Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

Every sense alert, Tonto worked his away around the building to the staircase. Things seemed too tranquil again. Had the gang ever been based in the saloon? Or were members just using the girls? Had Cooper been here? Or was he dead? He knew it would not take much of a search to determine those answers once he got inside, but he hoped he would discover some small clue to lead them to the gang’s hideout.

He eased up the staircase, steps silent as a ghost’s, until he reached the second story window. Pressing himself to the building beside the window, he chanced a look into the gloomy hallway.

Empty.

No signs of life. All the doors to either side were open, and that struck him as peculiar. Did not some of the whores stay in those rooms at night? Would they leave them open, even if the saloon was one that served breakfast?

He hesitated, not liking the dread growing in his belly. His hand went to his gun, slipped it out of its holster. Then he eased the window up in fractions, making as little noise as possible until he got it wide enough to admit him.

In the hallway, he paused again, listening. No sounds came from below and that puzzled him. Should there not be at least some noise? Voices of the barkeeper or women? No sounds came from any of the rooms ahead, either. It was as if the place had been completely abandoned.

He crept forward, gun ready. Peering into the first room, he found it deserted. The next room proved the same, though he spotted evidence in the form of cigarette stubs littering the floor and empty whiskey bottles on a nightstand that it had been used recently.

A prickle of unease shivered through the hairs on the back of his neck. Something was wrong here. He was now convinced the gang had been here, yet were no longer. In itself that was no surprise, after last night’s events. But added to the eerie silence, it set off a warning in his nerves.

In the doorway of the third room, he stopped, ice-water flooding his veins. His dark eyes narrowed as they took in the interior of the room and his hand tightened on the gun handle.

He searched every corner, swept out a palm to make sure the door hit the wall to tell him no one was hiding behind it.

When he was certain nobody living hid in the room, he entered, went to the body tied to the chair near the window. He studied at the body, eyeing the chest where a bullet had punched through bone, and blood had soaked the undershirt. He had never met Trace Cooper but he was certain it was him, and great sorrow filled his heart. Another death for Kemosabe.

“I didn’t need him any longer,” came a voice behind him, and he realized in his grief he had lost concentration for only a moment, but it was enough. He whirled, met by the skritch of hammers being drawn back.

“Drop your gun, Injun,” the woman said, her own leveled on him, along with those of two other men beside her.

“Why did you kill this man?” Tonto said, letting the gun slip from his fingers and clatter to the floor.

The woman laughed, an icy sound. “He told me what I wanted to know. Spent half the night gettin’ him to squawk, but he did. Dan Reid, the Ranger’s nephew. Wish I had time to bring him to the party, but I’ve got you for that, haven’t I, Injun?”

“You are the leader,” Tonto said. “I do not know you. Kemosabe would not, either.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll both recognize my name once you hear it. Unfortunately you’ll be takin’ it to your graves with you.”

#

The dread simmering within the Lone Ranger’s mind turned instantly to horror the moment he pushed through the batwings. While he was on the alert, expecting some sort of play on the leader’s part when he reached the saloon, nothing could have prepared him for the carnage before his eyes.

“Good God…” he whispered, gloved hand tightening on the ivory-handled .45. Before him lay a sea of bodies—cowboys, bargirls, the barkeep—all sprawled over tables and on the floor, over the counter, riddled with bullet holes. Blood soaked the sawdust and the silence of death hung heavy in the room. The stench of an abattoir soured the air. The sight froze him for one of the few times he could recollect, then he forced himself to move, take the three steps to the barroom proper. With a wave of crashing realization, he knew this is what had resulted from him coming in here last night. It was his fault, in a way, and it would be a burden on his soul until the day he died.

Whoever this gang leader was, she had gone far beyond what Butch Cavendish had ever done. Cavendish was a maniac, but this woman was an inhuman monster. None of these people had stood a chance. The killing was wanton, wholesale.

He forced himself to take steps toward the back staircase, stepping around bodies. He noticed the corpse of the young woman from the alley, Tilly, sprawled half over a table, bloody hand out-stretched, as if for help that never came, eyes still flung wide in terror. He stepped over to her, gently laid a glove hand over her eyes, closing the lids.

“I’m sorry…” he muttered, throat tightening with emotion. Monsters like this woman who led the gang were the reason he existed, hid behind a mask. They seemed legion, unending; the moment one like Cavendish perished another sprang up to take his place, and go beyond their predecessors in terms of cruelty and bloodshed.

He would never be able to wipe the memory of this massacre out of his mind, but it was something he would have to deal with later. Right now, Tonto was here somewhere, likely upstairs, and getting to his friend was his first priority. They could then go back and try questioning the fake marshal for any leads to the identity and whereabouts of the gang leader.

He took the stairs on legs that were less sturdy than he wished, but gathered himself as he reached the top. He paused, listening. No sounds came from the upstairs. Of course, that might not be worrisome; Tonto would make none.

He drifted down the hallway, gun ready, and peered into each room as he passed.

When he came to the third room from the last, he stopped, horror again sweeping through his senses.

It took him only a moment to determine the room was empty, save for the body in the chair. Trace Cooper. The rancher had been shot dead, but a knife protruded from his chest—Tonto’s knife.

The knife pinned a note to the dead rancher. The Lone Ranger pulled the knife free, wiped it on the mattress and sheathed it in his boot. He opened the note, read it. It held two words that sent a chill snaking down his spine: Bryant’s Gap.

The knife told him they had Tonto and the note told him where. The gang leader held the advantage, had sprung the trap, despite their best efforts at caution.

Whirling, holstering his gun, the Lone Ranger swept out of the room. Three minutes later he threw open the door to the telegraph office, and went to the counter. Spotting the body of the murdered operator, he frowned, went around to the telegraph and began tapping out a message. He had precious little time and he knew it. If Tonto wasn’t already dead, he soon would be. But somehow he had to delay, even the odds. He had no doubt facing a whole gang led by this vicious woman would mean both his and Tonto’s deaths if he simply charged in unprepared.

Finished sending, he left the office. The message might not help, might not be in time to save Tonto, but he had to try.

He ran back toward the marshal’s office. He’d left Silver tethered in an alley two streets over. The heaviness of death dogged him. This gang leader was something inhuman, worse than a rabid animal, with an unquenchable bloodlust. She had to be stopped—even if it meant his own death in the very place he’d lost his brother—Bryant’s Gap.

#

Fifteen minutes later the Lone Ranger rode into Bryant’s Gap, the ghosts of his past riding in with him. Minutes had dragged as the great white horse beneath him galloped across the rock-strewn hardpack, hoofs kicking up clouds of dust. This time he might not ride out of the small canyon alive. This time he knew the ambush awaited and he would charge straight into it just the same. This time that open sixth grave might truly be eternal home to his bones. There was no other way. If there were even the slightest chance of saving Tonto, even at the sacrifice of his own life, he would take it.