.

The bargirl stared screaming. The sound was shrill and raked Tonto’s ears, startling him, it came so unexpectedly.

“No, you no scream, missy. Me help you.” He didn’t know if the sound would carry into the saloon over the din, but it no longer mattered because a shot came from the barroom and the girl’s mouth clamped shut. With a glance Tonto could tell the terror had gotten the better of her and she had blacked out. The blow to the back of her head against the wall had probably helped.

The Indian’s teeth gritted. Any chance of sneaking into the upper rooms of the saloon was over. His only saving grace was taking the man doubled over and groaning before him back to camp and questioning him, assuming Kemosabe escaped whatever trouble was happening in the saloon.

The hardcase had other ideas. He reared up, wrapped both arms around Tonto’s waist and lurched, carrying the Indian backwards into a stack of crates. The crates gave, the breaking wood sounding like snapping bones. They tumbled down about the two. Tonto hit the ground on his rear, arm flung up to keep any of the crates from hitting his head. If he wound up incapacitated at all the hardcase would kill him.

He came up, half to his feet when a fist crashed into his jaw. He staggered, almost going down again, the world spinning before him. On instinct he lifted an arm, deflecting a second blow aimed at his temple.

Shaking his head, Tonto swung an uppercut, hoping to get lucky. The blow skimmed the hardcase’s face, knocking him off balance but doing little damage.

“Don’t think I know who you are, do ya, Injun?” the hardcase said, his voice raspy. “You’re with the goddamn Ranger she wants so bad. Reckon I give you to her she’ll leave me the hell alone.”

The world stopped spinning before Tonto’s eyes. The hardcase was going for his gun again. He got his hand on it, lifted it half out of the holster.

Tonto grabbed for the man’s wrist, got it, but the Smith & Wesson came free. The hardcase was strong, but the Indian was stronger. He forced the gun’s aim away from him.

A blow stung the side of his head as the outlaw hammered a fist into Tonto’s temple, and again the shadows and moonlight of the alley streaked before his vision. It stopped quickly this time and the Indian shoved forward, carrying the hardcase backward. They hit the wall of the opposite building hard, Tonto’s hand still clamped around the other’s wrist.

The hardcase shuddered and the Smith & Wesson went off, as his finger spasmed on the trigger. For an instant Tonto wasn’t sure where the bullet had hit. Then the outlaw crumpled against the wall. Tonto let go of his wrist and the gun dropped from the man’s nerveless fingers.

He knelt, examining the man. Blood shined black under the moonlight, pumping from the man’s abdomen. The man’s mouth moved, but no sound came out, then he went silent, his head dropping to his chest.

Tonto felt the man’s wrist, found no pulse. He would not be taking this man back to camp for questioning. The outlaw was dead.

He grabbed the outlaw’s legs and stood, dragged him into the shadows, disgusted with himself. He had come away empty handed.

Somewhere above him more shots rang out. His gaze lifted, but he saw nothing. Someone was on the roof, two someones; that was the most he could tell.

He went to the bargirl, bent over her and lightly patted her face. She stirred, her eyes coming open.

“Me friend. You tell me what happens in saloon.”

She shook her head, panic flashing across her face as her senses returned. “No, no, I can’t! They’ll kill me.”

Tonto helped the woman to her feet. “What name?” he asked.

“Tilly,” she said.

“Tilly, me…” Tonto suddenly abandoned the Indian speak, gripped her shoulders. He needed to instill confidence in this girl and playing the part of an ignorant savage would not do it. “I have a friend. He will protect you.”

She stared at him, as if puzzled why he had suddenly changed his speech pattern. “No one can help. They’ll kill us all!”

A crash came from above and Tonto swept the girl back into the shadows, as his gaze lifted. A man slammed into the opposite building wall, then fell to the ground with a heavy thud. From the twisted position of his neck, Tonto could tell he would not be getting up again. The girl stared, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.

He propped her against the wall, then went to the body, knelt. The man was a hardcase. His shoulder was bloody from a bullet wound.

Tonto stood, and footsteps came from the far end of the alley. The Lone Ranger, sporting the gray beard still, came into the alley, gun drawn.

“This one is not my fault,” Tonto said, as the Ranger came up to him.

“There’s another?” the Ranger asked.

Tonto nodded. “It was an accident.”

The bargirl apparently had had all she could take for the night because she suddenly started shrieking again and bolted from the alley.

Tonto frowned. He had been hoping to get at least some information out of her once he gained her trust.

“Who was that?” the Ranger asked, beckoning Tonto to follow him from the alley.

“Tilly,” Tonto said, offering no further information.

“Tilly?” the Ranger said. “Care to elaborate?”

“No,” Tonto said, annoyed with himself at the way events had turned out, then added: “I could not get into the saloon.”

“I didn’t get the chance to look into any of the rooms. They might have been empty or the leader could have been behind one of the doors.”

Commotion came from the main street, likely the fake marshal and his deputy, neither too fast to investigate. Cowards.

“The gang is down two men, Kemosabe, but we don’t know how many they came with.”

“We’ll leave for now, before the entire gang comes after us,” the Ranger said, nodding. “But I want another look at the upstairs of that saloon.”

#

An hour later, the door to the room the gang was using came open behind her but she didn’t turn from where she stood, gazing out the window into the moonlit night. Things had not gone well, and it displeased her. And when she was displeased someone got dead.

“What happened?” she asked, not turning to the hardcase posing as the marshal, who stood in the doorway. To her right Trace Cooper sat tied to a chair wearing only his underwear, his silk robe having been stripped from him and cut into strips with which to bind him to the chair and fashion a gag. His chin rested on his chest and his eyes, swollen and livid, were closed. Dried blood was caked on his fingertips where the nails had been pried off. Bruises, deep purple, covered his arms and face.

“Calvin’s dead,” the fake marshal said, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him.

She laughed. “Good. The damn fool almost led the Ranger right up to me. I would have killed him myself. Can’t abide by mistakes like that. I don’t like the way this is going.”

“I don’t, either,” Parker said. “The Ranger… many men have gone up against him and gotten a necktie party. Maybe we best—”

“No!” she said, spinning from the window, anger flashing across her face. “We’re going nowhere until I have him. I won’t tolerate any more mistakes, Parker. The Ranger came into the saloon alone. You find that gawdamn Injun and bring him to me.”

“We searched the town, didn’t find either of them.”

Christ, she wanted to kill him just to get the tension out of her nerves, but he was the smartest of the bunch, which according to her estimation after tonight, wasn’t saying a hell of a lot.