Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

“Cavendish…” he whispered through teeth a fraction apart.

Dan Reid frowned, nodded slightly. The lines webbing from his eyes deepened and his brow knotted. “He’s a bastard, shore enough. But we’ll get him. No need to be afeared of him. He’s just a man and all men bleed.”

The younger Reid swallowed at the fear balling in his throat, trying to force his unsubstantiated dread away. After all, they had every advantage, didn’t they? Cavendish and his gang did not know they were on their trail, did not know the guide named Collins scouting ahead had gotten a lead on their hideout. The element of surprise and experience was on their side.

“Ain’t afraid to admit I’m scared, Dan. Something doesn’t feel right.” He swiped at the dust, kicked up from the horses’ hoofs, that coated his brow, the beads of sweat there trickling and carrying it into his eyes, making them sting.

His brother blew out a heavy sigh, shifted in the saddle. “Cavendish don’t know we’re comin’, son. He’s always had the jump on those poor souls he’s killed, but things are different this time…” Dan Reid paused, unspoken thoughts crossing his face. “Just the same… my wife and son are coming from back East. Anything happens to me… promise you’ll see they’re taken of. Askin’ you as kin… and as a friend. We got that silver mine we’ve been plannin’ on workin’… give my share to them.”

The younger Reid nodded, the request doing nothing to ease the tension in his frame. “This man, Collins… you trust him completely?”

Dan Reid shrugged, but it came without complete conviction. “He’s known in the area, got a good reputation. His information has all checked out accurate. I reckon he’s trustworthy… though I’m keepin’ my eyes open. Seen no signs of anything suspicious to this point.”

“Don’t like the way he’s ridin’ ahead so much. Almost like he’s waiting on something.”

A flash of concern on Dan Reid’s features told the younger Ranger the same thought had crossed his brother’s mind more than once.

“Cavendish is a ballsy sonofabitch, ain’t no denyin’ that. But he ain’t about to attack a group of Texas Rangers…”

With those words, the younger Ranger’s nightmare began in earnest.

“Look,” the younger Ranger said, jutting an arm straight out, gloved finger pointing.

Up ahead a few hundred yards, a man had sat his horse, was peering back at them. Even from the distance the smile on his face was plain.

“Collins…” Dan Reid muttered. “What the hell?”

A shout rang out from one of the Rangers behind them. The younger Reid’s head swiveled, and his gaze jerked upward to where the Ranger who had uttered the cry was pointing, but it was too late.

Thunder boomed from the walls of Bryant’s Gap. The thunder of gunshots. Gunshots accompanied by leaden rain.

“Jesus!” Dan Reid muttered and was off his horse in a heartbeat, running for the shelter of a small boulder ten feet away. “Christ, son, get the hell down!” The snapping words, flung back over a shoulder, shook the younger Reid from momentary inaction. But they didn’t come in time. A piercing burning pain stabbed his left shoulder as a bullet punched through cloth and flesh. He uttered a clipped cry, the impact driving him sideways and nearly from the saddle. He managed to grab the horn with his right hand, keep himself from being blasted free of his mount. His boot tangled in the stirrup and driven half by panic he pulled at it as the horse, spooked by the clamoring shots, suddenly reared and beat the air with its hoofs. A frightened neigh ululated through the morning as the horse came down again, hoofs slamming against the hardpack with a jolt that traveled throughout his entire body and clacked his teeth together.

He uttered a short yell, trying to steady the animal, but it was useless. The chestnut’s front legs came off the ground again, and his hand jerked free of its hold. He went down, twisting; boot caught half in the stirrup. The beast’s hoofs hit ground, and the animal thrust forward, as more shots filled the morning.

The animal dragged him ten feet before his boot came loose of the stirrup. The horse bolted, its cries pitiful and frightened, and a glimpse told him it had been hit in the flank, nearly the only thing that would send that well-trained creature into such a headlong gallop.

Everything around him seemed to slow, as if time somehow dragged, each second becoming a tortured moment. He was barely conscious of himself rising from the ground, his legs driving him toward where his brother had headed.

About him thunder crashed from the canyon walls and hammered against his eardrums. Horses reared, panicked bleats slicing through the thunder. The world was an amber and blood painting, one stroked with death and terror.

He made it to the rocks along the canyon’s base, whirled, hand sweeping for the Colt Army Model 1860 at his hip. Shots came from his gun, as if they were triggered by someone else, not him. His brother fired beside him, blood spattered on his fingers, and the younger Reid realized his kin had been wounded somewhere as well.

Other Rangers died quickly. One, Jim Bates, was blasted out of his saddle, seemed to hang momentarily in the air before slamming to the hardpack, unmoving. Another, Sam Cooper, went down halfway to a boulder, dead finger still reflexively triggering shots until the weapon’s recoil tore it from his grip.

Jack Stacy and Joe Brandt reached meager shelter, but the rain of lead was too much for them. From the right rim of the canyon it blazed down, from men hidden behind brush and boulders, firing shot after shot. Bullets tore into both men, and their guns went silent.

“Jesus, son, we’re done for!” Dan Reid shouted, panic in his voice for the first time the younger Reid could recall. “I love ya, son. Run!”

With those words Captain Dan Reid came from his shelter, guns raised, blazing, triggering shot after shot.

“Nooo!” the younger Reid screamed, knowing his brother was trying to give him a chance, however slim, of escape by sacrificing his own life.

As if in response, the storm of lead grew louder, more insistent. The younger Reid came up, seeking to back up his brother. But Captain Dan Reid staggered as a bullet punched into his chest, jolting his body about like a marionette suddenly without strings. Blood sprayed and holes stitched a line across his shirt. Then his face disappeared in a gruesome pulp of scarlet, and his body crumpled.

Blood, flesh and chips of bone splattered the younger Ranger and he was only conscious of himself screaming over and over: “Cavendish! I’ll kill you! You hear me? I’ll kill you!” His Colt came up, but the hammer fell with an empty clack.

And bullets found him. Their impact drove him back, back. He slammed against the canyon wall. The gun flew from his grip, landed on the hardpack. A glance downward told him he had been hit multiple times. Strangely, no pain came with the wounds, and in fact he felt nothing throughout his body. His legs buckled and he went forward, crashed into the ground face first.

#

A scream formed deep within the Lone Ranger’s throat as he jolted awake, but he managed to choke it off before it fled into the night. The white hat covering his eyes while he slept flew to the ground. His heart pounded and, sitting up on the heavy blanket on the cool ground, he put his head in his hands, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare.

Nightmare? Yes. And, no. A blood-memory, for while the events of that fateful day did indeed haunt his dreams, they had been all too real. His brother and four other men had perished that day, the result of a trap set by a madman, and the guilt of having lived through it, having been the sole survivor, was something that would ride with him the rest of his born days.