He saw Delaney stand for several minutes studying the front of the flower-fringed house. Then he bent and picked up something from the ground. He threw it in the direction of the house, and a faint tinkling noise came to the Lone Ranger's ear. "Throwing pebbles at a window. He wants to attract the attention of someone in that house without arousing anyone else. Otherwise he would have gone up on the porch and rapped on the door," the Lone Ranger reasoned.
Delaney didn't repeat his action. He walked up to the house, and then around to a window near the corner of the building. There he waited. The moon shone full upon the window, and the Lone Ranger could see lace curtains through the glass. Presently the curtains were brushed aside, and the face of an elderly man appeared.
The white-haired man opened the window, holding a warning finger to his lips. The Lone Ranger could not venture closer without being seen either by Steve Delaney or the man at the window. He tried desperately to hear what was being said. He dropped flat on the ground and inched his way ahead. Some inner voice seemed to tell him that this conversation was important, vitally important to the future of Dave Walters.
The Lone Ranger detected a pleading tone in the old man's voice. For a moment, the man disappeared from the window but quickly returned. He held out something in his hand, which Steve Delaney took.
The Lone Ranger moved a trifle closer. He heard the gambler saying, "I'll send it to you when I can."
"Please don't waken my wife," the man in the window said. He lowered his voice, but the Lone Ranger could hear him saying, "This must be the last; there is nothing left."
Delaney said, "I'll see what I can do for you."
"For the sake of my wife," replied the old man with a note of desperation in his voice, "it must be the last." There was further conversation, but the Lone Ranger could not quite make out what was said. The white-haired man had a cultured voice. The softness of the man's voice held a different quality than the smooth voice of Steve Delaney. The gambler spoke in well-modulated, quiet tones, but there was a hardness to his voice; a sternness, that was entirely lacking in the old gentleman's manner of speech.
The window closed, and Steve Delaney headed back toward the center of activity. The Lone Ranger remained flat on the ground while the gambler passed close by him. He waited, while Delaney got a head start, intending to follow and see where the tall man in the top hat went next, and what he did. When Delaney was about fifty yards away the Lone Ranger rose to his feet and prepared to follow.
But he did not do so. There was a sudden crash of splintering glass, and a frenzied shout of, "Thief, thief!"
The Lone Ranger froze in his tracks. He whipped out the mask from beneath his shirt, and slipped it in place across his eyes. The shout came again, "Thief!" It was the old man with the white hair, shouting frantically from the splintered window of his home. As the Lone Ranger watched, he saw the old man's hands appear with a huge dueling pistol, two of them in fact, one in each hand. They roared and blasted livid streaks of flame in the general direction of the Lone Ranger.
A hundred yards away a man let out a high-pitched yell. The Lone Ranger stood for a moment, frozen to the spot, wondering if the old man had seen him and fired at him, or if he had simply fired blindly to raise an alarm.
Other men took up the cry of the first and in an instant a dozen voices rang out with cries of "John Langford. It's John Langford's place." The Lone Ranger could see men near the saloons leaping to their saddles and charging toward the Langford home. Meanwhile the white-haired man in the window continued his high-pitched cries of "Robbery!"
If the Lone Ranger made any move to get away from where he stood, a dozen shots would have whizzed in his direction from the guns of the oncoming men. For the moment, at least, the safest place was where he stood, close to the trunk of a large tree near the house.
The townsmen had spent half the night working up to this moment. They had waited patiently, telling of the things they would do if Dave Walters were to be brought back, or if his trail was found and there was the chance to ride in pursuit. Their horses had been tethered for long hours at hitchracks. Now the men found an outlet for their energies; and the horses, in sheer joy at being released, gave full vent to their urge for action.
In scant seconds after the first of the old man's shouts, the first of the townsmen were on the scene, shouting to make themselves heard above the clatter of horses' hoofs and gunshots. Men fired blindly, just for the sake of shooting, without an idea of trying to hit anything.
"What's the matter, Langford?" one of the men shouted from the back of his rearing horse. "What's this shoutin' about a robbery?"
"He broke into my house," cried the old man through the shattered remains of the window, "and went out this window. I fired after him, but I guess he got away."
The Lone Ranger had no trouble hearing what was said now. Each word was shouted. "What's stolen?"
"Jewels! My wife's jewelry!"
A lighted lamp appeared at the window behind Langford. The Lone Ranger saw a white-haired old lady whom he identified as Mrs. Langford.
More men rode up to join those already on the scene. "Someone broke into Langford's place an' stole his wife's jewels," the first townsmen explained.
"When did it happen?"
Langford himself replied, "Just now. I don't know what caused me to awaken, but I saw the thief in my house. He was taking something from a little box which belongs to my wife—the box in which she keeps her jewelry."
"We didn't know you had any jewelry," one of the men said.
"It was the last of what I brought from the East," said Martha Langford, speaking for the first time. "The last of my jewels!"
"I got my dueling guns," went on the husband, "and called to the thief to stand where he was, but instead of obeying me, he leaped for this window and ran out into the night. I fired after him but he seems to have gotten away."
The Lone Ranger heard the old man's explanation, knowing there was not a word of truth in it. He could not understand Langford's reason for telling such a string of falsehoods. It had not yet occurred to anyone to search the proximity of the house.
But then a new arrival spoke. "How do you know," he said, "that this thief got away?"
"Of course I don't know for certain, but he seems to have done so," Langford said. "Didn't you fire at him?"
"Of course."
"How do you know you didn't drop him?" The speaker turned to the men. "Let's spread out fan-shape and ride out from this window an' see if there's any sign of the thief havin' stopped one of Langford's bullets."
"That's better'n doin' nothin'," agreed a voice. Plans were quickly made, and the men rode away from the window. Two of them were heading straight toward the tree where the Lone Ranger stood. They came slowly, studying the ground in the moonlight. To remain where he was meant certain discovery, and to flee would be to invite death from a bullet. The men were ready to shoot on sight, and shoot to kill.
The Lone Ranger formed a hasty plan. He crouched by the tree until the horsemen were but a few yards away. Then he removed his battered black hat and scaled it high up among the branches. The hat brushed leaves, and the horsemen, skilled in detecting the slightest unusual sound, were quick to catch the rustle.
They halted instantly. "Hear that?" said one of them.
"I heard it all right. It sounded as if someone moved up in that thar tree."
"An' there ain't no breeze tuh stir the branches." The speaker raised his voice and shouted, "Come down from there afore we start blastin' yuh out."
The Lone Ranger counted on this very thing.
The men were concentrating their attention on the branches of the tree. He leaped from behind the trunk, and raced toward the house, and toward the nearest horseman.
The man looked down as the Lone Ranger came close to him. "Thar he is," he yelled, bringing his gun down. But the Lone Ranger was upon the rider, clutching at him, and dragging him from the saddle. Wild shouts filled the air.
No one dared to fire for fear of hitting their companion, but all leaped to the ground to join the fight. Rough hands tore at the masked man's clothing, trying to pull him away from the man with whom he grappled.
The Lone Ranger fought desperately. His life depended on it.
"Lemme at him, lemme at him," bellowed a familiar voice. It was Eph Summers, the prison guard, who pushed through the mass of men to clutch the Lone Ranger from behind. "It's
him
," he roared, "the masked man that's got Dave Walters!"
The Lone Ranger brought his fist around in a short hook, and landed a blow flush on the jaw of the man nearest him. He ducked and whirled, breaking loose from Eph Summer's grip. He stepped back quickly to gather himself for a new attack, but guns glinted in the moonlight. Instead of doing the expected thing and running away from the mass of men, the masked man lowered his head and charged again into their midst. He struck one in the stomach with his shoulder, using all the strength of his driving legs. He heard the fellow's breath go out with a
whoosh
. Once more he jabbed with his balled fist, and felt the impact to his shoulder as his blow went home on someone's chin.
The man would have gone down, if the Lone Ranger hadn't caught him. He lifted the man high above his head, and threw the fellow bodily at the others who sought to capture him.
Men went down in a tangle of arms and legs. In that split second of confusion the Lone Ranger leaped to the back of one of the horses, heeled the beast's flanks, and shouted a "Giddap!" He accompanied his shout with a hard slap on the high strung mustang's rump, and the nervous animal was off like a flash.
Guns roared and bullets came close as the Lone Ranger crouched low over the racing horse's neck. He set a course straight through the heart of the town, running a gauntlet of shouts and shots on both sides of the street. At the far end of the lighted lane, the masked man took a long chance. Without slackening the pace of the fast little horse, he threw himself from the saddle while the horse ran on without breaking its stride.
The Lone Ranger landed on his feet, but his momentum made him fall forward and roll crazily along the ground. He was winded and badly shaken from the spill, but managed to regain his feet and duck into the shelter of the arroyo before the pursuing men raced by.
For several minutes the masked man stretched his length on the ground, gasping for breath.
At least
, he thought ironically,
I've given that old man's lies something to back them up. Now the law wants me as the robber of those jewels as well as for aiding a prisoner to escape
.
But for the present he was free. He gulped in huge lungfuls of cool air then examined himself to make sure no bones were broken. He could not linger here for long. Soon the men would overtake the mustang and know that their quarry had left the saddle. Then the search would begin in earnest. They would know he must be near the town, and they would doubtless form a circle around it, working in. They couldn't fail to find Silver.
The Lone Ranger dragged himself painfully to his feet, and headed toward the spot where the big white horse had been left. He could hear the men in town, and hoped fervently that he could release his horse before the search began in earnest.
Silver was well-trained. The horse made no sound as the Lone Ranger approached. The masked man found his saddlebag and brought forth a pad of paper and the stub of a lead pencil. He wrote a hurried note, which he fastened to the horn of the saddle. He took his own white hat from the horn, and put it on his head. His own neckerchief replaced the bright one he had been wearing.
"That note," the masked man whispered to the horse, "is for Tonto. Take it, Silver, find Tonto."
The horse remained motionless. "It's all right, old fellow," said the Lone Ranger, "I know what I'm doing. I can't go back with you now, and you've got to get away from here in a hurry. Now go and—" He broke off with a trace of a smile showing on his face. "Sorry, Silver, I guess I'm getting absent-minded," he said. He jerked the reins loose from the shrub to which they'd been tied, and tossed them about the saddle horn. "Now," he said, "get going. Away, Silver."
The horse responded. The great white head jerked up, the horse whirled and clambered up the bank of the arroyo. In another moment he was out of sight.
The Lone Ranger stood there, listening and waiting. No shouts announced that Silver had been sighted. He heard the hoofbeats diminishing in the distance.
He glanced overhead, the stars seemed to be swinging dizzily in the great bowl of the sky. The Lone Ranger felt his legs grow numb, unable to support his weight. He slumped to the ground, struggling and fighting to retain his reeling senses. Men on all sides hunted him. He must not stay there in the arroyo. Daylight would soon break, and discovery then would be certain. He'd be met by men who would welcome the chance to shoot to kill him; men
he
could not shoot to kill; men as honest as he himself, or Dave Walters, the boy in whose behalf he worked.
His mind was racing, he was giddy with a confusion of disjointed thoughts. He slumped from his sitting posture to sprawl on the ground while he had vague visions of Steve Delaney—stolen jewels—Langford who looked like a gentleman and lied without conscience. "So many things to do," he thought, "locate the gambler and question him; see John Langford to demand an accounting of those lies; find the killer of Ma Prindle; save Dave Walters's life, and find his parents."
But he couldn't think any longer. His strength had been taxed beyond the limits of endurance by the fight after hours of riding, and the hard fall from the saddle of a racing mustang. He couldn't hear the clamour in the town. He couldn't feel the pain of his bruises. His eyes closed, and the masked man slipped into a black pit of oblivion.