speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty hi-yo silver! The Lone Ranger! Union 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! Come on, Silver! Let's go, big fellow! Ranger and Tonto were camped in a thicket near the Wolfville Trail. The Indian had just finished preparing breakfast. As he rattled the pans and tin cups, the masked man signaled for silence. Wait, I heard a twig crack. Somebody coming. Hi there! I'm a friend. Then show yourself. What have I walked into? Don't let my mask excite you. We're not outlaws. Even if you were, it wouldn't matter much to me. Oh, why not? When a man's broke, lost, and hungry, he doesn't mind the company he keeps. Oh, here, fella. Me fix you something to eat. Oh, thanks, brother. Yeah, me, Tonto. Well, call me Bo. That's, uh... That's short for hobo. I'm a tramp printer. I work when I need a job. It appears that you need one now, Bo. Yeah, I do. I'm trying to get to Wolfville, where I've heard that the daily paper always needs help. It's a long, hard walk to Wolfville. You have holes in your shoes. It's a wonder I haven't holes in my hide. Newspaper business being what it is in the West. It's said to be a dangerous profession. Yeah. A mob burned down the last place I worked. Well, Tonto's going to town for supplies. You might ride double on his horse. Well, I'll sure appreciate that, mister. Maybe I can do something for you sometime. It's possible, Bo. Now, you'd better forget you ever saw me. Mama's the word. It was an hour later when Tonto and the tramp printer rode into Wolfville, a gaunt gray town. It suggested an old wolf crouching beside the trail and waiting for prey. Bo eyed the buildings narrowly. Tonto, this place is well named. Look at signs and windows. Yeah, everything's gone up. Ten-cent shaves are two bits. Fifty-cent meals are two dollars. This first-a-month payday on ranches. So the crooks are fixed to clip the cowpokes. On here, hitch-rack, old scout, old fella. Yeah, there's a Times office across the street. Easy, scout. Easy, fella. Why papers stacked on water? Now, look at the sign above them. It says, Help yourselves, cowboys. These are free newspapers published by a free editor. Read how Spot Russell robs you. Hmm. Why editor not like Spot Russell? We'll soon see. Come on. As Tonto and Bo crossed the street, a man sitting at a desk in the newspaper office turned and stuck his head out of the open window. He had a smudge of ink on his nose, a pencil behind one ear, and a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. Near his side stood a young woman. She called. Get your papers, boys. Never mind Uncle Jim's gun. It doesn't scare us, ma'am. Ah. Who sets your type? A half-witted chimpanzee with no fingers and only two toes? Don't tell us you're a printer and want a job. That's right. My name is Bo Smith. That is, Smith is as good as any other name. You're hired. I'm Jim Hanley. This is my niece, Jenny. I'm that half-witted chimpanzee you bum. Well. Uncle Jim, give that tramp some money. I want him to clean up before he comes to work tonight. If he comes. I'll be on the job, Miss Jenny. Well, here's an advance, Bo. Of course you know you're mixing in a fight. So naturally. Who is this Spot Russell you're exposing? A tin-horn gambler who runs a spur cafe. He's cheated and murdered until he owns most of the town. It's a wonder he hasn't plugged you. He doesn't dare. He knows he'd be accused. Even if he were acquitted, a trial would hurt his grip on the community. Maybe what you printed today stir up cowboys. It'll put a burr under Russell's saddle, all right. Here comes Sheriff. Howdy, Sheriff. Jim, I have a bone to pick with you. Well, well. I always have trouble enough with the cow folks when they're in town. You fixed it so they'll get plum out of hand. There are more important things in keeping the peace. Maybe, but that's what I'm hired to do. You've let Spot Russell kill three men. He always had witnesses that he shot in self-defense. Witnesses from his own gang. Thunder Hishon. He's headed this way now. That side was... Hold it, Jim. You too, Spot. I'm not armed, Sheriff. Quite a gathering I have here. What do you want on this side of the street? Free paper, Mr. Hanley. Well, I see you're calling me a killer today. Yesterday, I was only a thief. Well, what's your answer? You're still alive, aren't you? While two hard-faced men had been watching the group from the second floor of an abandoned building across the street, they knelt at a window, their eyes glued to inch-wide cracks in some boards that had replaced broken glass. One had a Sharps buffalo rifle. his companion was asking... Hey, Lefty, can you get a clear shot at the editor? Sure thing, Chip. His head's above the others. I'll line him up in my sights now. Now, what about the girl? She's off to one side. The editor's set up like a duck in a shooting gallery. Spot'll keep in there. Boss will have a lot of alibi witnesses, even the sheriff. He said not to fire until the first bunch of cowpokes hit town whooping and shooting. My gun will not be heard in the racket. Not only that, the crazy cowhands will get the blade. No, it'll be a perfect job. Hey, look. Spot's dusting off his hat. That's a signal some riders are coming. Well, I'm ready. As Lefty cocked his rifle, Spot Russell replaced his hat and stepped to one side of the editor's window. He was grinning. I see some of your cowboy friends on the trail, Mr. Hanley. Yeah, that's a Rafter X outfit. A wild bunch. Like charging Indians, a dozen riders in fancy chaps and shirts of vivid colors raced up Main Street. They were brandishing revolvers and yelling. Right, good. Whoa, here we go. The wild horsemen came a crash of six guns fired in salute to the town. Stop it, you hooligans. Stop it. Help. What's wrong, miss? Uncle Jim, he's been shot. Come on, you fellas. You're right. Him fall from tears. Give me a hand with him, Inj. Oh, Uncle Jim. Is he? Me sorry, miss. Him dead. Oh, no. Killed almost under my nose. Well, Sheriff, you can't hang this on me. Nobody's blaming you, Spot. Those reckless cowpokes did it. Hanley claimed I didn't treat them fair. Now look at him. Those hootermans are bound to plug someone sooner or later. They didn't mean to shoot my uncle. No, but just the same I'm going to round up the Rafter X outfit. Spot, you're deputized to help me. I'll be glad to help the Lord. Injun, you and the tramp stay here till I come back with the coroner. Uh-uh. We stay. As the sheriff and Spot Russell left the office, Tonto drew a sheet of newsprint over the dead editor's face. In so doing, he noticed that two bullets had been fired through the window. One remained embedded in Hanley's body. The other, missing him, had hit the bottom shelf of a bookcase across the room. Investigating, Tonto found the second slug buried inside a stack of congressional records. In a corner of the room, Bo Smith was talking to Hanley's niece. Miss Jenny, is there anything I can do? Nothing, except leave me alone. What about the paper? Who'll get it out? You? I'll let it fold up. You may hit the trail. I'm a tramp, ma'am, not a quitter. Neither are you. Give me time to get over what has happened. The paper can't wait. What happened is big news. But he, he was my uncle. You always put other people's heartbreaks into print. You'll have to do the same with your own. I, I suppose you're right, Bo Smith. Then let's get busy on the story, Jenny Hanley. Later in the day, Tonto returned to the Lone Ranger's camp. Quickly, he told all he had heard had been seen. Then he displayed the bullet he had found. The masked man looked at it and asked, Tonto, did you show this to the sheriff and coroner? Me show him. Them say, throw it away. It not mean anything. What about the bullet in Hanley's body? Corner, take it out. Them say, it's same as one, me find. It's longer than a revolver bullet. Apparently, it came from a .4590 Sharps buffalo rifle. All cowboys, me see, had six shooters. Where are the rafter X-Men now? In jail. Did any of them have fired down at the editor from a horse? No, Kimo Sabe. Window too high. This bullet was fired at a downward angle. Otherwise, it wouldn't have gone into the bottom of a bookcase after passing through a window. That right. What's across the street from the office? Empty building. It got boards on second floor windows. Silver saddle. We'll head for Wolfville right now. And what we do there? Tonight, I'll search that empty building. Easy scout, easy fella. Let's come. That night, there was little revelry in Wolfville. A little after 12, Spot Russell closed the Spur Cafe to the public and joined his hired killers in a back room. In spite of the business slump, he was in high spirits. Boys, our job hasn't stirred up a breath of suspicion. Well, it's fine, boys. Yeah. Where'd you fellas get that dust on your pants? Oh, that old building. Stick on the floor. Blows in from the street. Then you must have left tracks all over the place. Well, I reckon we did, but what of it? You said we were in the clear. Go back and get rid of those tracks. All right. It was a few minutes later when the Lone Ranger and Tonto located a stairway leading from the back door of the old store to its upper floor. By riding through dark alleys and side streets, they had reached their objective unnoticed. The masked man was saying, Tonto, stay here and watch. I have a candle. I'll go up. Me watch. Spur Cafe, close by. I'll soon be back. Meanwhile, Lefty and Jip had emerged from a hatch in the roof of the cafe. They stole across the flat roofs of several connected buildings. Soon, the killers were above the room from which they had shot the editor. Faint starlight revealed a trapdoor in the roof, weighted down against windstorms by a heavy stone. Jip, I need some help with this stone. All right. I have a hold of it and that don't make any noise. Easy does it. It's off the lid. I'll leave the cover. Edison. I heard a noise. There's. Quiet. What's he up to? He's looking all around the window. As they watched the masked man, the killers had drawn their six guns, but they held their fire, realizing that any shooting on the roof would be heard and investigated. After a moment of silence, Lefty whispered, He's coming this way. Grab that rock. We'll drop it on him if it gets under the hole. Right. Hoisting the stone, Lefty and Jip held it over the hatch, ready for instant release. The masked man moved closer and closer. In silence, the killers strained and waited. At last, the Lone Ranger was directly under their improvised deadfall. Lefty hissed, Now, the rock fell. 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. In killing Jim Hanley, an editor, Spot Russell had engineered an almost perfect crime. But the Lone Ranger had found a flaw, which took him into a deserted store building in Wolfville. Unaware, the two of Russell's killers lurked on the roof. He stepped under an open hatch just as they dropped of the grok. At that instant, an air current created by the open trap door snuffed out the masked man's candle. It was a warning of danger he understood and he reacted in a flash. He leaped away. Brushing his hat brim, the boulder struck the floor with a splintering crash. Lefty and Jip, who had expected to hear the thud of stone on flesh, knew from the sound that their deadfall had failed. Jip, we missed him. He may start shooting through the roof. Well, let's get back to the cafe. Come on. As the killers sneaked back the way they had come, the Lone Ranger, unable to get to the opening in the ceiling, ran to the stairway. From below, Tonto was calling. What happened to Kimo Sabe? Someone on the roof tried to kill me by dropping a rock. What'd we do? Useless to try to climb up there and give chase. Where do you think them go? Probably back into another building through a ceiling hatch. I'm not savvy how them happened on roof. They probably planned to destroy the evidence I found upstairs. Oh, and what'd you find? Powder marks around the crack in the window boards. Oh. And that's not all. I saw the tracks of two men on the dusty floor. And now we know Editor was murdered. We still have to catch the killers. Maybe Spot Russell hire gunmen to do shooting. His feud with Hanley makes him a suspect. But don't forget, you're one of his alibi witnesses. I'm plenty smart. There may be a way of finding out whether he's guilty. Is the Times office over there? That's right. Lights burn press room. And our friend Bo may be working. Let's find out. As the Lone Ranger and Tonto slipped through the shadows and approached the press room, Bo Smith bent over a printer stone. On it lay an iron frame holding the type for the front page of the next edition. Swinging a mallet, the hobo tightened the form. Nearby stood Jenny Hanley, a proof sheet in her hand. Mr. Smith, you certainly know your trade. I always do a good job when I work. Why don't you settle down? I'm not the type to be locked in a form. There. There, this form is locked. When should I start the press? Any time now. I'll feed it while you run the steam engine. The engine can take care of itself after I fire up. I'll handle the press. You go home. Are you sure you can do everything alone? I'll have the papers ready for the stores and delivery boys by daybreak. Now you run along and get some sleep, huh? Just as you say. Your advice has been good so far. Good night, Jenny. Good night, Bo. As Jenny went into the front office and let herself out onto the street, Bo stood staring after her. He was unaware that anyone else had entered the press room until he heard a voice at his shoulder. What are you dreaming about, Bo? Huh? Oh, it's you, mister. How'd you and Tonto get in here? Through a window. They're all open. Yeah, a man would smother in here if they weren't. Did you come in for a look at the place? We're here as voluntary reporters. We have a story for you. The Lone Ranger quickly related what he and Tonto had learned. Bo was amazed. So two fellas bushwhacked Hanley from that old store. There's no doubt about it. If I print what you've told me, the killers may get away. They're too clever to run away. They know flight would bring suspicion on them. And they might come after me. That's what I expect. We'll be ready for them. Of course, if you don't want to take the risk... No, no, I'm not afraid, mister. It's high time the West got rid of some of the pollcats who tried to curb the freedom of the press by killing editors. I'm glad to hear you say that, Bo. We're fighting for something that's bigger than our lives. I'll start setting a new story right now. Then what me do, Kimo Savvy? You go back outside and watch the street, Tonto. Keep a sharp eye on the Spurt Cafe. Report anything you see Russell do after the paper delivered there. Where me find you? I'll be hiding here in this building where I can protect Bo. Me savvy. How's this for a headline, mister? Editor Hanley foully murdered. The subhead will read Times learns truth from secret witness. Very good, Bo. I hope that story will not only be the undoing of the old editor's killers, the making of a new editor. It was early morning when Lefty burst into Spott's sleeping quarters above the cafe. Spott, look at this paper. I'm shaving. What does it say? Plenty. It practically accuses you of having Hanley killed. No. It's right here in black and white. What put them onto us? Secret witness. Without naming Jip and me, he told the paper exactly how we shot Hanley. Who do you suppose he is? He must be the mask man you said you saw last night. He figured things out from your tracks. Ah, what about that printer that's working for Hanley's niece? Maybe he's a secret witness himself. We better plug him. No, use your head, Lefty. Another shooting might get us hanged. Another story like this one's apt to do the same thing. I've just thought of a perfect way to get rid of the hobo. Ah, you and your perfect schemes. This one can't miss. You know the Times runs its press by steam. Everyone knows that. Well, they let the fire on the engine go out after they run off the papers in the morning. By noon, the wood ashes in the firebox are cold. Suppose they are. Each day about that time, a Mexican clean-up man goes in, sweeps the press room and lays a fire under the boiler that can be lighted in a jiffy. Yeah, I saw the hombre in the cafe yesterday. He always comes in after he finishes the job. I've heard him say that he puts the waste and leftover papers in the firebox. What do you get in that spot? Just this. As soon as that flunky comes in today, I want you and Jip to plant a big charge of giant powder under the paper and kindling in the firebox. Where do we get this stuff? I have some stored away. I've been selling it through a hardware store I own. Ah, savvy. He'll wrap the powder sticks in newspapers. Then the tramp printer will not notice anything suspicious when he fires up tonight. You'll be blown higher than a kite. The whole building will go up. It'll look like the boiler exploded accidentally. After putting the morning edition on the street for distribution, Bo joined the Lone Ranger in hiding behind some office equipment in the editorial room. The main entrance was nearby. An open door and a partition enabled them to watch the press room. About midday, the janitor appeared, did his customary work, and left without seeing them. The masked man inquired, Is the janitor apt to come back? No, not today, mister. He swept, laid a fire, and brought him water for the engine. I wish I had a drink. Can you reach the water tank without passing the window? I'll crawl and bring some back in the bucket. A few moments later, Lefty and Jip peered into the press room from an open rear window. Jip carried 30 sticks of giant powder wrapped in a newspaper. Suddenly, he jerked his head down. Duck Lefty. I heard something. Sounded like a pail rattling. I saw someone crawling toward the front. It can't be the janitor. He's over in the cafe. Then the hobo's hiding in there. How'll we work it now? Look, we play it smart. I'll go around to the front door and walk in innocent like. Yeah, then what? I'll hold his attention while you slip in through this window and plant the powder. Oh, I savvy. Go ahead. As Lefty hurried to the street door, Bo wormed his way back into the office. I'll bring in the water, mister. Somebody's at the street door and hurry. I can't make it in time. He's coming in. Who you trying to hide from, fella? Bill collectors. If you're one of them, you might as well. I want to subscribe to the paper. You talk and dress like an hombre fresh from Texas. Oh, I've been there, but I'm an old-time subscriber. Well, I'm just a printer, but I'll sign you up. It'll cost you $10 for one year. All right. From his hiding place, the Lone Ranger had been watching the self-styled subscriber with growing suspicion. He also watched Jip, who climbed through the press room window and planted the powder charge in the waste paper and kindling in the firebox. Bo and Lefty continued their conversation. Here's your $10, fella. Now I know you're not an old subscriber. The rate for the times is only $5 a year. What's your game? No game. But I don't cotton to a smart aleck like you. Keep your paper. Not so fast. Hey, let go of me or I'll... Drop that gun! You, the mask man! Oh, you've seen me before. Don't shoot. There goes my gun. Grab it, Bo. Help me, Jip! I'm coming, Lefty! At the sound of the second killer's voice, the Lone Ranger whirled to meet him. Jip charged out of the press room, firing a six-gun from his hip. A bullet tore through one of the mask man's holsters. Then he fired. I'm shot! Wounded in the wrist, Jip let go of his gun and reeled against a desk. The Lone Ranger kicked the revolver aside and jerked the gunman into a corner where Bo was keeping Lefty covered. Stand there beside your partner. What'd you fellas jump us for? We didn't do anything. What were you doing in the press room? I just wanted to see the machinery. Oh, my wrist. Let me see it. That's only a scratch. The sheriff doesn't like gunplay. Oh, he's coming now. There's a big crowd with him. The mask man and I just captured these gunmen. You with the mask. Who are you? He's a friend of mine, Sheriff. That doesn't explain... Please, please let me through. Please. Bo? Bo, are you all right? Of course I am, Jenny. Sheriff, make these fellas turn us loose. We're law-abiding men. It's Bob Russell knows us. That's right. I'll vouch for them. Yeah, you would. They killed the editor for you. He's loco, Sheriff. There's nothing to that stuff he printed about me. Who's that secret witness you mentioned in the paper? I am. Look, if you knew anything about the murder, why didn't you come to me? Because, Sheriff, you'd have tried to jail me. I had no proof then. I've a mind to jail you now. I suggest you wait for more news about the murder. Bo, are you prepared to publish an extra? All I have to do is set the type and start the engine. Then you'd better fire up the engine. Our next story may close the case. Then I'll start the fire. I need air. I'm getting out of here. So am I. Hold it. You all stay in here till I find out what's what. Stop that printer, Sheriff. Don't let him fire the engine. What ails you, Spot. You're looking sickly. If he starts to fire... Don't let him. I'm leaving. Freeze, Russell. Sheriff, he has a sleeve gun. I'll take it. Look, Jip. The tramp is striking the man. Hold it. Don't light that fire. There's giant powder in the firebox. We'll all be blown to bits. How did it get there? Well, I don't... Speak up, Jip. You put it there. No, no, no. How did you know about it? Well, I... Did your pal plant that powder? I didn't do it. It was Jip. Spot made us do it. Lefty, help me. That's right. Did Spot also order you to kill the editor? Don't you involve me in a murder? You made us kill Hanley Spot, and you know it. Who are you? Jip's telling the truth. I'll teach you squealing coyotes. He signed himself with rage. Spot Russell leaped toward Jip and Lefty, but the lone ranger stepped forward. You grabbed the man by one shoulder, swung him around, and drove a sharp blow to his jaw. Spot staggered back and fell to the floor. There, Sheriff, is your case. You coyotes are under arrest. Once Jip told the truth, here's the giant powder. It was sure enough planted in the firebox. Yes, Bo, I saw Jip place it there. That's why I suggested starting a fire. I thought these crooks would squeal rather than be blown to bits. Oh, Bo, if you'd ever lighted the fire, I'd have your faint. Don't faint, Jenny. We're getting out an extra. Here, here, sniff this ink pot. It's better than smelling salt. Ink? Oh, you impossible man. Well, what do you expect of a hobo? You're not a hobo. As of now, you're editor of the time. Congratulations, Bo. Wolfville has gained a good citizen by losing three of the worst killers who ever menaced the West. Mister, this town owes you plenty. I'll turn the cowfolks loose as soon as I get back to the jail with these crooks. Good, Sheriff. Adios, everybody. Adios. Mister editor, you're letting a mighty good reporter get away from it. Ah. Sheriff, I know from what the Indian said that he doesn't gather news. He makes it. He's the Lone Ranger. This is a feature of the Lone Ranger Incorporated, created by George W. Trendle, produced by Trendle Campbell Muir Incorporated, directed by Charles D. Livingston, and edited by Fran Stryker. The part of the Lone Ranger is played by Brace Beamer. The Lone Ranger. The Lone Ranger. You
