Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

He leaned forward in the saddle as he drove the mount in a looping arc toward the far end of the house, keeping low. But the shooter was not aiming at him; he was aiming at the man in the mask riding in the opposite direction. A glance over his shoulder told him the Ranger had made it to the shelter of the bunkhouse unscathed, but his friend would not be content to remain there, nor would he kill the man inside shooting at them. Sometimes Kemosabe took unnecessary chances, but he lived by a code, one Tonto respected, for it was much like the codes of his red brothers. A pity many others, both red and white, did not hold to their standards so strongly more often.

The Ranger would try to get into the house and capture the shooter; Tonto knew his ways well enough by now so that many plans between them went unspoken, only acted upon. But Kemosabe’s reluctance to take life would make him vulnerable to a man with a rifle and an eagle eye.

Unless Tonto could do something to even the odds.

As he reached the far corner of the structure, he tugged on the reins. Scout slowed, angled sharply right, and Tonto was out of the saddle before the pinto came to a halt.

His moccasined feet hit the ground running. He bent, his steps seeming barely to touch the grass as he scooted toward the back of the hacienda. He did not want to be heard approaching and when he did not want to be heard no white man’s ears could detect his presence.

Scout snorted, but stayed put at the side of the house. For as often as words went unspoken between Tonto and the Ranger, they did as well between Indian and his horse.

Tonto’s gaze narrowed as he came around the back of the homestead. He had judged the shooter to be in a parlor or study at the front, which likely meant the kitchen was in the rear.

He doubled lower, keeping below the level of the windows, chancing a glance in each as he passed beneath them. Twenty feet on, he stopped, straightened and pressed himself to the wall next to the third window. The kitchen. He knew it without looking inside. Someone had thrown scraps of food out the window; likely a cook seeking to feed birds and small animals. Crumbs and a few chicken bones littered the ground.

Easing around, he chanced a look into the room, confirming that it was indeed the kitchen. The room appeared utterly deserted. He pressed his hand to the glass, applying just enough pressure to move the window upward a fraction. Whoever had tossed out the scraps of food had left it unlocked.

Shots came from the front and his heart leaped. He was running out of time. Under cover of another blast he thrust the window upward, holding his breath on the expectation of any loud squeak the window might make, despite himself. But it went up soundlessly and he let out the breath, thankful to Kichimanido for small blessings.

His entrance was as silent as the window’s rising. He padded across the floor, skirting a counter island above which hung copper pots and pans. He noted unprepared food on the counter, as if whoever were about to start the evening meal had suddenly walked off and left it. A slab of beefsteak was gray and buzzing with flies. The stench of decay soured the air.

Those at the ranch had been interrupted abruptly and that was not a good sign. Was the shooter in the front room responsible for that departure?

Tonto doubted that to be the case. If so, why remain behind? No, whoever was firing belonged here and was doing so out of self-preservation and fear.

At the kitchen entryway, Tonto paused, listened. Sounds of movement came from the front of the house during a lull in the shooting.

He glided into a lone hallway beside which a center stairway rose to a wrought-iron railed mezzanine hall above. He noticed a brown stain on the floor halfway down. Blood. Someone had been wounded or perished in this hallway.

A noise came from a room at his left a few yards ahead. He slipped along the white-washed wall upon which hung a painting of an older woman and man wearing a Texas Ranger’s uniform. A gold plate on the bottom of the frame said, Adelaide and Samuel Cooper.

Reaching the entry ahead, Tonto paused against the wall, eased his head around the corner to peer into a large parlor.

The parlor was in a shambles. Chairs and settee were overturned. Another painting, this of Samuel Cooper, hung askew above the fireplace. Chips had been gouged by bullets from the mantle and adobe walls. Lamps lay shattered on the floor.

Tonto froze, a wave of ice water washing through him. Blood. So much blood, splattered and dried, on the polished floorboards and staining an expensive carpet that appeared to be of some middle-eastern origin. Someone had perished in this room, and his heart ached for Kemosabe. His friend had lost enough of those he cared about. Now there would be another loss; Tonto felt certain of it.

Gunshots echoed from beyond the house; bullets hit the frame around the window outside with muffled hammering sounds. The Ranger was making some sort of move. Movement came from the window and Tonto’s dark eyes locked on a man poised there clutching a Winchester. The man appeared haggard, hair disheveled and chin stubbled with three days beard growth. His movements appeared jerky, frantic. This man was not an outlaw; he was frightened. He was dressed in heavy work clothes, denims and canvas shirt. A ranchhand, Tonto would have guessed.

The man jammed the muzzle of the rifle through the broken pane in preparation to fire. He levered a shell into the chamber, blasted a shot.

Tonto flung himself into the room, using the blast to cover any sounds he made doing so.

The shooter fired again, then suddenly came up and around, as if some animal instinct had alerted him to the Indian’s presence. A reflection, Tonto knew, in the remaining panes, had warned the man.

The shooter swung the Winchester toward Tonto. The Indian leaped before the man could aim properly, came down next to the shooter. The rifle blasted, the sound deafening in the confined area. The bullet shrieked to Tonto’s left, ricocheted from the adobe wall across the room, taking a chunk of plaster with it.

With both hands, Tonto grabbed the rifle barrel, yanking as he threw himself backward and down. His back rounded as it hit the floor and his legs snapped up, jamming into the shooter’s belly as the man came down atop him.

The shooter, propelled by an explosive thrust from Tonto’s legs, hurtled over the Indian and crashed to the floor on his back. Tonto had retained his hold on the Winchester. He sprang to his feet, hurled the rifle aside.

The shooter struggled to come to his feet, eyes glazed and terror-stricken as they locked on the Indian.

“Kill me, Injun!” he shouted, as he reached his feet. “That’s what you came here to do! That’s what you all came here to do, to kill us all!”

“I am not here to kill,” Tonto said.

“The hell you ain’t!” The man lunged, fist swinging.

Tonto sidestepped, countered with a right that clacked the man’s teeth together and snapped his head back.

The shooter fell against the overturned settee, all fight drained out of him. He gazed up, eyes watery with tears.

“What happened here?” Tonto asked, voice soothing, but the man began to weep as sounds came from the front door.

7

Three days ago…

#

The room above the saloon she had made their headquarters was smaller than she would have liked but it would have to do for now. But if there was one thing she despised more than waiting it was being caged, and being stuck in a room above the saloon with nine men was akin to the Devil’s own Hell, not that some of them didn’t find other arrangements with the whores at night.

They had taken the town and put the fear of sudden violent death in the townsfolk. Fewer than she would have liked had been killed and that was going to have to be remedied. Something about the sight and bitter-copper scent of spilled blood aroused her, en-flamed every part of her being. But for the time being she would need some other outlet.