Tonto comes to the Lone Ranger's rescue

(NOTE: This is the sixth part in a serial-type story about the origin of the Lone Ranger. In the last part, Butch Cavendish and his gang had just ambushed the Texas Rangers.)

Tonto
Three men rode into the canyon known as Bryant’s Gap. At least, that is what the white men called it. These men, however, were not white, but native. As they entered the canyon on a scouting expedition for game, they heard shots being fired a distance into the canyon. They dismounted upon hearing the shots and moved to the safety of a small grove of trees.
The youngest of the men scrambled up the gentle slope of the canyon near the grove to see what was happening. He returned about the time the gunfire ended.
“What do you see?” asked the oldest of the three.
“Many white men shooting guns into the canyon. I could not see what they were shooting,” the man answered.
A look of concern crossed the faces of his companions.
“I do not like it,” the older one said. “When white men shoot their guns, there is always trouble. We should leave before they find us.”
The third man finally spoke up.
“Ta-ha-ho-nee, I am not afraid of the white men. I think we should go see what they are shooting. Maybe they have killed some buffalo that we can take for food,” he said.
“No, Tonto. Where there are white men and guns there is trouble. I want no part of it,” Ta-ha-ho-nee said.
“What about you, Nay-yawa? Will you come with me or leave like Ta-ha-ho-nee?”
Nay-yawa was still unsettled by what he had seen. He clearly had no interest in getting closer to the white men and chose to go with Ta-ha-ho-nee.
“I will go and see what I can find,” Tonto said. “You should go and look elsewhere for food. I will see you back at the village.”
The men split up and Tonto rode cautiously into the canyon. By the time he reached the scene, the shooters were gone. All that was left in a sea of blood were the bodies of horses and men. Realizing the killers could return at any time, he set about quickly scavenging the bodies for anything of value, especially guns and ammunition. As he came up on the body of one of the men, he noticed the man was still breathing, but just barely.
Tonto drew his knife and held it to the neck wound intending to mercifully end the man’s misery. Just before he thrust his blade, he noticed the man’s necklace and a very familiar amulet attached to it.
“Kemosabe?” he said, looking closer at the man’s face.
He didn’t recognize the face behind the blood and bushy beard, but he did recognize the amulet. He had given it to a young white man several years ago as a gift for saving his life.
For the next several hours Tonto busied himself tending to the man’s wounds. As he worked, he thought back to the last time they had met. An Indian war party had attacked the Cavendish and Reid ranches. In addition to taking off with livestock and horses, they killed Mike Cavendish, along with his oldest son, Hank. James and Martha Reid were also killed. Their sons, Dan and John, were off hunting with Butch Cavendish and didn’t know about the raid until they returned to their homes that evening.
Butch found his mother weeping inconsolably over her husband’s body. The Reid brothers ran a gamut of emotion as they found the bodies of their parents and most of their animals gone. The next morning the three boys, now in their late teens, banded together and went in pursuit of the Indian raiders.
As they followed the trail, they came across a few stray cows and a couple of their horses. They lost time rounding up the animals and eventually the trail went cold. Heading in the general direction the raiders had gone, the boys came up on a small encampment of Indians.
Without hesitation, they galloped their mounts into the camp, charging in with guns blazing. Within the first 30 seconds, seven Indians were dead, including three women and two children. The tribe scattered and Butch and Dan rode after them. John stopped, slid off his horse, and picked up a quiver of arrows dropped by one of the dead men. He looked at the arrows and compared them to one that he had pulled from his father’s body. They were very different. These were not the killers.
(Copyright 2010, Joe Southern)