Howard Hopkins: The Lone Ranger: Vendetta

“It belonged to Sam, one of the Rangers buried in Bryant’s Gap. He was close to retiring, aimed to settle in and work this spread. His wife had passed and all he had was his son. I assume Trace took it over.”

The Indian’s dark eyes narrowed. “It is too quiet. He was expecting you, but there is no one.”

A sigh came from the Ranger’s lips. A prickle of apprehension went through his nerves. Tonto was right, Trace Cooper knew they were due to arrive; the Ranger had asked Dan to send the rancher a telegram informing him they would reach the ranch by late afternoon on this day; someone should have been here to meet them. That the ranch appeared deserted was a bad sign.

“I don’t like it, either, Tonto. Trace Cooper somehow made the connection to me and asked us here, and now there’s no sign of life.”

Tonto’s gaze remained intent on the house. “If he knows who you are, he has information that would be of value to certain men, men like Butch Cavendish.”

“But Cavendish is dead…”

“There were members of his gang that were never rounded up, Kemosabe.”

The Lone Ranger’s eyes hardened behind the half-mask. “They were followers, unlikely to think for themselves. They scattered when Cavendish died, likely joined other gangs. This… smacks of something else. If Cooper has gone missing, there’s a good reason—and it has to do with whatever he summoned us here for. But that may have nothing to do with me.”

The Indian shook his head. “You do not believe that, Kemosabe. I hear it in your voice.”

The Ranger offered a weak smile. “My mind tells me I’m connecting threads of different colors…”

“But your instinct tells you they match.”

The Ranger nodded. “I keep going over it in my mind, asking myself why Trace Cooper, if he does indeed know who I am, waited so long to contact me.”

“Perhaps his life was peaceful until now and he had no need of you.”

The Lone Ranger glanced at his friend. “Now I hear it in your voice. You don’t believe that.”

The Indian let a small smile touch his lips, as quickly gone. “No, I do not, Kemosabe.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Surely there were things about that day his father was killed he would have wanted to ask if he knew my identity all along, but he didn’t. Which might mean he recently came across the information… and if he did…”

“Then perhaps someone else did as well…” Tonto shifted in his saddle but his gaze did not leave the hacienda. “The Potawatomi have a saying: Once the wolf scents blood he follows it forever. There is the scent of blood on the wind, Kemosabe. The wolf seeks you.”

A small chill slid down the Ranger’s spine. “I wish I could say you were wrong, but what I’m feeling… it’s more than just being near Bryant’s Gap again.”

“Kemosabe…” Tonto’s voice lowered and his eyes narrowed further. “I was unsure at first, but I saw movement within the house. We are being watched. The window to the right of the door…”

The Lone Ranger’s gaze snapped in that direction. The late afternoon sun was dropping towards the horizon and shadows were lengthening from the house and outbuildings. Windows appeared like shiny ebony; he could see nothing beyond them. But he knew the man beside him had uncanny senses, honed by years on his own and with the Ranger. Those senses had saved his and the Ranger’s lives too many times to warrant doubt.

“Ride, Kemosabe!” Tonto shouted suddenly, and the Lone Ranger saw it then—a glint of dying sunlight off metal.

He acted without hesitation, heels gigging the great white horse into motion. “Away, Silver!” He tugged the reins, sending the mount left. Beside him, Tonto had already heeled Scout in the opposite direction.

The move came in nearly the same instant a blast crashed from within the house. The shooter didn’t bother lifting the window; glass exploded, shards spiraling, lacerating the air and raining to the grass as lead plowed through.

A bullet burrowed into the ground where the Lone Ranger had been an instant before.

He hunched low in the saddle and swung the horse in a zigzagging arc, making himself as difficult a target as possible. A second shot came, bullet whining through the air entirely too close to his head for comfort.

Someone was in the house, and that someone had been watching them, weighing their presence and concluding they had come for trouble. The mask. That had likely decided it. One of the hazards of preserving his anonymity and he couldn’t blame folks for shooting first and questioning later, especially if something dire had happened at the ranch. The mask too often branded him a criminal.

Whoever was shooting was no outlaw, that much was obvious. An outlaw wouldn’t have pondered the situation; he would have shot immediately. The Ranger carried a reputation with owlhoots, one that put a bounty on his head for any outlaw with balls enough to claim it.

The Lone Ranger angled right, getting Silver behind the bunkhouse. He was out of the saddle in a heartbeat, an ivory-handled .45 appearing in his hand as if by magic. He eased around the corner of the building, bringing the gun up to the right side of his face, gloved finger feather-light on the trigger. Gaze sweeping the area, he decided getting near the house was going to be a problem. The shooter had a clear shot, if the Ranger came out into the open. The icehouse was a hundred feet distant, but he would be exposed for more time than he felt comfortable with, and in returning fire he had to take care; because if it wasn’t an outlaw who’d fired on them, that meant it was possibly one of Cooper’s ranchhands, someone innocent.

But he needed to chance it. He had no choice. Something had happened to Cooper and he owed it to the son of the Ranger who had died that day at Bryant’s Gap to find out what. He needed to get close to the house, gain access and capture whoever was shooting at them.

He sought any sign of Tonto, but the Indian had seemingly disappeared. He spotted no sign of Scout, either.

Without further thought, he darted for the icehouse. He triggered shots as he ran, silver bullets chipping off pieces of adobe as they ricocheted from the wall around the window. He darted left, then right.

A blast came from the house; a bullet dug up dirt inches from his fleeing boot heel. The icehouse was still fifty feet away.

He wasn’t going to make it…

5

Seven days ago…

#

Things were going according to plan and once her man returned from town the Blood Creek Gang would make their next move.

She sat on a rock at the edge of camp, fire ants crawling through her nerves again. She’d never been particularly patient; in fact, it damn near drove her loco waiting on things to work. She preferred action, taking what she wanted in a flurry of blood and gunsmoke. But vengeance on a man like Reid, this Lone Ranger, wasn’t something that could be rushed. The man was a survivor; he’d proved that. Too well.

Yes, patience was what was needed to lure a man like that, to bring him here by striking at the few who might attract his attention. Patience. Butch had always told her she was lacking in such, and he was right.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t kill somebody.

She pushed off her Stetson, to let it hang at her back. The night was moonless, but jittering light from the campfire bathed one side of her face. It was a hard face for a woman and she knew it. No one would have called her pretty, now, and no one would ever mistake her for one of them Eastern fancy women. Not that she gave a damn. Too many years selling her ass in saloons had etched deep lines about her ice-green eyes and thin-lipped mouth. The elements had scrubbed her skin raw and ruddy and the close-shorn haircut she had given herself with a Bowie knife did nothing to enhance her femininity. But it didn’t matter a lick anymore. Nothing did, except revenge on the man who’d taken everything that meant anything to her.