WHO IS ANDREW MUNSON?

The masked man paused at the door until he heard Wallie reach the first floor of the big house. He waited another moment, listening intently, but heard nothing. He wondered where the men were whom he'd seen approach the house with guns drawn, and what they were doing at the moment. Then he closed the door and would have locked it, but he found no key.

Bryant Cavendish lay on the bed, flat on his back. His mouth was half-open and his eyes were closed. He slept noisily, breathing with a throaty sound. The old man had been through a strenuous ordeal. The Lone Ranger stepped to the bed and placed sensitive fingers on the pulse in Bryant's wrist. The heartbeat was firm and steady. The sleep, apparently, was normal sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion, not abnormal unconsciousness.

"Just as well," the masked man muttered. "If he'll stay asleep for a little while I'll have a look at that desk."

The desk was old and rather battered. It was a huge affair of oak with many drawers beneath the two-inch-thick top. Rising from the back of the desk there was a section divided into many squares. Filled with papers, as these pigeonholes were, it closely resembled an overworked post office. The sections on the right were neatly ordered, the papers folded evenly and tucked in edgewise.

The masked man glanced about the room. Meticulous order was apparent everywhere. On the dresser a brush, comb, a large knife and a smaller knife, and a razor were neatly arranged. A shelf above the washstand held a shaving mug. The brush, instead of being in the mug in sloppy fashion, had been rinsed, and stood on end. The rest of the room was equally neat. The ordered compartments of the desk were, then, as Bryant had fixed them. The lefthand pigeonholes were otherwise.

Papers were jammed in these without regard for order. Some were folded, others just stuffed in; some compartments bulged, while others were barely half-filled; some papers were on edge, some lay flat. The condition of things told a story of a search that had been started at the extreme left and continued methodically, one compartment at a time, until the object of the search was found. The Lone Ranger reasoned that the object, whatever it was, had been in the last disordered pigeonhole.

He glanced at Bryant and found him still asleep and snoring. He pulled papers from the pigeonhole and spread them on the desk top. A few receipts of recent date; an envelope with a penciled address on it; a bill of sale for twenty head of cattle; a clipping from a St. "Jo" paper that dealt with a railroad that was contemplated in the West; a pamphlet which described in glowing terms the curative qualities of Doctor Blaine's Golden Tonic; a sheet of heavy paper, folded twice across, and labeled, "Bryant Cavendish, His Last Will and Testament."

The Lone Ranger replaced everything else, then drew another legal document from the pocket of his shirt. He unfolded this, and laid it by the will. The writing in the two was identical; Lonergan's handwriting. The masked man had known there would have to be a will of some sort to accompany the agreement which the natural heirs had signed forswearing their rights to the Cavendish property. He had been anxious to know the name of the individual chosen as heir.

Penelope and her cousins were mentioned in the will. Each was to receive ten dollars in cash. A lawyer's foresight had, doubtless, dictated the mention of them, so that there would be no complaint that Bryant had forgotten relatives in preparing the will. The balance of the estate, after all just obligations had been paid, was to go to a man named Andrew Munson. The document described Andrew Munson as a man to whom Bryant felt a heavy obligation. It told how Munson must be identified, and omitted no detail. Bryant Cavendish had signed his name at the bottom, and in the proper places there were signatures of witnesses. Until such time as Andrew Munson could be found, the Basin ranch was to be managed by Bryant's four nephews or, if all four were not alive, by the survivors.

"Who," the masked man asked himself, "is Andrew Munson?" He had never heard the name before. There might be some reference to Munson in the papers in the desk, but the search through these would have to wait until a later time. There was something far more urgent that must be done at once.

It took several minutes to waken old Bryant Cavendish. When he was fully awake and growling his complaints at being roused, the Lone Ranger sat beside him on the bed. "Get fully awake, Cavendish," he said.

Bryant squinted in the light that came from the windows. "Hurts my eyes," he complained in a somewhat sleepy voice.

The masked man crossed the room and drew the heavy draperies together, cutting out most of the light and making the room quite dim. "Better?"

"I heard your voice before," Bryant said. "Who are yuh?"

"We rode from Red Oak together last night, Cavendish. I was with you in a cave until this morning—don't you remember?"

"I seem tuh. How long I been sleepin'?"

"Only about half an hour. I'll get you a drink of water. You've got to get wide-awake and listen to me!"

"I've listened aplenty. I'm done with it. Now get the hell out of here, an' lemme alone. Where is Penelope?"

The masked man poured water from the pitcher and held it to the old man's lips while he explained, "Penelope is in Red Oak. She went there this morning with the children. My friend, the Indian, went with her."

Bryant drank half the water, then pushed the cup aside. He rubbed his eyes, then studied the masked man, squinting slightly. "I reckon," he said, "I remember things now. So damn much has happened in the past couple o' days I can't somehow keep things straight."

"Are you wide-awake now, Bryant?"

"Course I am," retorted the old man in a nettled voice. "What d'you want?"

"I took your will from the desk. I want you to take a look at it." A paper was extended toward Bryant. "Is there enough light in here for you to see it?"

"I don't need tuh see it, I know what's in it!"

"Examine it anyway."

"Fer what?"

"See if it's just the way you want it!"

"I've got fed up with all these fool stunts of yores, stranger. Now, for the last time, will yuh leave me be?"

The Lone Ranger found it difficult to control his anger. Before him, sitting upright in the bed, was the man who was indirectly responsible for the murder of those Texas Rangers, whose graves were in the Gap; for Becky's death; the stabbing of Gimlet; possibly even of Rangoon and Mort. And this man was asking to be left alone! The masked man's clenched fists trembled while he fought for self-control. He must, above all, keep his voice down. He leaned forward.

"I want to know," he said softly as he put the will in his pocket, "who Andrew Munson is."

Bryant said, "Who?"

The Lone Ranger repeated the name.

Cavendish pondered. His eyes held a faraway expression as he gazed at a corner of the ceiling.

"Answer me, Cavendish—who is Andrew Munson?"

Bryant turned slowly, and looked at the mask. His frown was deep, and his voice without emotion. "I never heard the name before."

The Lone Ranger felt something in him snap. It seemed as if this stubbornness in Bryant was more than he could bear without an outburst! The strain of the past few days; the fight against his wounds, against fatigue and pain; the bitterness of seeing good friends die ... all of these things seemed to roll together in a choking bitter mass that made him speechless. His hands reached out and gripped Cavendish. "You," he whispered in a hoarse, tense voice, "must be shown!"

With strength born of desperation, the Lone Ranger lifted Bryant as if he weighed nothing, and hauled him from the bed. His unanswered question was ringing in his brain.

"Who is Andrew Munson!"