SEPTEMBER 8, 1861

The "Devil" Texan
by Michael Quebec
based upon characters created by Ella Davis
The Lone Ranger and related characters were created
by Fran Striker and George W. Trendle

Beneath the main store of Fort Bartholemew resided a true miracle of engineering, a subterranean dwelling that was both a palatial estate and a paramilitary headquarters. That such a quarters could be both constructed and maintained in the middle of the Great Plains during the 1860's, in total secrecy, was a sign that the man behind it was anything but ordinary.

Major Bartholemew Cavendish liked to think of himself as above ordinary men and he was right. At West Point, his tactical maneuvers had been compared to that of the great military geniuses of the world, from Napoleon to Genghis Khan. He was also a man possessed of great charisma and magnetism. He was a master of manipulation and the spoken word, through which he could convince men to perpetrate acts that no sane man would do under ordinary circumstances. However, his ambition and arrogance were proportionate with his genius. Though formal psychiatric evaluations were a century and a half in the making, Cavendish's superiors knew that promoting that insane bastard to higher levels of command would be disastrous for the U.S. Army. They did what they could to keep him from being promoted, despite his string of victories during the Mexican American War. He resented the fools who took credit for his victories during the war with Mexico, but he told himself that it mattered not. The war was simply a way of sharpening his tactical skills in preparation for bigger game. For here, in his underground headquarters beneath the civilian fort that bore his name, Cavendish plotted
and planned, setting in motion his bid for the establishment of the Wyoming Territory under his personal banner.

This was mid-afternoon, the time when he liked to practice classical fencing maneuvers, to focus his mind and body. On hand, while Cavendish cut and slashed away at an armored and padded dummy target, were two of his lieutenants, representatives of law and order in the nearby township of Horse Creek, Sheriff Rance Newsom and Judge Harlan Bowland.

Bowland began, "The mine's output has increased by ten percent, Major. The new workers-." Cavendish cut him off and said, "Ten percent is just slightly above NOTHING. The members of Congress can not be purchased with mere tokens."

"Yes, sir," said Bowland as he lowered his head. "But we can't work the mines harder without raising more suspicion. The number of workers . . . and the death toll-."

"Are all in keeping with my plans, which for the moment, I have not chosen to divulge to you, in full detail." Cavendish thrust his saber into the chest cavity of the practice dummy. "If you need more workers, simply continue to take them from the Indians that frequent the Trail."

Bowland responded, "We've been doing that, Major. But the Sioux, they've been causing more troubles along the Trail-."

"And how is that YOUR concern, judge?" Asked Cavendish, annoyed.

"Well sir, it seems to me that the more troubles happening nearby, the more we draw attention to our operations-."

Cavendish seized Bowland's throat, his fingers gripping his Adam's apple, dropping the huge man to his knees. "OUR operations? You dare place yourself on a par with me?   Have a care, Bowland! I have only tolerated your presence thus far because you have proved yourself useful to me on occasion! Do not seek to test my patience!" Cavendish then released Bowland, who coughed while gasping for breath while on his knees. Cavendish turned to Newsom, who stood at attention. "War with the Sioux and Cheyenne Nations will result in utter chaos. With Fort Laramie under-manned as a result of the Southern rebellion, the Wyoming territory will need a man with the means to bring
order! The silver obtained from the mine will guarantee our land appointments in Washington. Is that not right, sheriff?"

"Ye-yes, sir . . . Major!" Responded Newsom, anxious to avoid bringing Cavendish's anger upon himself the way Bowland had.

"False trails have been maintained to implicate Fort Laramie in the abduction of the savages' red brothers?" Asked Cavendish.

"Maintained, sir. Our . . . YOUR . . . agents have reported upon the rising tensions between the regulars at Laramie and the Northern tribes," responded Newsom.

"Very well." Cavendish then referred to the still coughing and gasping Bowland. "Have the guards remove him. When he's able to speak, remind him of my generosity and patience in not disposing of him."

"Yes, sir."

"Come back after you've sent for the guards. Bring the man whom you assigned to dispose of the sheriff from Nebraska. He is still waiting in the hall, as he was instructed to, correct?"

"Yes, sir." Newsom exited and called out in the hall. "Guards!" Two guards entered and Newsom said, "The major wants him returned to town. Get a doctor for him, too." The guards nodded and left with Bowland. Newsom then went into the hall to get his man, who was talking with some other guards.

"I'm tellin' ya, it was a white man leading them! Masked and he came a swoopin' down on us on a pale horse like somethin' outta one them dime novel ghost stories!" Said the man to one of the guards in the hall.

One of them responded, "So you say it was a whole pack a Injuns, led by a renegade?"

"That it was! Maybe thirty or forty of 'em, and he was probably a squaw man, or somethin' like that. Anyways, after I made shore the job was done, I lit out, straight outta there as fast as I can. It was too late for the other two and I wanted to make shore ah still had me a full head a hair!"

Newsom came to them and they all immediately stood at attention. "Major's ready for you, now." The man nodded and followed Newsom back towards Cavendish's office.

"You state in your report that thirty to forty Sioux braves descended upon you and your men, killing your two companions just before Trevors had been liquidated," said Cavendish, while continuing his practice.

"Yes sir, Major. It's right in there in my report," said Newsom's man.

"I am fully aware of the report. I simply wanted to see if you were foolhardy enough to state such boldfaced lies to me in person." Newsom's man kept quiet, but his eyes widened. Cavendish turned to him, looking him straight in the eyes with a gaze that could pierce through steel. It seemed as if Cavendish had peered through the man's soul and he no longer had the strength of will to maintain his charade. Cavendish said plainly, "If thirty Sioux braves had descended upon your party, there wouldn't be enough of you
left to pick up with a  blotter." The man looked away, the lie now fully stripped away from him. Cavendish paced. "Now as for Trevors, I want to know if he had been disposed of before your ran."

"We-we shot him just before they came on us, Major-."

"They? Description!"

"There-there was an Injun with him, but he wasn't a Sioux. Kiowa, I think."

"Two men?"

The man nodded. "The other was a white man on a pale Stallion. It was spooky. The horse almost glowed in the moonlight, like a-."

"Like a ghost?" Finished Cavendish.

"Yeah. It was like he was some kinda ghost."

"Undoubtedly, the effect the rider wished to convey upon his quarry. Superstition. The affliction of the ignorant." Cavendish then turned to the man and finished, "And the stupid."

The man bowed his head in shame and continued. "He wore some kind of mask-."

Cavendish now was sure whom the man was referring to. "Yes. HIM. Even here, he dares follow me, seeking to interfere with my plans!" With one movement, Cavendish thrust his saber into the man's midsection, then pulled his saber free, killing the man instantly. He then turned to Newsom, who stood by trembling with shock. "This man was under your direct command, sheriff. We cannot tolerate cowardice or incompetence within our ranks. Understood? Make sure that Trevors is truly dead. Then find the Masked Man and his Indian companion."

"Ye-yes, sir!" Before Newsom could leave, Cavendish then issued one more order, referring to the dead man, bleeding on the floor. "One more thing. Remove him. And have someone clean up this mess."

"Yes, sir!" Newsom exited as Cavendish took a towel to wipe the blood from his saber.

Meanwhile back at the mines, "Justin? Justin! You still alive?" Asked Thaddeus Jones, who was shaking the apparently unconscious form of Justin Calhoun.

"Unfortunately," was Justin's quiet reply. Justin then asked, "What . . . what the devil are ya doin'?" Thaddeus had taken off his shirt, having tied it around Justin's leg to stop the bleeding. He was now removing Justin's shirt. Justin was very suspicious of that.

"Don't worry," replied Thaddeus. "You ain't my type." Thaddeus used the shirt, along with their under shirts, to cover the bottom of the box floor. "That guard was right. This thing's gettin' hotter n' an oven. Got to find a way for us to keep from burnin' up."

"Swe . . . sweat lodge," said Justin.

"Sweat what?" Asked Thaddeus.

"Sweat lodge," said Justin. In short gasps, both from the pain of his wounded leg and from the increasing heat within their iron prison, Justin explained. "See, the Lakota would lay out . . . skins over a lodge. Inside would be a fire. Gets so hot in there . . . ya'd think you was bein' cooked fer dinner."

"I knowed Indians was crazy. Why the hell they'd wanna do that?" Asked Thaddeus, the heat getting to him.

"It was a way . . . of getting in touch with . . . Wakantanka," was Justin's reply.

"Walk a tonk a WHAT?" Said Thaddeus.

Justin explained, "Wakantanka . . . God. The Lakota believe that all they have to give to God is their bodies. Through pain . . . they feel closer to Him. The Sun Dance . . . the vision quest . . . the sweat lodge."

"Well, I ain't been to church since I was a little kid. 'Course, choosin' 'tween a sermon what says I'm headin' straight ta Hell and bein' in a actual oven-." Thaddeus shook his
head. "What a choice."

Justin smiled as he said, "It's just like . . . the sweat lodge . . . you see? We can...get through this-."

"By 'gettin' religion'? In here? No thanks! I got me enough troubles without gettin' no Indian mumbo jumbo!" Was Thaddeus' reply. "We got to start thinkin' of a way to get outta this thing and get you to a doctor-!"

Justin cut in. "Ain't no way out. You heard 'em. Iron. Locked. Guards outside. No way out."

Thaddeus was now really annoyed, not just from the heat, but also from the smile coming from Justin's face. "Will you get that stupid look offa your face? It gives me the creeps! I mean, what are ya doin', just givin' up?"

"No," said Justin. "Fighting . . . without resisting."

"Oh great. More Indian religion."

"We can't . . . get out. So we . . . got to survive by goin' into . . . ourselves . . . our own minds. The Lakota believe . . . the 'real world' . . . is the world of dreams.   That's how . . . they deal with . . . impossible situations and survive."

That got Thaddeus' attention. "You into your 'own mind?'"

"Yep," replied Justin while smiling and closing his eyes.

"That's why the heat don't bother me none. That's why I'm gonna live."

"Well, what are ya thinkin' of?" Asked Thaddeus.

Justin replied with a smile, "Naked women."

Thaddeus replied, while finally seriously considering Justin's methods. "God damn." Thaddeus looked to Justin, who was now apparently asleep, or deep in concentration. Thaddeus had to add, "Say, Justin. I don't mean to cut into your spiritual connections with God and the naked women and all but, hell, I need you to kinda move to one side." Justin opened his eyes, already knowing what was bothering Thaddeus now. With urgency, Thaddeus said, "I gotta take a leak."