The Lone Ranger and Tonto by Fran Striker, Francis Hamilton Striker Page B
Authors: Fran Striker, Francis Hamilton Striker
Tags: Western
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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.
Chapter VII
HEARD AT THE WINDOW
Over half the men in town had grown tired of waiting for the Sheriff to return from the manhunt. They were ready to go to their respective homes. Then Langford had raised the alarm and the masked man had raced through the town on Jake Lane's mustang. This sudden development gave everyone renewed interest in events. Another manhunt got under way at once.
Though the Sheriff and his men were somewhere on the plains hunting for the friend who had taken Dave Walters from the jail, Eph Summers swore that the masked man the lawmen sought was close at hand. He vowed that the man who borrowed Jake's horse to escape was the one who, earlier in the day, had ridden away on the big white stallion.
The mustang was found a couple of miles outside the town, and found without a rider. It was obvious that the masked man had leaped from the saddle and was at that very moment in hiding near by. The townsmen spread in all directions to conduct an intensive search, but the manhunt was a wholly disorganized one. Each individual felt that one of the others would locate the masked man with the result that no one person took his part in the search very seriously.
Men would start out from town with loud threats and boasts to hunt the mysterious figure, but none of them would venture far away. They did not want to take the risk of meeting the masked rider alone, or of being away when someone else brought him in a captive.
The Lone Ranger, while the hunt went on, lay unconscious in the old arroyo. Finally he opened his eyes and blinked a few times at the stars. He found himself flat on his back. His mind was whirling as he tried to remember what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a note he had sent to Tonto. He turned slightly to locate the moon, and from its position judged that he had been unconscious for about an hour. Every fibre of his being ached when he moved, and when he tried to sit up, he felt throbbing pain like sharp lances piercing his head.
"Can't stay here," he muttered softly, "must get up. Must get away from here." He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples. This seemed to help a little. The ringing in his ears subsided, and in a few moments he could
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.
Chapter VII
HEARD AT THE WINDOW
Over half the men in town had grown tired of waiting for the Sheriff to return from the manhunt. They were ready to go to their respective homes. Then Langford had raised the alarm and the masked man had raced through the town on Jake Lane's mustang. This sudden development gave everyone renewed interest in events. Another manhunt got under way at once.
Though the Sheriff and his men were somewhere on the plains hunting for the friend who had taken Dave Walters from the jail, Eph Summers swore that the masked man the lawmen sought was close at hand. He vowed that the man who borrowed Jake's horse to escape was the one who, earlier in the day, had ridden away on the big white stallion.
The mustang was found a couple of miles outside the town, and found without a rider. It was obvious that the masked man had leaped from the saddle and was at that very moment in hiding near by. The townsmen spread in all directions to conduct an intensive search, but the manhunt was a wholly disorganized one. Each individual felt that one of the others would locate the masked man with the result that no one person took his part in the search very seriously.
Men would start out from town with loud threats and boasts to hunt the mysterious figure, but none of them would venture far away. They did not want to take the risk of meeting the masked rider alone, or of being away when someone else brought him in a captive.
The Lone Ranger, while the hunt went on, lay unconscious in the old arroyo. Finally he opened his eyes and blinked a few times at the stars. He found himself flat on his back. His mind was whirling as he tried to remember what had happened. The last thing he remembered was a note he had sent to Tonto. He turned slightly to locate the moon, and from its position judged that he had been unconscious for about an hour. Every fibre of his being ached when he moved, and when he tried to sit up, he felt throbbing pain like sharp lances piercing his head.
"Can't stay here," he muttered softly, "must get up. Must get away from here." He pressed his hands against his throbbing temples. This seemed to help a little. The ringing in his ears subsided, and in a few moments he could
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