SEPTEMEBER 10, 1861

The "Devil" Texan
by Michael Quebec
Original characters created by Ella Davis and Michael Quebec
Alias Smith and Jones and related characters were created by Glen Larson
The Lone Ranger and related characters were created by
Fran Striker and George W. Trendle

Fort Bartholemew

There were some afternoons, late in the day, when Major Bartholemew Cavendish liked to come up from his underground compound, to gaze out of the window of the upper building of the trader's post and take in the empty beauty of the Northern Great Plains.  The emptiness, the sheer size, it gave him a sense of awe. While sipping a glass of fine wine, he conducted his interview of his newest employee, a vaquero who, single-handedly, had made short work of three of his roughest men in a bar fight earlier in town. Cavendish's bodyguard was on-hand, standing back silently.

Cavendish asked while gazing out the window, "And what did you say your name was again?" 

The Masked Man, in his disguise as the vaquero replied, "Fernando Ricardo Enrique Dominquez senor." 

The bodyguard replied sarcastically with a smirk, "FRED! Why the hell do you people have such long names?" 

"Perhaps senor," said the Masked Man as the vaquero, directing his answer to the guard, "it is because we have such short lives." 

Cavendish smirked. Pronouncing the Masked Man's assumed name with a role of the tongue, mimicking a Spanish accent, he said, while turning towards him, "Fernando Ricardo. You know, when I first heard about what you did to my men, I was very angry.  So angry, that I wanted to crush you with my bare hands!" To illustrate his point, Cavendish neatly cleaved the head off of a carved marble statue in the room with the edge of his hand. It was a martial-arts blow that shattered the expensive stone carving. 

Calmly, the Masked Man said in his accent, "Ees an espenseeve statue, senor." 

Rubbing his hand slightly, Cavendish said, "Yes. Ming Dynasty. I can't expect a simple vaquero such as yourself to appreciate such things. After the war with your countrymen ended in forty-eight, I spent some time in the Far East, attached to the American military advisers to China following their defeat to the British during the Opium War. Though they make poor cannons, I've found that there's actually much to be admired in the Eastern mind. They are superbly disciplined, which is why the Chinese workers that we've imported for use in the mines and on the railroads are such a threat to our own 'American-born' workers. Discipline. It's what makes any functioning machine work. We are a machine here, 'FRED.' I run it. I curtailed my temper, because I realized that a man like you could be useful to my cause. In return, of course, I can make you a rich man." 

"Si, mi general," responded the Masked Man with a nod. 

"Obstacles, even human ones, cannot stand before the machine. The Indians here will soon discover this, despite their bravery, their foolishness." Cavendish then decided to bait the 'vaquero', to test his reaction. "Not too long ago, another very brave, very foolish man, sought to stop me. He and his band of Rangers sought to entrap me. He even brought along his brother, a boy really, as a part of his 'Merry Little Band.'" Cavendish laughed. "Your people are familiar with the Texas Rangers, are they not? After the atrocities they perpetrated upon your civilian population following the end of that war?" Cavendish had already retrieved his glass for another sip of wine.

The Masked Man answered, "Si, mi general. 'Los Diablos Tejanos,' The Devil Texans. But, there were some among them, very few to be sure, who did try to stop the slaughter of my people. They were not always successful." 

Beneath his disguise, the Masked Man felt guilt about the story of the Texas Rangers' brutality to surrendering Mexican women and children at the end of The Mexican-American War, even though he himself was not even a member of the Texas Rangers till the day of his brother's death, long after The Mexican-American War was finished.  He was also sure that Dan had told him the truth about his attempting to stop the slaughter after the Americans had marched upon the Mexican capital. He was sure that Cavendish was baiting him and he was right. 

Cavendish continued, "Sympathy for the enemies of your blood Fernando?" Cavendish emphasized that name, rather than the mock acronym ‘Fred.’ 

The Masked Man responded, "No, senor. Ees seemply the truth." 

Cavendish smirked. "Well, regardless, I destroyed that particular Tejano's plans to catch me, along with his entire company like the insignificant flee that he truly was." The Masked Man held his temper in check, knowing that Cavendish was referring to his own brother, Dan. Cavendish was increasing the severity of his ‘bating.’

The Masked Man asked, "And the brother, the boy, senor?" 

Cavendish responded, "Dead, I assumed. There were other posses coming, so we had to leave the scene. Upon returning later, we never found the body." Cavendish moved closer and eyed him. "I'm sure, if given the chance . . ."  Cavendish pulled out a pistol and slowly raised it.  "he wouldn't hesitate to kill me, if he were still alive." He then handed the pistol to the Masked Man. "Wouldn't you agree?" 

The Masked Man took the pistol and played with it in his hand.  Calmly, with almost no emotion given, he said, "I'm sure I would, mi general. But I am an only child." He then handed the gun back to Cavendish. 

Looking the gun over before holstering it, Cavendish said, "I hope you don't cross me in any way, Fred. I wouldn't want to be disappointed in you. Comprende?" 

In a very serious tone, the Masked Man answered, "Si...mi general." Cavendish nodded to him and the Masked Man exited the room. 

Cavendish waited until he was sure the 'vaquero' was gone and out of earshot. He then said to his bodyguard, "Keep an eye on him. Make sure he isn't more than what he claims to be." The guard answered with a nod, then also exited as Cavendish looked on.

**********

Cavendish’s Underground Lair beneath the Trader Fort

In the guise of the vaquero, the Masked Man strode through a long hallway. Beneath the thin rubber mask, which clung to the Masked Man’s face, the sweat lightly formed in drops on his skin. The fake beard and moustache tickled and irritated him. The Masked Man hardly gave the feelings much thought. He was busy marveling at the feat of engineering that Cavendish had accomplished.

The long hallway stretched out before the Masked Man. The floor, the walls, even the ceiling, was made of solid black marble. The smoothness of the black stone floor threatened to unbalance the Masked Man beneath his feet. However, years of training in the martial arts enabled the Masked Man to maintain his footing, even at the rapid pace of his stride.

The air was cool. Not cold like the outdoors, but cool. The air almost seemed to hum. The feeling of the air upon the Masked Man’s skin seemed to him to be artificial.

The scent of the air as well, was also unusual. Actually, the lack of scent was unusual. "Stagnant" was the word that kept nudging it’s way through the back of the Masked Man’s mind, like an insect that keeps biting the flesh, the irritant growing steadily into pain. "Sterile," thought the Masked Man, "like everything Cavendish stands for. Clean and pure . . . and soulless. Cavendish’s view of order."

The Masked Man also couldn’t help noticing the lights on the ceiling, arranged in two rows that ran down the hallway, standing out like bright safires. The lights were beautiful . . . in a way. "Years ahead of his time," thought the masked man.

The steady humming that the Masked Man felt and heard grew louder. He followed the sound to the source.

Sprawling out before the Masked Man, opening his eyes wide with disbelief and shock, was the power generator, a two hundred by one hundred feet monstrosity made up of steel, rubber wires, chrome, and powered by heart of stone. A stone that glowed with a light that seemed brighter than the sun.

The Masked Man was not sure he recognized the stone. He could only glance at it for a second before turning away, the bright light stinging the eyes. The Masked Man saw that the stone was encased within thick glass and that the men working around it were wearing protective suits and face coverings. He almost didn’t hear the click of the trigger being cocked back behind his left ear.

Faster than the speed of thought, the Masked Man spun around, getting his head out of the line of the pistol’s fire. He then seized the would-be assassin’s gun-arm with his fingers.

To Cavendish’s man, the finger grip from the Masked Man was like twin vises, the points of the fingers digging into the nerves, making holding onto the pistol impossible.

"Aaahhh! Jesus!" The pain was unbearable.

With the cat-like grace of a ju-jitsu master, the Masked Man then sent Cavendish’s man crashing to the floor with a perfectly executed hip toss. Unfortunately, the loud rattling sound of the body crashing to the floor of the metal scaffold, where the two "combatants" were placed, alerted the workers. One of them rang the alarm bell.

"Intruder! Intruder alert!" was the worker’s reply. The workers began running, while more guards came forward. "Don’t shoot! No guns! If you miss and a bullet strikes the reactor-!"

"We know, we know!" came another guard’s reply.

The guards put away their pistols and produced clubs, knives, and swords. The Masked Man had the gun from Cavendish’s man. However, seeing his attackers cautiously put away their guns while near the power generator made the Masked Man also cautious. He lowered the gun.

As the Masked Man turned to make his escape, Cavendish’s man awoke, tackling the Masked Man and holding the disguised avenger against the metal railing of the platform.

"He’s got ‘em! C’mon!" The guards on the floor raced up the stairs towards the two combatants.

Cavendish’s man pushed against the Masked Man’s face with his right hand. The man’s left fist was cocked menacingly, but the Masked Man held his opponent’s with another vise like grip.

"Son of a bitch!" yelled out Cavendish’s man, in pain from the Masked Man’s wrist hold. "I’m twice your size and outweigh you by 50 pounds! You can’t...shouldn’t be able to-!"

"You’re like all the rest of your kind, friend," responded the Masked Man as he started to rise up from the railing, slowly regaining the advantage. "You’ve been getting by with fear. Bluffing your way through with your size and strength. Well those two things don’t count for much!" The Masked Man released his hold on the guard’s wrist and delivered a smashing right that crashed into the guard’s solar plexus, cruelly driving the air from the man’s lungs. "Skill is what matters. Speed helps, too. You sorely lack in those. A gut that’s soft!" Applying a ju-jitsu wrist hold to the guard, the Masked Man freed his face from the guard’s right hand, but not without the "vaquero" disguise being dragged off. The Masked Man now only had his black mask to hide his face.
"Your reaction time is also second-rate . . . at best. Yes, you’ve been getting
along by frightening people. Well . . . I DON’T SCARE!"

The guard’s face was now pressed against the floor of the platform, the cold steel freezing the side of his face. The guard slowly struggled to raise his head, to get a glimpse of the "spy" without the disguise. The guard saw the Masked Man’s face, hidden with the black mask. "Who . . . who are . . . you?" The Masked Man yanked on the guard, standing him up, causing the guard to cry out in even more pain. "Ahhh!"

"I . . . am THE LONE RANGER!" With that, the Lone Ranger delivered a smashing right that sent the guard flying into the approaching guards, scattering them like tenpins down the stairs of the platform.

More guards came up, barring the Lone Ranger’s escape. One charged at the blue avenger, saber raised high. The masked man-hunter ducked beneath the cruel swipe of the sharp steel, the air whizzing with the miss of the cut. The Lone Ranger then sent the swords man flying into the air and into the other guards with another perfectly executed throw.

Pain then shot through the masked man hunter. A guard’s club smashed into the Ranger’s left arm. "Lone Ranger, are ya? You’ll be the ‘lumped Ranger’ when I get through with ya!" This guard then drew back the club to his right, ready for a swing that threatened to pulverize the Lone Ranger’s head into pulp.

Quickly, the Ranger threw off the last vestige of the vaquero disguise, the blanket and Mexican jacket that covered his true costume, and tossed it at the face of the club-wielding henchman. "Wha-?" was the guard’s reply as he was temporarily blinded.

"Hai ya!" The Masked Man yelled out a kiai as he delivered a spinning back kick that sent the club-wielding guard up and over the railing to the floor 20 feet below.

Holding his arm in pain, bloodied and battered, but not beaten, standing defiant and ready while surrounded by half a dozen armed guards, stood the Lone Ranger, free of all subterfuge, of all disguise. Now stood the Masked Man as he truly was meant to be . . . a blue-clad battler of evil!

Like a whirling dervish, the Lone Ranger fought on, armed only with his courage, his determination, and his athletic skill. Against superior numbers, against men armed with clubs and cold steel blades, the Lone Ranger knew it was hopeless. But fight on he did. And each man, no matter how well armed, felt the sharp, smashing pain of the Lone Ranger’s fists and feet. And somehow, someway, seemingly impossibly, the Lone Ranger stood alone, amidst a dozen unconscious, "well armed" men.

Panting hard to catch his breath, the Lone Ranger could hardly focus, as the pain and the exhaustion ravaged his body. The Lone Ranger almost didn’t hear the hand claps echoing behind him.

"A most excellent display, my dear detective. Your victory over my guards is an extraordinary example of the ‘triumph over impossible odds.’ A true testament to your skill and courage. The mark of a ‘hero’. A pity that I must destroy you."

A green mist singed the hairs of the Masked Man’s nostrils and burned its way into his lungs. The pain of the gas didn’t last long. The Lone Ranger lapsed into unconsciousness.