(NOTE: This is the second part in a serial-type story about the origin of the Lone Ranger. In the first part last week, Butch Cavendish was trying to choke the Lone Ranger to death as they fought atop a canyon rim. The Masked Man was barely able to break free.)
In the beginning
As the two men contemplated each other – the Lone Ranger on his knees, his chest heaving in desperate gasps for air, and Butch Cavendish nearly blind from the grit in his eyes – each flashed back in their minds to pivotal moments in time throughout the past 38 years. Cavendish was focused on their last encounter 13 years earlier when the masked stranger captured him and placed him behind bars for what was meant to be a lifetime of misery and hard labor.
The Lone Ranger’s mind wandered farther back, much farther. He recalled the first time he met Cavendish nearly four decades earlier as young boys on ranches on the Texas frontier. The Reid family had been established in their log home for almost two years when one spring day an ox-drawn covered wagon pulled up to the house. The wagon was driven by a man who appeared to be pushing 35. Next to him was a woman, apparently his wife. Two young boys rode up behind them on horses.
James Reid stopped the horse that was pulling a plow and strode over to the wagon. His wife Martha peered out the kitchen window before drying her hands on a dish towel and walking briskly out the front door.
The two young Reid brothers came running up from the wood shed where they had been chopping firewood. It was rare to have visitors, especially unannounced. Their spread was a ways off the beaten path and most of the people who visited were natives with whom the Reids had developed a friendly relationship. As the family encroached on the wagon, the man jumped down and headed for the elder Reid.
“Howdy, the name’s Cavendish, Mike Cavendish an’ this’s my wife Clara. Back there are our boys, Hank and Butch. We’re homesteaders. We bought some land ’round hereabouts and was hoping you fine folks could point it out to us.”
Reid grabbed Cavendish’s hand and pumped it vigorously.
“Pleased to meet ya! We don’t get many visitors in these parts, let alone neighbors. I’m James Reid. That’s my wife Martha and over there’s our boys, Danny and Johnny.”
Clara Cavendish clambered down from the wagon and joined her husband about the time Martha arrived at James’ side. Hank and Butch rode up and stopped. Danny, being the oldest at age 12, was the first to arrive at the group. He ran up and stopped, putting his hands on his knees and bending over to catch his breath. A few seconds later Johnny ran up behind him. He was barely winded.
“Who are they Paw?” he asked. “What do they want?”
“Hey Johnny, these are the Cavendishes and they’re going to be our neighbors,” Reid said.
The youngest boy slid off his horse and faced Johnny.
“Hi, I’m Butch and that’s my ugly brother Hank,” he said, pointing his thumb toward the older boy, who was sliding off his mount.
“Butch!” Clara said in a stern voice. “You be nice to your brother, ya’ hear?”
“Yes m’am,” he demurred.
“I’m Johnny, Johnny Reid and this here’s my brother Danny,” Johnny excitedly exclaimed to Butch.
The two boys sized each other up. Butch was a bout six months younger, but stood a half an inch taller.
“It’s gonna be so nice to have someone to play with who ain’t my brother,” Butch said.
Hank just ignored him, but Clara cast a sour glance at him.
“You will stay for supper, won’t you?” asked Mary Reid, turning Clara’s attention from her sons.
“We’re mighty appreciative of the offer,” Cavendish said, “but we’ve been on the road for a long time and we’re anxious to see this place we bought.”
“I hope you’ll reconsider,” Reid said. “It’s getting’ late in the day and the Indians will be coming out soon to hunt. Not all of them are friendly. You don’t want to be alone and unprotected if the wrong ones come along. Why don’t you folks stay here the night and we’ll help you on you way first light of morning.”
“That’s might kind of ya,” Cavendish replied. “We graciously accept your kind offer.”
Meanwhile, in the present, Butch Cavendish rubbed his eyes clear and glared down at his enemy. He mind raced back to their last encounter. The memory just made him all the angrier.
What was that memory? Tune in next week to find out.
(Copyright 2010, Joe Southern)
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