Howard Hopkins - The Lone Ranger - Vendetta

No sound or shot came back. His gaze sought to pierce the interior of the house, but the sun’s angle was wrong, too low, and he could see nothing.

He waited, counting off ten seconds. He was going to have to chance a move toward the house. The fortresslike front door appeared slightly ajar and that puzzled him.

Easing around the corner, gun raised to his cheek, he readied to hurl himself backward at the slightest sign of movement and gunfire.

But none came. He stood there, gave it another ten seconds, leaving himself open. Still no shots came.

He started forward, every sense alert, prepared for a lunge left or right, but the caution proved unnecessary. He noticed the icehouse door was ajar also and paused, poked the barrel of his .45 into the inch gap between door and frame and eased it open. The door shrieked like a coffin lid rising and with what met his sight, they might as well have been one and the same.

“My God…” he said, voice heavy with horror and melancholy. He quickly closed the door, an ungodly odor assailing his nostrils, one he felt certain he would not be able to get out of his memory for a long time to come.

In motion again, he drifted toward the house, dread cinching his belly. They had ridden for the ranch as soon as possible, made good time, but it was still too late. With what he had seen in the icehouse he was certain of that fact.

When he reached the door, that suspicion was strengthened. It was ajar because a bullet had shattered the lock. He pressed a black-gloved palm flat against the door, sent it swinging inward.

Inside the house, the silence felt thick, oppressive, as if he had stepped into a boneyard instead of a place where men lived and worked. Then weeping reached his ears, coming from the parlor to his right.

The Lone Ranger went to the parlor, took in the scene with a glance and frowned. Tonto was helping a man to his feet. The Indian righted the settee, urged the weeping man onto it. He cast the Ranger a glance, then went to where the Winchester had landed and picked it up. He placed it on a small table.

The Ranger stepped into the room and the shooter suddenly spotted him. He leaped to his feet, terror sweeping over his face.

“Murderers!” the man screamed. “Killers! Come back to finish the job? This time you can kill me, too!”

“We are not here to kill anyone,” the Ranger said. “We were asked to help.”

The man appeared to have a hard time digesting the words. Fear gripped him and he saw and heard everything through its filter. “You, you’re wearing a mask. You’re an outlaw.”

“I’m no outlaw. This mask represents justice. You’re one of Cooper’s men?”

The man nodded, relaxing a hair as the Ranger holstered his gun. “I’m the ranch foreman, Brent… least, I was…”

“Trace Cooper asked me here, Mr. Brent. We… go back a long ways. Where is he?”

“Gone.” Brent collapsed onto the settee, burying his face in his hands. Sobs wracked his body.

“What do you mean, ‘gone’, Mr. Brent?” the Ranger asked, voice steady, calm, despite the dread gripping him. He’d learned too well to hide sorrow since that fateful day at Bryant’s Gap. Sometimes he wondered if he could even still feel things the way normal men did.

“They took him,” Brent said, hands dropping as his head lifted and he peered up at the Lone Ranger.

“Where are the rest of the ranchhands?” Tonto asked. “The cook?”

“Dead,” the Lone Ranger said, face grim. “The bodies are in the icehouse. I saw them before I came in. Some were shot up so bad they were unrecognizable.”

“I put them in there,” Bent said, voice quivering. “I didn’t know what else to do. Can’t go to the marshal for help.”

The Lone Ranger’s brow furrowed beneath the half-mask. “Marshal Moore? He’s a good man.”

“Was,” Brent said. “He’s dead, too. The gang killed him. Killed the general store owner, Sanders, as well, least Trace figured they did. New marshal’s one of the gang. They got the whole town in terror.”

The Lone Ranger cast Tonto an uneasy glance. “Trace Cooper, Moore, Sanders…” His voice came low, almost a whisper. All those men had known the Reids. The notion sent a chill down his spine.

“They took Trace Cooper?” the Ranger asked. “Where?”

The foreman shrugged, and with the back of his hand swiped tears from his face. “I don’t know. They came in here like hellfire. We never had a chance. They just started killing and killing.”

“How did you survive, Mr. Brent?” Tonto asked.

The foreman’s head dropped and for suspended moments he remained silent, shuddering. When at last he looked up, pain laced his blood-shot eyes.

“I’m a coward, Mister,” he said, guilt and regret fighting in his voice. “I hid upstairs when the shooting started. I don’t know why, but I did. I saw men die, men I worked with and lived with everyday. I saw them carry out Cooper unconscious and leave that—” The foreman ducked his chin toward a table flush against the wall.

The Lone Ranger went to it, picked up the single object that lay atop it. After examining it a moment, he tossed it to Tonto, who caught it.

“Copper bullet…” Tonto said, brow furrowing.

“This gang have a name?” the Lone Ranger asked, turning back to the foreman.

The man nodded. “Called themselves the Blood Creek Gang.”

The dread the Lone Ranger had felt earlier increased tenfold. “What did you say?” His voice came barely audible and he swallowed against a knot of emotion in his throat. It was a name he had never expected to hear again.

“Copper Widow,” the man repeated. The leader made a point of saying it.”

“But the Blood Creek Gang no longer exists,” Tonto said, fire behind his dark eyes.

“Tell that to the dead men in the icehouse,” Brent said. “Tell that to their kin.”

“You get a good look at the leader?” the Ranger asked.

The foreman shook his head. “Saw him from the back. Had a hat pulled low and wore a duster. Small fella, sounded real young. Had a voice like a young boy. Didn’t know better I might even have thunk it was a girl.”

The Ranger moved to the entryway and Tonto followed suit, tucking the copper bullet into a pocket of his buckskins.

“We need to find Cooper,” the Lone Ranger said. “He’s a lead back to Dan and if they make him talk…”

Tonto nodded. “How, Kemosabe? The Gang has the town. He could be anywhere or dead.”

“I don’t know at this point. But I will.” He swung his attention back to the foreman. “You have family you can go to, Mr. Brent? You’re just making yourself a target staying here.”

The foreman shook his head. “No, no one. I got no one. Cooper and the boys was my family. I let them down.”

“There was a whole gang, Mr. Brent,” the Ranger said, his tone sympathetic. The man felt guilty enough; no use questioning his courage, now. “You had tried to stop them you’d be in the icehouse with the rest.”

“Why?” Brent asked, eyes pleading.

“Why, what, Mr. Brent?” the Ranger said.

“Why am I alive when the rest are all dead? Why am I the lone survivor? I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve—”

They couldn’t have stopped him. Brent was suddenly off the settee and grabbing the Winchester from the table.

“No!” the Ranger yelled, both he and Tonto stepping toward the foreman.

Brent levered a shell into the chamber, swung the Winchester around and jammed the barrel deep into his mouth. His finger jerked the trigger.

The blast shuddered through the room and half his face became a pulpy mass of spraying flesh, bone and blood. He collapsed, the Winchester hitting the floor next to him.

“My God…” the Lone Ranger muttered, nausea tightening his belly.