STALEMATE

The shooting's aftermath in Red Oak: Some insisted that a posse be formed at once to scour the country for the unknown rider who had taken Bryant Cavendish with him. Others were in favor of letting the law, represented by Slim Peasley, take its fumbling course, while the majority asked resentfully what the hell the disturbance was all about, then turned back to drinks, games, women, or combinations of the same. Wallie Cavendish was much in evidence, for once in his life looking hot-faced and somewhat disheveled. He insisted that prompt action be taken; that something be done about his uncle's abduction.

"A hell of a lot you care about him," snapped Jim Bates, the hotel owner. "Now he's gone, yuh know damn well yer ready tuh let out a war whoop of plain an' fancy cheerin'."

Wallie ignored the comment and spoke to the group assembled in the lobby.

"It's high time there was some law around this place. First Mort gets out of jail, without half-tryin', then Uncle Bryant's carried away, likely dead, an' all we got is that buzzard-bait Peasley. That man on the white horse was leaning over someone when he was seen, wasn't he?"

Someone in the crowd said, "Yeah."

"Well, what about him? Is anything bein' done?"

"He's bein' brought in here. Some of the boys went tuh see about him."

"High time," barked Wallie with a fire that was unusual.

"The boys that had horses handy went after that critter," explained Jim Bates. "Maybe they'll catch him."

"And if they do," said Wallie, "they'll jail him the same as they did Mort, an' ten minutes after Slim's back's turned, he'll be scot-free again."

"I thought you had a hunch," said Jim Bates, "that it was yer Uncle Bryant that let Mort out of the calaboose."

"That's what I thought."

"Mebbe this hombre that rid away won't have no Uncle Bryant tuh let him loose."

The door opened, and men came in carrying a still form which they placed on the plank floor near the wall.

"He's dead," one of them said, looking at Wallie with a strange expression.

"Is it anyone we know?" asked Bates.

One of the newcomers nodded seriously. "Yup, it shore is." He stood aside. One leg showed the red result of a bullet wound, but this was hardly more than a scratch. In the back of his neck the handle of a knife still showed. The man was Mort Cavendish.

"My brother!" exclaimed Wallie. "It's Mort." He wheeled to the silent men around him. "Who done this?" he asked. "Who'd want to kill poor Mort? He never hurt no one in his life. He—"

Jim Bates stepped up. "Listen tuh me," he said sharply. "We don't want none of yer crocodile actin' around here. In the first place, whoever stuck that knife in Mort's neck saved him bein' strung up tuh hang fer killin' his wife. You know that damned well. In the second place, yuh never gave a damn about any of yer family, an' yuh still don't. With Mort done fer, it's jest one less tuh whack up Bryant's Basin."

Wallie stood a moment, then he said in a calmer voice, "All right, Bates, Bryant's gone an' Mort's killed. Now let's figure out who done it."

"What the hell d'you care?" Wallie was obviously not well liked by the men in Red Oak. Their manner showed that they cared nothing about helping him. The man who died had deserved killing, and no sympathy was wasted. If the murderer had walked in at that moment, it was quite likely that he would have been told that his duty was to handle the burial expenses as a moral obligation, then take drinks on the house.

"Only thing I don't like," muttered someone, "is this knifin' business. It ain't good form no-ways. Why the hell, when that critter dropped Mort with the shot in the leg, didn't he finish him with another slug, 'stead o' stickin' him like this?"

"You can't leave him there," said Jim Bates. "What d'ya want done with the remains?"

Wallie dug into his pocket and dumped what cash he had on the hotel desk. "You handle things," he told Bates. "Have the coroner do whatever has to be done, then hire someone with a cart to haul him to the Basin. I'll have him buried there."

Bates nodded, scooping up the cash. "I'll tend tuh things. Whatever Mort had in his pockets was took out by Peasley when he jailed him. I reckon you c'n get his cash an' whatever else he had from Slim."

"I will."

"Hold on," said Bates. "Old Bryant has a buckboard an' team in the shed. He brought 'em when he came. Why don't you take Mort back in that yer own self?"

Wallie explained that he was leaving shortly and would drive the team and ride the buckboard, with his own horse hitched behind. He had to hurry though, and didn't care to wait until the coroner's work was finished. In fact, he planned to start back for the Basin right away. He wanted to be there by daybreak.

"All right, then," said Bates. "I'll see that everything's tended to."

Further conversation and conjecture was carried to the nearest saloon. The general opinion seemed to be that Bryant had helped his nephew out of jail. Then someone unknown had called upon Bryant. Mort had found him there, when trying to sneak into the room. The unknown man had fired, but Mort had run away. The gunman had fired again, and this time he hit Bryant. Blood on the bed proved that Bryant had been hit. Then pursuit of Mort, who ran despite the wounded leg, led to his final death by stabbing. The eyewitnesses from the hotel room had first seen the stranger with the white horse standing close to Mort. That was just before he had ridden away. This explanation suited everyone, and further action was dependent on Slim Peasley. Which meant that there probably would be no further investigation.

Wallie went from place to place, locating the men from the Basin, telling them what had happened and suggesting that they start at once for home. He was the last to leave Red Oak. By the time he had driven the buckboard through the rough, rocky bottom of the Gap, the cowhands had been home for some time. When he drove in at daybreak, he found them still awake and excited over the discovery of old Gimlet.

They hadn't found Sawtell, Rangoon, Lombard, or Lonergan in the bunkhouse.

"Dunno where the hell them boys went," they said. "They don't dare risk goin' tuh Red Oak, because yuh never can tell when the sheriff'll be there, or maybe a Ranger, or some gent that'd recognize 'em an' turn 'em in fer the reward."

Wallie was tired and annoyed at the missing quartet. He ordered fresh horses hitched to the buckboard, gave instructions for the disposal of old Gimlet's body, then went to the house. Throwing open the door, he stopped abruptly.

A strange sight greeted him. One lamp was lighted. Though the wick was turned low, there was sufficient illumination to reveal disorder in the room. On top of a table, a chair; on the chair a log, braced against the beamed ceiling. Sitting near the fireplace, Wallie saw an Indian.

Furiously angry, he started forward, then halted again. The Indian was wide-awake, holding a heavy revolver in his hand.

"What the—?" started Wallie.

"You," muttered the Indian, "close door. Sit down. We wait."

"Wait for what? Who are yuh, and what're yuh doin' here? What's all this mean?"

"Girl wake pretty quick," the Indian replied. "She tell you."

A howl from beneath his feet made Wallie jump. Tonto grinned at his surprise. "Bad feller," he explained, "down there. Girl tell you, when she wake."

"I'm awake."

It was Penelope, wrapped in a bathrobe, coming down the stairs.

Daybreak found the Lone Ranger once more in the saddle. He rode slowly at first, but as the light increased and made the trail he followed more distinct, he increased his speed. With several hours' rest the masked man felt much better. Tonto, he was sure, could handle things at the ranch house until Wallie returned. The Indian's position there would be explained by Penny. Bryant Cavendish had been left in the cave. Now the Lone Ranger rode in pursuit of Yuma.

Wallie with the wagon, and all the horsemen going to the Basin, had passed close to the cave in Bryant's Gap while the masked man and Bryant Cavendish were there. The hoofs of these men's horses had in many cases blotted out the tracks of Yuma, but an occasional mark where the shale was soft assured the masked man that he was still on the trail of the one he sought.

There were times when he had to dismount and examine the ground closely to make sure he hadn't gone astray.

Then he found that Yuma had left the Gap. New scratches on the rocks of one side of it showed where his horse had fought its way up an almost sheer ascent to gain the level land above. The Lone Ranger guided Silver up the same path. Now the ground, covered in most places by a sort of turf, was softened by the recent rains and held distinct hoofprints of the big cowpuncher's horse.

"Come on, Silver," the Lone Ranger called as he saw the trail stretching out toward the horizon. The stallion fairly flew over the ground that felt so soft after the sharp and sliding stones of the Gap.

The marks of Yuma's horse were spaced to show that it too had traveled at top speed. But Yuma had ridden in the darkness, which was probably the reason that his horse had fallen. The Lone Ranger saw the gopher hole into which the horse had stepped, and near by, the body of the horse itself. He dismounted and examined the ground.

Marks clearly showed that Yuma had spilled over the head of the falling horse. The dead horse was a few yards distant. The foreleg, to judge from its position, unquestionably was broken. A bullet through the head had ended the beast's suffering. Yuma had taken the most essential things from his duffle and left the rest. His footprints led on in the same direction he'd been going.

The masked man mounted and rode on. It wasn't long before he saw a pile of rocks. They were huge boulders, tossed into the middle of an open plain, as if left and forgotten by the Builder in some era eons ago when the world was made. The footprints led directly toward these rocks.

"That," mused the Lone Ranger, "is where the man I want has taken refuge. I wonder if he'll shoot. I doubt it." He rode ahead, considering the type of man he had to face. What he had seen of Yuma had left a rather favorable impression. When the cowboy had claimed leadership of the cattle-stealing organization, the Lone Ranger had doubted the truth of what he said. It had seemed obvious that Yuma sought to shield Bryant Cavendish, in order that the old man might remain alive and free to safeguard Penny.

The masked man slowed Silver to a walk, and drew his gun. He advanced slowly, without taking his eyes off the rocks. Presently the cowboy's head popped out, then a quick shot struck the ground a little to one side of the Lone Ranger. He rode on slowly. A hundred yards away from the natural fortress, the masked man dismounted, then went forward on foot.

"I'm coming to get you, Yuma," he shouted.

"I won't be taken alive," came the reply. "Git aboard that hoss an' vamoose. I don't want tuh drill yuh."

The Lone Ranger walked ahead. Another shot, this time one that whistled as it passed. The space had narrowed down to fifty yards when Yuma cried again.

"Stand back, I tell yuh, stranger. I don't want tuh kill yuh. Yuh can't take me alive. Them shots was only warnin's. Now go back."

The masked man made no reply. Nor did he change his pace or course. Long strides carried him ahead. He held one gun in readiness, but didn't return the shots that had been fired toward him. Thirty yards away.

"In the name of God," shouted Yuma, "you're goin' tuh make me kill yuh. This is yer last chance. Now turn back!"

The Lone Ranger took five more strides forward; then Yuma fired again. This time the bullet tugged at the sleeve of his shirt. Yuma was either shooting to kill and missing, or shooting with rare skill to come as close as he could without inflicting injury. While he walked forward, the Lone Ranger called again, "You know you're not going to kill me, Yuma, because if you do there'll be others here to take my place. I'm coming to ram your lies down your throat!"

His heavy gun was still unfired. Ten paces from the rock he halted.

"I can put a bullet through you, Yuma, the next time you look out from behind that rock to fire at me. I don't want to do it. I don't even want to shoot your gun away, because I may need your help. I don't want your gun hand wounded. Now come out!"

Yuma's voice came from behind the rocks. "Next time I fire," he shouted, "I'll shoot tuh kill. Heaven help me, stranger, I don't want tuh do that, but I swear I'll have tuh. It's you or me, an' it's not goin' tuh be me."

"I'm waiting for you," the Lone Ranger replied.

"If yuh don't turn back when I count three, I'll fire."

Yuma started counting slowly. "One ... two ..." And then a pause. "Fer the love of Heaven, turn back."

"I'm still waiting, Yuma."

"God knows, yuh asked fer it." Yuma shouted, "Three!" and then leaped out from behind the rock and fired.