GUNS TALK BACK

The murder-bent quintet went up the stairs like Indians stalking single file through wooded land. Each man carried his gun in his left hand and braced himself with his right against the wall. They stayed as close to that wall as possible to minimize the creaking of the stairs. The only sound was a faint, leathery whisper from the dusty boots. Wallie cursed inwardly at his lack of foresight in not having his men go stocking-footed to the double murder.

Wallie was in the lead, Vince in the rear. In this order they gained the upstairs hall. Any apprehensions Wallie might have had about the squeaking boots were dispelled as he drew close to Bryant's door. A resonant voice, undoubtedly that of the masked man, was speaking. Wallie felt no qualms of guilt or conscience at the cold-blooded ruthlessness of his plans. He hadn't the slightest intention of giving the men who were marked for execution a chance to defend themselves. The code of Western fair play was missing from Wallie's personality. This was to be no duel, but simply the extinction of two men whose deaths had become essential to his plans.

Wallie halted at the closed but unlocked door and motioned Lonergan and Lombard past him. As the leader faced the door those two were on his left, while Vince and Sawtell, guns now shifted to their right hands, stood upon his right. All but Wallie were balanced on the balls of their feet, tense and ready to charge through the door, but Wallie hesitated. He could hear the masked man's voice, with a vibrant quality carrying through the door. He could hear, distinctly, each word that was said. The masked man was scolding old Bryant Cavendish.

Wallie crouched and placed one eye close to the keyhole. The room, he saw, was dimly lighted. It was difficult to see details. The blankets were mounded on the bed as if they'd been pulled over Bryant's big body. On the far side of the bed Wallie could make out a white sombrero, and judged that to be where the masked man sat while he conducted the one-sided conversation.

Wallie now knew just where he should direct his men to fire when he threw open the door. He hesitated, listening to what was being said inside.

"You're the most unreasonably stubborn old fool I've ever known, Cavendish." It was the masked man speaking. "It's high time for you to drop this false pride of yours; admit you've grown old, let someone help you.

"Cavendish, all these murders are yours. I know you aren't the killer, personally, but none of them could possibly have happened if you hadn't been so foolishly stubborn! You'd never admit that you found it hard to walk. You thought you hid that fact, but you didn't! You didn't fool anyone at all. Then when your eyes began to fail you, you tried to hide that fact too. Why, right now, you're so nearly blind that you have to feel your way."

Wallie heard a low-toned response from his uncle. Then the masked man continued.

"All of those nephews of yours realized that you not only were incapable of getting about, but that you couldn't even see what went on. They felt secure in doing whatever they pleased, so they organized a regular crime ring here in the Basin. They replaced all of your former hands with crooks whom they selected. They let it be known in the right places that this Basin would be a safe hideout for men the law was looking for. You couldn't see what your cowhands looked like, so you had no cause to distrust them. You wouldn't go to a doctor and have your eyes treated and your sight improved, because you wanted to conceal your condition."

Wallie reasoned that inasmuch as neither of the two beyond the door was to survive much longer, he might as well hear what else this incalculable masked man knew.

"Penelope tried her best to find reasons for your unconcern over the ways things were going here. She thought more of you than you deserved. She tried to convince herself that you were not aware of things, and tried to find out if blindness was the reason. She defended you when Yuma turned against you; and what was her reward for that loyalty? You turned against her, the same as you did against those graceless cousins. She was made to sign away her rights just as they were. Don't interrupt, Cavendish—I've more to say. Yuma felt that as long as you were alive, that girl would be guarded and protected. How wrong he was! But that was what he thought, and when I captured him he tried to convince me that he was the leader of these Basin killers. He was ready to spend the rest of his life as a fugitive in hiding, and keep the law off your neck. When I showed him the document that Penelope had been made to sign, he realized that he'd made a mistake. He saw then that the girl he loved could look for little enough happiness or security through you. Who, in the name of Heaven, is this Andrew Munson? What do you owe him that you'd deprive Penelope of any future comfort, in his favor?"

Wallie strained to hear what Bryant's reply would be, but there was none. In the brief pause, he heard the heavy, emotional breathing of the masked man.

"It wasn't until this morning that I learned some truths," the masked man continued. "I knew that someone had slipped into this Basin and murdered Gimlet, because the killer rode within ten yards of me, but I didn't know who he was. Tonto was halfway up Thunder Mountain when this same man went by. It was too dark there for the Indian to identify him when he killed Rangoon. Then he went on to Red Oak, where he let Mort out of jail with instructions to kill you in your hotel room. You know what happened there. I told you how I shot him in the leg, and how he was later stabbed to death. Since then, I've learned who the killer is!

"I told you about Tonto. He was here, waiting for the riders to come back from Red Oak. The trail from Red Oak is on hard ground, as you know. The trail over Thunder Mountain is marshy in a lot of places. The loam there is soft and black, and different from anything that could be found on the trail through the Gap. Well, Tonto watched when each horse came into the corral. He found one, just one horse, Cavendish, that had black loam caked to the fetlocks. He gave me the name of the man who rode and owned that horse, in a note which he left at the cave. That man is your nephew, Wallie!"

Wallie, listening, frowned heavily, and thanked his lucky stars that this man with such a keen and logical mind was to be killed. He would prove a dangerous adversary if left alive.

"You don't believe me," the masked man said, "you won't let yourself believe, or trust anyone, but I'll prove Wallie is what I've told you. If I can prove that, will you talk?"

Wallie had heard enough. "Come on!" he cried, and threw the door wide open.

Lombard and Sawtell plunged into the room, and dropped to one knee while they opened fire. Lonergan and Vince were close behind, firing over them, while Wallie remained in back. Guns crashed deafeningly in the confines of the room. The white hat near the bed became a thing alive, leaping across the room in crazy circles. The mound of blankets on the bed became a shaking mass as bullet after bullet bored deep. A score of shots roared in the blink of an eye.

Then, back talk, in the voices of six-shooters, came from a corner of the room.

Sawtell's gun jumped from his hand as if by magic. His fingers were suddenly a bloody mass, at which the killer stared in stupefaction. More flames lanced from the corner, and Lombard's extended gun arm snapped as a forty-five slug tore through flesh and bone between the wrist and elbow. Sawtell felt no pain in the heat of battle. Instinctive gunman that he was, he fell flat upon his belly, jerking out a second revolver with his left hand. Loud snarls and curses came from pain-maddened Lombard, while Sawtell took careful aim. He steadied his weapon at a point directly between the eyeslits of the mask. His finger tensed upon the trigger.

Then, suddenly, his arm dropped, his gun unfired. He went limp and slumped. In his forehead there was a tiny hole, but the back of his head was an awful sight where a soft-nosed bullet had gouged out his skull.

Half-blind Bryant Cavendish fired at sounds with an instinct that was supersensitive. Somehow the old man had found one of his guns, and cried aloud in savage hate as he rocketed shot after shot toward the doorway. "They're all ag'in me," he cried out. "I'll show 'em I don't need sight! I can locate skunks by smell." His gun whammed again, and death spat at the doorway.

Wallie screamed his orders. "In the corner—shoot 'em—drill 'em!" He pushed from behind at the instant that the lawyer Lonergan took a bullet from the masked man's gun on the hand, and one from Bryant's big revolver in the belly. He pitched forward, and fell across the writhing form of Lombard. Shrill yells and cries of pain rose far above Wallie's livid curses.

The Lone Ranger snatched the gun from Bryant's hand. "No more shooting," he cried.

He leaped toward the doorway, head low, and charged. Vince had swung to face the surprise counterattack. His gun blazed, but the Lone Ranger was beneath the slug. He crashed into Vince with such force that the runty killer was fairly lifted off his feet and tossed across the room, while his gun was jarred out of his hand.

Wallie, knowing his life depended on the fight, scrambled up from the floor. The thought of losing made him frantic as he swung his empty gun in a vicious blow at the Lone Ranger. The blow struck the Lone Ranger on the bandaged shoulder. A sudden stab of pain like a white-hot iron gripped his side as Wallie followed up his advantage. Still clutching the heavy revolver, he rammed it muzzle first into the masked man's chest.

The Lone Ranger couldn't breathe. The blow must have broken at least one rib, possibly more. He felt his legs caving beneath him, while his brain fought valiantly against the dizziness that threatened to engulf him. He threw both arms about Wallie and locked his hands behind his adversary's neck. He was falling, and helpless to prevent it. He was barely conscious of the fact that Wallie kept driving more blows to his stomach; blows that were too short to have much power behind them. Close to his ear, he heard the other's voice as a meaningless jumble of hissing syllables.

Somehow the Lone Ranger's weight threw Wallie off his balance too. The masked man had the fighter's heart that dictates action after the mind has ceased functioning. A mighty heave—a wrench that split the half-healed wound wide open. Still falling—it seemed that time stood still—and split seconds were like hours—and then a crash.

The masked man's fall was padded by the body of the man he fell on. His superhuman effort had thrown Wallie beneath him as the two went down. Wallie's head smacked hard against the floor.

Now Vince had a gun, was on his feet and coming close. His ugly face looked like a leering demon's as he raised his gun. The Lone Ranger rolled, and as he did so, drew his extra weapon. Two guns spoke as one, their muzzles so close that the flames were intermingled. To the Lone Ranger, close to acrid fumes and scorching flame, it seemed that hell had burst into the room. And then—oblivion.