The Lone Ranger and Tonto (4 page)

"It's a gol-blasted lie," shouted one man, "but even so it's good! I seen it six times so far, an' Eph gits better every time."

The guard rose to his feet. "It all goes tuh prove what I says some time ago," he said. "That Dave Walters crittur looked as innocent as a new born baby, but his looks are sure deceivin'. I said all along that there warn't no doubt as to him bein' the one that killed Ma Prindle an' robbin' her as well. They was plenty of men in this town that said they didn't think Dave Walters was guilty at all, but I said then, an' I say now, that the most dangerous man is the innocent lookin' one, jest as the purtiest colored snakes is the most pizenous."

Having thus delivered himself, Eph Summers turned to the bar and the drinks that were waiting for him. The guard felt that while he had been on duty, he'd done all that could be reasonably expected of him. Now that his vigil was ended, he was entitled to relaxation and amusement.

The rest of the men broke into small groups to talk over the affairs of the night, and await the return of those who had ridden in pursuit of the masked man and Dave Walters. No one had any intention of going home that night. The cafés were festive with the excitement that prevailed. And if one of the many men, who were at that very moment hunting for the fugitives, came back with news that a trail had been found, they all would have joined in the manhunt.

The men of Snake River felt obligated to do this. There was no doubt in anyone's mind about the guilt of Dave Walters. His escape had convinced the dubious ones that he was the killer of old Ma Prindle. The old lady had been liked by the entire community, and each man wanted a hand in avenging her murder.

Steve Delaney was one of the men who was most determined to see the killer hanged. Steve made his living by gambling. Tall, lean, and altogether striking in appearance, the gambler was a picture of Western splendor. His cold, pale eyes studied the men in the room from his favorite table in a corner of the Royal Flush Café. Steve Delaney had been morose and silent since he had found Ma Prindle dead. He had gone to her home, he said, to take her a share of his winnings. This he frequently did to bring him continued good luck. When Steve Delaney saw the little white-haired lady, she was slumped on the floor of her modest cabin. Her blue-veined hands still clutched an old, well-worn handbag. Steve spread the word at once and her house was thoroughly searched, but no sign of the money Steve had given her from time to time could be found.

Even as he sat there at the table, Steve Delaney looked much taller than the average man. His long legs, clad in light gray trousers to the top of his highly polished boots, were stretched out on each side of the table. His tailcoat showed the finest tailoring, and his high top hat originally came from one of the best shops in the East. He sat quietly awaiting further developments in the hunt, taking short, light puffs on a long cigar.

When Eph Summers finished his dramatic performance by sliding on the floor, Delaney's thin lip curled ever so slightly as he muttered something about "utter fool." He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his fancy vest with a lean finger, then lifted the same finger to signal one of the waiters.

"If the Sheriff comes in here," Delaney told the waiter, "send him to me at once. I think I might be able to help him."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter ingratiatingly. "You sure helped the Sheriff aplenty already."

"Bosh," said the gambler in a suave, soft voice. "I didn't contribute much to the capture of the murderer."

"It was you, Mr. Delaney, that said yuh seen the kid near Ma Prindle's place. I reckon if yuh hadn't said that no one would've ever suspected that younker."

The gambler nodded slowly, and took a solid gold toothpick from a pocket of his gaudy vest. His fingers, it seemed, were constantly in motion. He toyed with the toothpick as he spoke. "I didn't tell all that I knew."

"No?" said the waiter in surprise. "Wal, I bet Sheriff Dixon'll be right glad to hear anything more you got tuh tell. I'll see that he's sent tuh you the minute he comes in. Is there somethin' I c'd git fer you, Mr. Delaney?"

"No, thank you."

The waiter moved away and Steve Delaney smiled slightly. No one saw him smile. Steve didn't want anyone to see it. Steve Delaney was perhaps the only man in town of the firm conviction that Dave Walters was not guilty of murder.

Yet Delaney, more than anyone else, wanted to see Dave Walters pay for the crime. Once Dave Walters paid with his life for the murder of the old lady, the hunt for the killer would stop and the case would be considered closed. And this was a state of affairs that was much to be desired, so far as Steve Delaney was concerned.

The gambler, as are most men who make a profession of gambling, was a keen judge of human nature. He knew that as soon as Ma Prindle was found dead, every man in town would be up in arms for vengeance. He knew that once anyone, no matter who, was arrested as a suspect, the townsmen would be ready to convict the man on any sort of evidence.

Delaney had described Dave Walters well. Dave was a stranger in town and had been in the vicinity of the old lady's cabin. Fate added another trump to the hand Delaney dealt. It was purely coincidence that Dave had cash in his pockets. It was simple for Delaney to say that he had given Ma Prindle just about as much cash as Dave had on his person. And so the net was well made and Dave was marked as the killer.

Steve Delaney pondered the events while he sat waiting for the Sheriff.

He could think of nothing that had misfired in his carefully made plans. True, he had been the one to first suggest the lynching of the prisoner, and the lynching plans had failed through Dave's escape, but it did not matter. Whether hanged and dead, or alive and a fugitive, Dave was still looked upon by everyone as the murderer of Ma Prindle. And that was all that was necessary.

Steve Delaney replaced his toothpick and then from another pocket in his checkered vest took out a heavy gold watch. He glanced at it and frowned. "Late," he murmured softly. "Stuffy in here, too." He touched the cigar to a tray on the table and broke off an inch of ashes, then he rose from his chair. He fingered a horseshoe-shaped, diamond-studded pin in his cravat, set his tall hat at a different angle, and sauntered from the Royal Flush into the street.

In the mind of the Lone Ranger, there was no question about the fact that Dave Walters had been framed for the murder charge. Someone else had unquestionably murdered Mrs. Prindle and convinced the folks in Snake River that Dave was the guilty one.

Countless ideas flashed through the masked man's mind as he followed a somewhat irregular route across the moonlit plain toward town. It was the third time in twenty-four hours that he went into the town. The first time he had been unmasked and disguised. That was when he heard about the lynching plans. The second time he had taken Dave Walters from the jail, and now he hoped to learn more about the heartless plans that involved the death of a woman and the death sentence for a youth.

He recalled that it had been a gambler named Delaney, Steve Delaney, who had described Dave Walters to the lawmen. Dave said that he had been arrested before he'd been around the town at all. Someone, then, must have known Dave; known that he was heading toward Snake River. Could it have been the individual who had told Dave that he might find some trace of his parents in Snake River?

The masked mystery rider spoke softly to his big white stallion. "A little faster, Silver, old boy, just a little faster. We want to get back there before it's too late to overhear some of the talk around town." The horse responded with a renewed burst of speed.

The Lone Ranger felt the wind against his face. It was cool and it felt good after the heat of the day. The vision of the careworn face and tattered clothes of Dave Walters came back to his mind. He thought of the cruel life that had been Dave's lot these past years. Surely the lad had paid in suffering for his one mistake. Death as a murderer was more than he deserved.

One thing, the masked man felt, was certain. The real murderer of Mrs. Prindle must be found before there could be any hope of establishing Dave's innocence. Who, the Lone Ranger asked himself, could have had a reason for murdering the old lady? Who could possibly benefit by her death? Had Steve Delaney himself done the killing? That might have been possible. He certainly had made it a point to convict Dave.

The lights of Snake River were just ahead. Late as it was there were fully as many lights glowing as there had been when the masked man stopped some time ago in the clump of cottonwoods. This time he skirted the town to arrive from a different direction. He remembered an arroyo that would make a hiding place for Silver much nearer the center of the town than the cottonwoods on the hilltop.

He found the dried-up bed of a former stream of water without difficulty. He permitted Silver to slow down to a walk as he rode along the arroyo toward the spot where it ran parallel to the rear of a row of buildings. Many of the buildings were saloons, and each of the saloons was ablaze with lights and noisy with loud talk and raucous laughter. Finally the Lone Ranger reined up.

The shadow of the buildings fell across the arroyo and made an almost perfect place of concealment. The Lone Ranger swung to the ground and tossed the reins over his horse's head, then fastened them to a patch of scrubby growth. The big horse nuzzled the masked man gently.

"Silver, you'll have to stay here and wait for me," the Lone Ranger whispered. "You're far too easily seen to take the chance of going into the center of town. Horses like you aren't common in this part of the country." He stroked the long silky nose of Silver for a brief instant, and finished the caress by a soft slap on the muscled neck. Silver seemed to understand the masked man's words.

It took but an instant to remove the mask and hide it beneath his shirt. The Lone Ranger took a small bottle from a saddlebag and poured a few drops of the fluid it contained into the palm of one hand. He replaced the bottle and rubbed his palms briskly together, then rubbed them over his face and neck. The fluid was a stain that Tonto had made from roots. It darkened the Lone Ranger's complexion by several degrees. He hung his white sombrero on the saddle horn and replaced it with a battered old black felt that had seen far better days. Next he changed his black silk neckerchief for one of brilliant hue. This was his disguise. It wasn't much, but past experience had proved it to be all that was required. He checked both his guns to make sure they were in working order. He was ready to go into the heart of the town. In appearance, the Lone Ranger now resembled any one of the many men from surrounding ranches who had come to Snake River to attend the trial of Dave Walters. He felt he could mingle with the other men quite freely without being identified as the masked man who had engineered the jail break.

He whispered a few words to his horse, then scrambled from the arroyo. To the south, beyond the arroyo, there was open range with only an occasional building; on the near side, the town. The Lone Ranger was behind the row of buildings that fronted on the town's one street. He moved cautiously through the shadows between two of these and when no one was near he stepped quickly into the street itself.

One could read a book by the light that came from the many cafés. Each hitchrack on both sides of the street had its quota of horses waiting patiently for the owners who were discussing events in loud voices inside the saloons. From some of the places the Lone Ranger could hear pianos playing, from across the street came the music of a violin. But above all other sounds there was the buzz of excitement.

Might take a little while to locate Steve Delaney
, thought the Lone Ranger.
There's no telling which of these places is his favorite
. He might have asked some of the men if they had seen the gambler, but he knew that his voice was somewhat characteristic and it might betray him. He preferred to take no chances, at least not until absolutely necessary. He entered the first saloon and stepped through the swinging doors.

The air reeked with whiskey fumes and stale tobacco smoke. The air was hazy with dust. It choked the Lone Ranger, whose lungs were accustomed to the clear air of the out-of-doors. He had to force himself to stay there long enough to look about the large room and make certain Steve Delaney was not there. Then he went to the next café.

He saw no one wearing the high hat of the gambler. But he studied the face of each man in the room, looking for the moustached, hawklike face of the man he sought. Delaney wasn't there. The Lone Ranger was about to leave when someone grabbed his arm roughly.

"Stranger," the thick voice said, "c'mon with me. I hanker tuh have a talk with yuh."

The Lone Ranger looked quickly at the speaker and saw a heavily built, squatty-looking man whose heavy-jowled face had probably not been shaved for several days. The man's hat was pushed well back on his head, and greasy sweat stood out on the low forehead. "C'mon," the stranger said, "I ain't had no chance tuh talk or drink with you yet, an' I aim tuh remedy that right now."

"No, thanks," replied the Lone Ranger softly, jerking back from the heavy man's fat-fingered grip.

"Oh," snarled the other showing yellow, fang-like teeth. "Yuh figger yer too blame good tuh have a drink with Shorty Jenks! Wal, the man don't live that c'n git away with that. I'm knowed from here tuh the Rio Grand as a gent that no man takes the chance of offendin'! Now maybe yuh didn't know that it was
me
that yuh was talkin' to. I guess that's why yuh refused my invitation, eh?"

"I don't want a drink," returned the Lone Ranger softly. He saw that several men had turned to watch the conversation, and he wanted to get out of the place with as little attention as possible.

Shorty became more angry. "I don't give three hoots of a horned toad what
you
want," he growled in an ugly voice. "I want yuh tuh step up tuh that bar, an' what Shorty Jenks wants, he
gets
. The man that refuses an invitation o' mine, offends me!" He paused, pushing his small-eyed face close to that of the Lone Ranger. "And no man has ever offended Shorty Jenks an' lived tuh tell about it."