A fiery horse with a speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty hi-yo silver. The Lone Ranger. With his faithful Indian companion, Tonto, the daring and resourceful masked rider of the plains, led the fight for law and order in the early western United States. Nowhere in the pages of history can one find a greater champion of justice. Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear. From out of the past come the thundering hoofbeats of the great horse, Silver. The Lone Ranger rides again. Silver. Let's go, big fellow. I'll do it. Hooray! Sitting beside a campfire in one of the territories of the southwest, the Lone Ranger read a message which had been relayed to Tonto by an Indian runner. As he finished, he said, Tonto, this note came from our old friend the Padre. He wants us to look in two conditions in the Murado Valley. That long way for mission. That's true, but the Padre learns many things from travelers. In some way, he's heard of it that a man called Don Diablo is terrorizing the valley. What's that fellow's real name? The Padre wasn't able to find out. In fact, he wrote rather skeptically about the rumor. Oh. Don Diablo can be translated as Sir Satan. The alias suggests a Spaniard or Mexican. But it may be that the man isn't American if he actually exists. And what do we do? Prepare to ride. We're going to the Murado Valley. After several days of hard travel, the Lone Ranger and Tonto rode into the vast and fertile lowlands where Don Diablo was supposed to hold sway. Walled in by almost impassable mountains, the Murado Valley was a little world of its own, rarely visited by outsiders. At first view, it appeared to be a purple paradise. Tonto pointed. Look, Kimo Sabe. Runner over there got herd of goats. We'll have a talk with him. Come on, Silver. Get him up, scout. Oh, him. Him old man. Gray beard. Oh, much better. Old men speak more freely than young ones. He make peace sign. Come on, Silver. Come on, brother. Silencio, chivos. Buenos dias, amigo. Oh, buenos dias, senor. Senor, it is always the good day when the sun does not hide its face. That seems to be a reference to my mask. I'll let it frighten you. Senor, I am too old to fear death, too poor to fear bandidos. We're not bandits. We're strangers in a strange land. Do you know this valley well? Si. I am that one they call chivo padre, goat father. You savvy? Like a goat, I know El Valle Murano from end to end. Did you ever hear of anyone called Don Diablo? Por Dios, do not speak that name. Never. Why not? Do not ask. I have not seen you. I have not heard you. Vamos, chivos. The old man made the sign of the cross and hobbled away in a panic, swinging his staff at his bleating flock. The lone ranger stared after him. Don Diablo worse, hating himself. He couldn't strike more terror into the hearts of the valley men. Well, maybe him, not man at all. Maybe him like evil spirit that scare Indian. Whatever he is, we can be sure of one thing. We're riding on terror's trail. Monty! Get a monster! The following morning found the masked man and Indian deep in the valley. With each mile they traveled, their sense of danger grew, though they had seen nothing that seemed to threaten them. The haciendas which they passed in the distance appeared inviting. Cattle grazed peacefully in lush meadows. Birds caroled in the trees. But the malign name which no one wanted to hear was ever in the minds of the two friends. They rode in thoughtful silence until... Toto, there's a rider coming this way. Ah, there's something wrong with him. Look how him ride bent over. Yes, he may be hurt. What's the matter, friend? Him not even look up. Grab his reins. He got him. Hold it, hold it, hold it. Easy now. Toto, this man is dead. How dead, ma'am? Ride a horse. His legs have been tied to his saddle girth. Hold on to his horse. I'll get down and take a closer look. Easy, steady, fella. Steady, fella. Steady. Nobody hurt you. This man was shot in the head. Why, he was a deputy sheriff. May not see badge on vest. It's fastened to his back and holds a note. I'm unpinning it now. There, I have it. What note, say? It reads, Sheriff Pembroke Rosario, I am returning your spy con mucho gusto. What's that mean? With much pleasure. But that's not all. The message is signed, Don Diablo. Oh. It looked like him figure horse would go home with dead man and note. That was it. He wanted to show his contempt for law. Repenting the badge and note to the murdered deputy's back, the lone ranger searched his pockets and saddlebags. He found nothing of any significance. Then he noted that the dead man's hat had been pulled on so tightly that it could not fall off. Removing it with some difficulty, he looked inside and exclaimed, Tonto, the deputy was carrying the rile of a chihuahua spur in the sweatband of his hat. What do you make of that? My guess is that it had something to do with his murder. Certainly he considered it valuable, or he wouldn't have taken such pains to conceal it. Me never see American wear chihuahua spurs. Few, if any, do. Some Mexican vaqueros use them while riding vicious horses. But under ordinary circumstances, the wearer of such spurs betrays himself as being insanely cruel. That's right. This rile is gold-plated. The spikes are needle-sharp and more than an inch long. You can imagine what they would do to a horse's flanks. Ah. Maybe Don Diablo lose it and the deputy find it. That's a possibility to be considered. Chihuahua spurs fit his character as we know it, now that we've seen his hand to work. I'll keep this row for the time being. And what we do with dead man? Let the horse take him on to Rosario and backtrack it while the trail's fresh. Get along, fella. Get along. Well, him head in right direction. Yes, easy, silly big fella. Come on, Sylvie. Come on, scout. As the masked man and Indian took the back trail of the dead rider, Carlos Shelby, the wealthiest man in the Murado Valley, pulled down one of the books which lined the walls of his Hacienda library a few miles away. The owner of a score of big ranchos, Shelby was a small, effeminate-looking man of mixed blood, noted for generosity and hospitality. When Shelby appeared in public, he wore English tweeds and gold-rimmed spectacles. He always carried a book, never a gun. The book which engaged his interest at the moment was a German-language copy of Nietzsche's latest work, Also Sprach Zarathustra. He turned the pages idly until a line caught his eye, and he translated to himself. Thus spoke Zarathustra. The criminal is the type of the strong man. How true. This Nietzsche... I'm thinking it was a mistake to do it. Yours not to reason why. As Tennyson so aptly put it. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm just your top gunslinger. But I don't want my neck stretched. Please explain that statement, my dear fellow. For two years now, you've been working your Don Diablo game on the people in this valley. You've had me and the other boys kill ranches, burn buildings, rustle cattle. Everyone in the valley is buying up the land for a song. In another two years, I'll own the Murado. It once belonged to an ancestor of mine, a Spanish conquistador who won it from the Indians with sword and fire, rope and whip. I'm following in his footsteps. You're mighty sure of yourself. Why shouldn't I be? I'm above suspicion. People believe that Don Diablo is a Mexican bandit who has a stronghold in the mountains. They're afraid to speak his name. That doesn't explain why that lawman was spying on your ranch. He was watching it through field glasses when I plugged him. Ahoy Palloy is always curious about the way in which its batters live. Still, it was just as well that you removed him. I think he was sent out to investigate the raid we made on the Hermosa ranch the other night. And maybe he found something there that pointed to you. What could he have found? I don't know. We plugged old man Hermoso and the young Manuel Martini's. You got the Hermoso girl Rosita here. That accounts for all the witnesses. Unless somebody like the cook got away. What could a witness tell? We were masked. All right, boss. Have it your own way. I always do. Bring Rosita Hermosa to me. Right. As Mort left the room, the man, who was both Carlos Shelby, highly respected ranchero, and Don Diablo, the terror of the valley, took a quart from a desk drawer. The whip had a loaded handle and many knotted thongs, which he drew through one hand with a caressing motion until the door opened again. There you go. There she is, boss. Stay outside the door, Mort. Right. But you are Senor Shelby. Does that surprise you, my dear? Senor, this is not possible. Well, that unspeakable one, Don Diablo and his bandidos, have killed my padre and my Manuel. They have carried me off, but here I am in your hacienda. Senorita, I am Don Diablo. Is that true? But no, you make the joke. You are the good senor, the rich ranchero. Much times I have danced at your fiestas. So I noticed. That's why you are here. Let me out of this place. My dear girl, are you stupid enough to think that I'd let you go alive? You will stay alive only so long as you please me. So be pleasant. Here. Do not touch me, beast. Nietzsche has a chapter on women. Let us see what he advises. Let me see. Here it is. He likens women to cats and concludes with this line. Also sprach Toretustra. Forget not the whip. Ah, the whip. As the book-minded killer continued to scan outpourings of the insane German philosopher, Rosita grabbed up another volume from the desk. Oh, read this door. As she spoke, she hurled the book straight into Shelby's face, smashing his glasses. I'll kill you for that. He lashed at her with his quirt, but she nimbly dodged him and retreated to the door just as it opened. Let me out. For Dios, let me out. I got it, boy. What'd she do? She broke my last pair of glasses. I can hardly see without them. And only an optical company in San Francisco can supply the kind of need. You want I should hold her while you leave the lash at her? That will come later. Lock her up. And keep her locked up until I can get new glasses. I want to see her writhe in pain. I want to see. See. The curtain falls on the first act of our Lone Ranger adventure. Before the next exciting scenes, please permit us to pause for just a few moments. Now to continue. As Carlos Shelby raged in the library of his hacienda, the Lone Ranger and Tonto reached the end of the murdered deputy's back trail on a rock-strewn ridge a mile away. They drew rain. Oh, there's a gun, folks, out there. Tonto, this is where he was shot. We'll just mount and look around. Easy, steady, now. Before the masked man had taken more than a half-dozen steps, a rifle cracked. The bullet fanned his forehead. As he flattened himself, the hidden rifleman fired again. Glancing from a rock above his shoulders, the slug screamed off, narrowly missing the horses. Keep down, Tonto. What we do? I'll fire into the air to hold his attention while you slip around behind him. Oh, be savvy. Stealthily working his way through the rocks, the Indian soon reached a point from which he could see the bushwhacker kneeling behind a boulder. He was a haggard young man with a stained rag tied around his head. Tonto crept forward. Just as the youth was about to fire again, he sprang. Drop rifle, Tonto. Taken completely by surprise and feeling Tonto's revolver against his back, the bushwhacker let go of his weapon. Now stand up. Stand still. I am so much wounded to run. Me got him, Kimasami. Bring medicine kit. I'll be right with you. Several minutes later, the masked man appeared with a first aid outfit. He gave the youth a look of compassion. Why did you shoot at me, young man? You know why, Don Diablo? I'm not Don Diablo. Tonto, here's the kit. Take care of his wounds. Ah, me fix you up on her. Mil gracias, senor Indio. I have made the big mistake. But that evil one, Don Diablo, he wore a mask on the night of Tuesday when he and his bandidos raided the Hermoso Ranch, stole Rosita, killed her father, and left me for one dead. You say he carried off a girl? Si, senor. Mia Rosita, the beautiful one, I, Manuel Martini's, wished to marry. How did you happen to be here on the ridge? I wished to find a deputy who came to the ranch. I told him what Don Diablo did. We looked at the trail of the evil one, his bandidos, but, well, after two days, he was gone. But we found a gold rowel from a chihuahua spur. Oh? Was this it? Si, senor, the very one. You took it from the deputy, no? Yes, Manuel. But he was dead. He was shot here on this ridge and tied to his horse. Don Diablo kill him. Did you ever see anyone around here wearing chihuahua spurs? No. No, but on this ranch, which is owned by the good senor Shelby, I have seen horses that someone used them on. Oh, they were hurt much bad. This I told the deputy and he came here to watch. Oh, there, your headdress, fella. Oh, how it feels. Oh, well, gracias. Do you have a horse? Si, si, he's on the other side of the ridge. If you think you can stand it, I'd like to have you go to Rosario and tell the sheriff all you know and give him the silver bullet. Oh, bueno. It's only four hours ride. And senor, you are muy hombre. You'll try to find my rosita, see? Yes, Manuel, we'll try. Come on, Toto. We'll scout around Shelby's Hacienda. Late that afternoon, Carlos Shelby decided to take a ride, being unable to read without spectacles. An aged, ugly, and prison-broken outlaw, whom he was pleased to call Caliban, helped him put on his polished English boots and spurs. The bookish buccaneer of the plains was in the midst of a quotation from Paradise Lost when the old ex-convict interrupted. There you are, boss. Stomp your feet. Caliban, what's wrong with the spur on my left boot? There's a harsh sound. I can't see it. I was just going to tell you about it, boss. You lost one of the gold rowls with the long spikes. I replaced it with another rowl from a common pair of spurs. Of course, it won't hurt a horse as much. It was your fault that I lost the chihuahua rowl. Your job is to keep my things in condition. Maybe this will help you remember your duty. No, boss, don't. First my glasses, now my chihuahua spurs. There isn't a horse in a caravan. What? They're all in the remuda the boys took along when he sent them out in the range for the roundup yesterday. Won't be back for two or three days. So I'll have to stay here. The fates conspire to keep me from my pleasures. At that moment, the lone ranger and Tonto were engaged in making a close observation of the hacienda from a clump of cottonwood trees. Like most structures of its kind, the old Spanish ranch house was built like a fort. The flat roof was supported by beams which projected through the walls. A low slotted parapet surrounded the roof. Taking in those details, the masked man remarked, Tonto, the hacienda was built to be defended. There is certain to be a hatch in the roof. What hatch got to do with Don Diablo? Shelby may well be Don Diablo. Why do you say that? Because only a ranch owner is in a position to use Chihuahua's spurs on valuable saddle stock. Shelby's hacienda is the only one for 50 miles around. That makes him a likely suspect. Tonight, we'll try to enter the hacienda through the roof. During the dark hour just before moonrise, the lone ranger and Tonto led their horses as near the hacienda as possible, then crept forward to the base of its rear wall. Hearing no sound from the rooftop, the masked man shook a loop out of a lariat and cast it at the end of a beam which was just visible against the sky. Caught. Kimo Sabe, me got moccasins. Better me go first. All right, go ahead. Pulling himself upward hand over hand, the Indian quickly reached the beam. After pausing a moment, he silently hoisted himself over the parapet. The masked man joined him and stood listening. Hoofs drummed into the hacienda grounds. The rider reined up. He entered and soon faced Mort and Carlos Shelby in the library. He was saying, I didn't go with the other fellas. I went to town and you can be glad that I did. Yeah, how so, Logan? The sheriff is headed here with a big posse and a search warrant. That's ridiculous. And what evidence could he obtain a search warrant? All I know is that he's come. Suppose he finds that girl. He won't. In the patio, there's an old Spanish well with a plank cover. Indian slaves dug it in the days of the conquistadores. I've been told that it's more than a hundred feet deep but dry. Yes, so what? Get the girl and throw her into it. When the lone ranger finally found the hatch and descended a ladder to an alcove off the library, Carlos Shelby was alone. Masked man. Stand where you are, Don Diablo. You're a satanic rule and the Murado Valley is finished. What do you mean by calling me Don Diablo? Useless for you to try to bluff me. The riles on your spurs are mismated. One is the original Chihuahua rile. I have the other. It was found on the Hermoso Ranch after your raid. You can't convict me on evidence like that. Where's the girl you carried off? Questions bore me. Taro. Here, Kim Sambi. Watch Shelby. I'll see what's going on. As the masked man dashed out of the library, Mort half-dragged, half-carried the shrieking Rosita into the patio. He was yelling, Logan, get the cover off that well. I'm trying to. There he comes. Hold you right over. Mother, the tears make me pray. I will get you. Give me a hand with this one. She's trying to claw my eyes at you. Hold on to her. She gets away. Let's go, that girl. Hey, who's that? The masked man. He's coming after us. Plug him, Logan. This will fix him. You missed. In the light of the newly risen moon which flooded the patio, the Lone Ranger's right-hand gun blossomed red. No! Logan dropped his revolver and staggered back clutching his shoulder. At the same time, Mort whirled to face the masked man. Thrusting Rosita in front of him, he drew a colt. But before he could fire, the girl sank her teeth into his wrist. He let go of her with the L. I'll take that gun. Rosita, get back from the well. Pick up the other man's gun. Disarming Mort, the Lone Ranger started to back away. But in his anxiety for the safety of the excitable girl, he turned his eyes away from the man for an instant. Mort closed with him. Yeah, I've got you. Pinning the masked man's arms with a hold that made it impossible for him to use his guns, the hired killer tried to topple him into the pit. Both men tripped over the well cover and fell. The Lone Ranger let go of his guns and straining every muscle broke Mort's grip. Scrambling to safety, he dragged his adversary along. The fight had gone out of the gunman. He lay on the flagstones of the patio, eyes closed, as Rosita picked up the Lone Ranger's guns and returned them to him. Here, senor. Let us now finish these pigs who have killed my father and my Manuel. No. The law will punish them. Anyhow, your Manuel is alive. Alive? Is it true? Oh, madre de Dios mia, gracias. At that moment, Carlos Shelby leaped out of an open window in the library and landed in the patio. Tonto leaped after him. Any more? Stop, Kimasabi. Stop, Shelby. Stop. As the Lone Ranger rushed to intercept him, the would-be conquistadori headed toward the well. Ahead of him, both the mouth of the pit and its cover appeared as circular shadows on the surface of the patio. Mistaking the hole for the lid, the near-sighted Satanist dashed to its brink. Although the well was only eight feet in diameter, he saw his error too late to jump. As he fought to stay himself and regain his balance, some of the weakened stonework gave way. He toppled and plunged headlong into the pit. Once started, the cave-in of the ancient masonry inside the well continued with tons of stone cascading into the depths which had swallowed the arch-criminal. A short time later, the sheriff, who had been summoned by Manuel, was in the patio with several deputies. The lawman had put Mort, Logan, Trent, and Caliban in irons and had dispatched a strong posse to the range to round up the rest of Shelby's night-riding terrorists. As the excitement abated, the lone ranger and Tonto joined the sheriff near the well. Sheriff, can you convict Shelby's hired killers? There's no doubt about it. Shelby's flunky, that old fellow called Caliban, will testify against him, along with Manuel and Rosita. By the tunnel, that well is deep. Deep as perdition. Don Diablo is going back where he came from. No? It is good he took his book with him. But for the masked one, I might be down there. Well, men, let's put the cover back on before some decent person falls in, then. Let's go. The lid is on the infernal hole. So it is finished. Bueno. Yes, man, the Murado Valley owes you a heap. What do you think Shelby aimed to do? Establish himself as a dictator here. Had he succeeded, he would have tried to expand his power by terrorizing the whole southwest. Well, Tonto, it's time that we rode on. Well, you must go so soon, senor. Yes, Rosita. Adios, friend. Adios, senor. Amigo, adios. Senor Sheriff, do you know who the masked one is? That I do, Rosita. When Manuel gave me that silver bullet and described the man who had sent it, I knew right off. Oh? That masked man is the Lone Ranger. This is a feature of the Lone Ranger Incorporated, created by George W. Trendle, produced by Trendle Campbell Enterprises, directed by Charles D. Livingston and edited by Fran Stryker. A part of The Lone Ranger is played by Brace Beamer. music
