Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

He snapped up a forearm, deflecting the weapon. It hurt, but he barely felt it. Only one thing was in his mind: stopping this monster of a woman.

Laura Cavendish tried to flee upward, as he closed the distance between them to a matter of feet. She would not make the top before he overhauled her.

But she miscalculated how close to the edge of the trail she’d come. Her boot skidded on the edge, might have gained enough leverage to propel her forward, but the earth, made brittle by the intense sunlight, gave way.

Her arms windmilled and she plunged downward.

The Ranger lunged, grabbing at one of her arms, but her frantic motion made the grip impossible.

She hurtled from the side of the canyon, a scream trailing after her. A thud came as she slammed into ground below.

He peered over the edge, gaze searching. Her body had hit the side of the empty grave, fallen in. Head lowering, he popped the gate of his .45, extracted the last silver bullet in the chamber, then slapped the gate shut. With a sigh, he tossed the silver bullet into the grave with the body of Laura Cavendish.

She was gone, as was Butch, but the horror and pain their murderous lives had left behind would remain always. The blood-stained memories would not fade, in the mind of the last surviving Ranger and the families of the victims in Coopersville. The Masked Man felt little satisfaction with her death, only grief and the ever-present loneliness that haunted him and Tonto each day of their lives.

Around him gunfire cascaded for dragging moments, but in truth it was over in a very short time. The five outlaws were no match for a dozen Texas Rangers. They fell, bodies riddled with lead.

The Lone Ranger holstered his gun and made his way in slow heart-burdened steps down the trail. If there were any solace in all the death that had occurred in this canyon of Hell, it was that Tonto’s life had been spared. He cut the Indian free after he reached the bottom of the trail, then gave a sharp whistle. Silver came galloping at the call. After strapping on his gunbelt, he helped a weakened Tonto into the saddle, then climbed on behind him and took the reins.

One of the Rangers approached the horse, one the Masked Man recognized from a long time ago. He turned his face away, knowing despite the mask he needed to take no further chances of being recognized, even by a lawman.

“We got them all,” Captain Striker said, gazing up at the Lone Ranger. “Who’s the woman?”

“Their leader. Laura Cavendish.”

“Cavendish…” Striker’s voice went grim. “There’s a name I thought I’d never hear again. When you telegrammed I could hardly believe it.”

The Lone Ranger nodded. “You and me both, Captain. I pray the legacy of death will end with her. There’s a last one of her gang in the jail in town, masquerading as a marshal… and a lot of bodies in Coopersville that need burying.”

“Hell of a thing, isn’t it? This place is goddamned cursed.”

The Ranger’s head lifted, the memory of his brother rising in his mind. “No longer, Captain. No longer—Hi-yo, Silver… Away!”

The great white horse bolted forward, taking the Ranger from the canyon of death, he hoped for the last time.

#

Captain Striker went to the open grave, peered at the body within, then at the name on the marker. His brow furrowed and he looked back to the two figures on horseback growing smaller in the distance.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

“What was that, Captain?” a younger Ranger said, coming up behind him.

“Fill this grave in, Trendle. Leave that outlaw’s body in it. It’s more than she deserves.”

The younger Ranger nodded, looked to the distance. “Who was that Masked Man, Captain?”

“That, Trendle… that was the closest thing to a legend as you’ll ever see. That was the Lone Ranger…”