The Lone Ranger and Tonto (2 page)

"Is-is this," faltered the boy, "a lynching?"

"Not if you work fast. There's a band of the townsmen heading this way to lynch you, though, and if you're not out of there in a hurry, they'll get you."

"How-how do I know you're telling me the truth?"

"There's no time to argue now," snapped the Lone Ranger. "If you listen, you can hear the men coming. If I wanted to lynch you, I'd simply wait for the others. Now be quick and get the key. I think the one on the left has it."

With fumbling, nervous fingers, the prisoner found the key, then reaching between the bars, he managed to unlock the door.

"Blast you," roared the guard on the left, "you'll be sorry fer this, Dave Walters. This escape is proof that you're as guilty as ever a man could be."

"I'm not guilty," said Dave Walters with a trace of apology in his voice, "but I know doggoned well that I'll be lynched if I stay here. I-I don't want to hang, I want to have the chance to prove myself innocent."

"Innocent my eye," snarled the guard. "You—"

"Never mind," interrupted the Lone Ranger. "Take the gun from his holster and bring it with you. We don't want a shot aimed at you as you go through the door. You've less than a minute left to get out."

It took less than a quarter of that time for Dave Walters to get out of the adobe structure. The clatter of the approaching townsmen brought home to him the need for speed. As he raced out of the building the Lone Ranger came to meet him. "This way," the masked man said, gripping the lean arm of the escaping prisoner.

"Who are you? Why did you get me out of there? How did you know my name?" Dave's questions poured in a solid stream.

"No time for that now. We'll talk later."

The rattle of gunfire from the approaching men cut off further talk and jerked Dave Walters out of momentary indecision. For a split second he distrusted the masked man, but common sense told him that further delay would mean death for them both.

Bullets whistled past the running men as they headed up the hill toward the cottonwoods. The angry shouts of the men indicated that they had changed their course, and had cut at an angle away from the river to overtake the fugitives.

"Don't worry about the guns," said the Lone Ranger, "those men can't fire straight from the backs of their horses. If we can just make the top of this hill, I have a horse that will outrun the best of the townmen's, and carry us both while he's doing it."

Dave's breath came in labored gasps. "I-I c-can't go on," he faltered.

"You must!" The Lone Ranger again took hold of Dave Walter's arm and half dragged him ahead. A feeling of pity swept over the masked man when he felt the thinness of the lad's arm beneath the denim shirt. Dave stumbled and would have fallen if it had not been for that firm grip of the Lone Ranger.

The horsemen were scarcely a hundred yards away, the shots came closer, and the zooming of the leaden slugs was like a drove of angry wasps, rising above the wham of heavy caliber pistols.

"W-we c-can't make the top of the hill," gasped Dave. "Y-you go on, th-those men haven't anything against you. It-it's me they want."

"Save your breath for running."

Then other hoofs clattered up ahead of the running men. For a moment, Dave felt that all hope was lost—that they were cut off by others ahead of them. But the Lone Ranger said, "Here comes Tonto! He's our friend, he saw the situation. He's bringing a horse to us!" Then the masked man shouted above the gunfire. "Here, Silver!"

Dave watched the racing white horse come downhill. To the winded runner, the big stallion seemed to have wings. White mane and tail floated straight back as Silver obeyed his master's summons. Close beside the masked man, the horse stopped suddenly and whirled about.

The Lone Ranger leaped to the saddle, then dragged Dave up with him. Dave Walters, only half-conscious from his efforts, barely knew what was taking place. One minute, he had been running, dodging bullets that were fired in the hope of cutting him down. The next instant, he felt himself lifted as a clarion shout of, "Hi-Yo Silver! Away!" rang out. And then a great lunge forward; powerful equine muscles driving hard; a veritable tornado of wind that whipped his clothes and lashed his hair. Somehow, Dave Walters vaguely realized that he was safe and that the strong arms which held him on the stallion's back would find a way to aid him in the trouble that had sent him to jail, and almost to a hangman's rope. Dave didn't suspect the strange things that were just ahead, but for that matter, neither did the Lone Ranger.

Fear, exhaustion, and the dazzling fast sequence of events left Dave Walters confused and stunned for several minutes after he was lifted to the masked man's horse, but presently the whipping wind in his face and the realization that the lynch-minded townsmen were far behind brought him back to reality. With this awakening came a hope that he might yet survive to learn more about the mysterious masked man who had saved his life.

Dave Walters himself knew that he was completely innocent of the charges against him, but could anyone else possibly have that same belief? Dave doubted it. Yet, if that were not the case, why had the stranger risked his life to take him from the jail? Was he saved from the lynch mob to be forced into a life of outlawry? Must he become bandit, highwayman, or perhaps a murderer, as the price of life? Countless thoughts of this nature ran through Dave's mind as he tried to reason and apply logic to the things that had happened to him.

After the ridge with its growth of cottonwoods was behind the riders, the rolling country seemed to stretch out endlessly in the moonlight. As the ground leveled off slightly, the speed of the great white horse increased. Far behind, Dave knew, there was a group of riders in pursuit, but judging from the speed of the white stallion, pursuit was quite hopeless.

Dave had for some time been aware of another rider, slightly to the rear. As this second man ranged alongside, Dave noticed for the first time that the man was an Indian.

"What is it, Tonto?" shouted the masked man.

"Mebbe better," came the reply, "we slow down. Plenty bad gopher hole on plain."

"You're right, we don't want to take the chance of breaking one of the horses' legs. We're safe enough now."

The pace diminished. Dave found that he could speak without having the wind force his words back. Even so, the words he said were slightly choked. "Wh-where are we going?" he asked.

"We're heading for a camp where we will spend the night," replied the masked man close to Dave Walters's ear. "Do you know the country around here at all?"

"I know it some, but none too well."

"Where do you think the most logical place to camp would be?"

"Snake River Canyon," replied Dave Walters promptly. "That's the only place around here where anyone could hide out with any luck."

"That's what I thought," said the Lone Ranger as he reined Silver to the west to change the course. "That's exactly the reason we're not going there. That's the first place the men from town will hunt for us. They can spend several days prowling through Snake River Canyon before they can be sure we're not hidden there."

"But where are we going?"

"You'll see in a little while. It isn't much farther."

The moon was high overhead, and the rolling country left behind. A level plain stretched out as far as the eye could see. Directly ahead of the two horsemen a black mass broke the even surface of the ground. It appeared to be a mound of earth, but as they drew nearer it became gigantic in size. Dave recognized the pile of rock. "That's Stony Butte," he declared.

"Yes, I know it is," replied the masked man.

Stony Butte was a familiar landmark in the Snake River district, located about ten miles from the town. The black rocks rose from level country to a considerable height. It was one of those peculiarities of nature; a huge pile of rock surrounded by miles of practically rockless land. It seemed to be a neglected and forgotten toy that nature had left there; some gigantic plaything of the gods.

Countless ages of wind and rain had polished the rock until the surface gleamed like metal. It caught and reflected the moonlight. As Dave watched the rock he wondered about the masked man's destination. "You aren't planning to hide out there, are you?" he inquired.

"Yes."

Dave wondered at that. Miles north of the rock, the badlands stretched out endlessly and furnished no end of secure hiding places. Snake River Canyon itself would have afforded safety for at least the night. Stony Butte was the last place a man would go, if he wanted to remain in hiding. Then the answer to the masked man's decision came to Dave. The last place a man would use as a hide-out. That was it. That's why they were going there. It was the last place anyone would expect to find a man in hiding, and therefore the last place that would be searched. The wisdom of the choice dawned on Dave Walters and he marveled more than ever at the cunning of his rescuer.

A fringe of vegetation grew around the base of Stony Butte. The shadow of the big mass gave some protection from the scorching sun, and there was some grazing for the horses. When this growth was reached, the masked man halted.

"Down you go," said the Lone Ranger heartily, helping Dave slide to the ground. "Are you all right now?"

"I-I guess so," replied Dave Walters doubtfully. "But that was sure one hard, fast ride."

"It had to be," said the Lone Ranger. "Walk around a bit and get the stiffness out of your muscles. Swing your arms and stretch your neck."

"Oh, I'm all right, stranger. Gosh, if it hadn't been for you, I'd likely have been danglin' on the end of a rope right now."

"I don't think there's any question about it."

Dave saw Tonto uncinching and offered to lend a hand.

"Tonto fix horse," said the Indian. "You mebbe help masked man."

"What can I do?"

"Unpack the saddlebags, and we'll make ourselves as comfortable as possible. We won't be able to risk a fire at night, for it will be seen. When daybreak comes we'll be able to have all the fire we need for cooking, as long as we don't use greenwood and make too much smoke."

"You plan to stay right here at the base of the rocks?"

"That's right, Dave."

"But wouldn't we be safer on the other side of the Butte? If we were on the other side, we'd be hidden from anyone coming this way from town."

"And that would mean," explained the Lone Ranger as he threw back the flap of a saddlebag and pulled things from inside it, "that anyone who came from town would get very close to us before we saw them. If we stay on this side, we'll see any horsemen on the open plain long before he can see us in the tall grass. He'll have the sky behind him, but we'll have the black rocks."

Dave shook his tousled head slowly. "If," he murmured, "I had a tenth of the good sense you have, I'd never have been in this mess."

For a time there was no further talk. Blankets were brought from behind the saddles and spread out on the ground. The saddles were removed from the horses and the tired animals left to graze in the sweet, dew-drenched grass.

Countless questions came to Dave Walters's mind. There were so many things he wanted to ask. Yet, he felt that sooner or later he would be told all that the masked man intended he should know. When everything was set for the night the Lone Ranger pointed to a blanket on the ground and said, "That's yours, Dave. Roll up in it, it's likely to be pretty cool before sunup."

Tonto was already comfortably settled in his blanket. Dave watched the masked man, wondering if he would sleep with the mask in place. He did not know that the Lone Ranger wore the mask, habitually, whether there was need of it or not. It had become part of him, and because of that it did not hamper him in action.

Dave didn't lie down. He sat on the ground with the blanket pulled about his shoulders. "I-I'm afraid," he began, "you've wasted your time, stranger."

The masked man looked at the youth. "Why?" he said.

"I want you to know I'm right grateful to you for taking me out of jail as you did, but it's no use. I'll be a hunted outlaw, and now folks will be more certain than ever that I'm guilty. I'll be hunted, and I might as well be dead, than to spend the rest of my life dodging the law."

"If," said the Lone Ranger, "you're really the criminal that you've been branded, I agree with you. But I don't think you are." The masked man reclined at full length, resting his head on one hand, bracing his elbow on the ground.

"I'm not the criminal I've been branded," said Dave Walters, "but I guess I
am
a crook. What do you know about me?"

"I don't know very much about you, Dave."

"You knew my name."

The Lone Ranger nodded. "I knew that much. Do you want to tell me about yourself?"

"Reckon that's the least I can do after what you've done for me."

The Lone Ranger waited for Dave Walters to begin. The lad seemed to find it difficult. He tossed the blanket off his shoulders and rose to his feet. He ran lean fingers through his long hair and for a moment paced nervously up and down. As the moonlight fell on his face, the masked man had his first opportunity to study the boy he had saved from lynching.

Dave Walters's eyes had depth and a sadness that was rare in a boy still in his teens. His cheeks were sunken and his undernourished body did not fill the clothes he wore. The boy's trousers lapped over at the waist and extra holes had been punched in his belt to take up the slack. His denim shirt was open at the throat and it seemed as if his narrow shoulders might push through the opening.

He pushed a lock of hair back from his well-shaped forehead as he apparently tried to find a way to get started on what he was about to tell. The Lone Ranger said, "What was the crime you committed, Dave? Did you steal something?"

Dave stopped pacing and turned to face the man on the ground. "Yes," he said, "I stole."

The Lone Ranger nodded.

"I was younger then, just about sixteen. It was in New Orleans where I was employed in a bank."