horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty Hiyo Silver, the Lone Ranger. Many hardships. They fought hunger and thirst, blazing heat and bitter cold. Hostile Indians and the outlaws who roamed the hills and the range country. Their pioneer spirits would not admit defeat, but the West might never have been won if the masked rider of the plains hadn't led the fight for law and order. No one could match his courage and daring, and Hiyo Silver came to be the battle cry of justice on the frontier. Return with us now to those thrilling days when adventure lay at the end of every trail. The Lone Ranger rides again. There have been countless requests for information regarding Silver, the famous horse of the Lone Ranger. People have written asking what kind of horse it was, where it came from, whence came its tremendous strength, tireless energy, and lightning speed. Of course, the greatest mystery surrounds the origin of both the Lone Ranger and Silver, but there is a legendary story concerning the beautiful milk-white stallion, and tonight, in one of the most unusual of the Lone Ranger dramas, we are going to tell you the legend as it has been handed down through generations. The Lone Ranger did not always ride Silver. Before the fame of the mystery rider spread throughout the length and breadth of seven states, there was another horse, one called Dusty. As our story opens, it is this chestnut mare that is being ridden to a hitchrack outside the six-gun cafe. Whoa, whoa, Dusty! Whoa, they're waiting for me. Do you want any news, Tonto? Oh, two feller inside cafe. What about them? Them plenty bad feller. Them make plans. You think they'd recognize me? You not need mask. You got face disguised. That's plenty good. You may be here, feller, talk. Tonto stay with Dusty. Dusty's pretty tired, Tonto. She's traveled a long way so that I could join you here. Huh? Maybe travel much more. You go inside cafe, huh? Squint, there ain't but one thing can keep us from getting away with the express office money. What's that, Butch? Horses. We might borrow a couple. We might, and we might not. I got a better scheme than that. Yeah? They roped some wild ones. I heard of a valley. Where'd you hear of it? A couple old Indians told me. Listen, there's a valley two days north of here. There's horses there ain't never seen a man. The finest horses you ever heard tell of. Seems a pack of foolishness getting us wild horses just to rob the express office. Shh. Don't talk so loud. Maybe you're afraid of wild horses. Me? See here, I can ride anything I can get aboard. And I ain't seen a horse yet that I couldn't break. Uh-huh. The idea is to get us some horses that's plenty wild. Use them for our escape, then let them loose to travel fast and far and lead the posse on a trail while we take our old Mexican plugs and gets away. That sure sounds like something. Where'd you say these wild horses was at? I'll show you. Just come on with me, Squint, and in two or three days we'll have a couple of the wildest, fastest horses in the country to rob that office at Cooper's Bend. Nestled in a valley in the heart of Green Hills was a sanctuary where man had never been. Here the grass grew green and lush, and shady trees spread green boughs to cast soft shade. Here from the living rock came waterfalls, both sweet and pure. King Sylvan and his gentle mate Musa ruled this land. Their court was made up of untamed horses that had never known the restraining bit and binding saddle. Happy, carefree horses that had never seen man nor known his inventions. Sylvan had won the right to rule his followers by might and courage. His was the fleetest foot, the quickest eye and the greatest of strength. Then there came a day when the mare Musa bore King Sylvan a son. Then Sylvan's happiness was complete. His fleet hoops pounded the turf, racing, turning, flashing in his joy. The great white stallion hoped the colt would see the strength in his splendid body that was this little one's heritage. At length he thundered close to Musa. He braced his feet in the soft turf and stopped, then gently muzzled his mate in the little colt. My son, he seemed to say, my little white one called Musa from her mother's heart. And truly as he stood there on his wobbly little legs, legs seemingly too slender to bear even his lightweight, he looked like a drift of virgin snow, with the sun turning every hair into gleaming points of silver fire. Almost as soon as he was born, the white one began to display those characteristics which afterwards made him a leader of the band, that his father ruled before him, strong, graceful, fearless, with the heart and courage of a lion, but added to them the sweetness and gentleness of Musa, his mother. For many months the white one was not far from his mother's side, and his little shadow merged with hers as they moved through the valley, guided by the sylvan who knew where the water was the sweetest, the grass most tender. Then came the days when his colt hood was left behind him, days when he could out-distance Musa and run side by side with his illustrious father. Like the wind, the white one and sylvan raced side by side, two beautiful milk-white creatures, sylvan and the prince, his son. How the sun flashed from their sleek bodies, how they raced, cut, turned, and whirled in sheer joy of living. Life was good, and the sweet cup of happiness seemed filled to overflowing for the two white ones. Then there came tragedy to the life of the little one. The light of the world was covered for Musa. She went to the everlasting valley of happiness, but not before her little son was full-grown and ready to fight for his place in the kingdom of sylvan, his father. Day after day, the brave horse fought his rivals in the field of battle. It was the prince's duty to fight for and to hold his princely position. It was his duty to meet all comers and accept all challenges. Sylvan remained king, but could his white one remain the prince? Battles were furious. No quarter was asked, and none given. Never did the white colt pause in the attack until his rival lay at his feet. Then there came the last to challenge, and he went to defeat as the others had before him. The white one lifted his voice in victory, and Sylvan the king, his father, responded with pride. King and prince, leaders and champions, both stronger, greater than any other of the herd, acknowledged by all as those who should lead while others followed. At the head of the herd raced Sylvan and the white one, and came into the valley, bringing pain and misery. And Squint and Butch arrived to take the finest of the happy horses from this earthly paradise to help them in their craven schemes. At a narrow gap opening into the valley, they paused to watch the great wild horses and fingered their ropes and guns. Them's the horses? Butch, you were sure right about this place. Yeah, doggone. But they're mighty wild ones. Mighty wild. Ain't never yet been a horse so wild I couldn't tame the critter. Look, them two white ones leading the pack is the ones we want to get in. They ain't seen us yet. Maybe we could drop a loop over the necks when they come close. We'll try. Get ready now. They're coming close. You take the right-hand one. Get ready. Let go of the rope. Got him. I missed. Look how squint they're coming for us. He fell down. The one I roped fell down. They'll kill us. Run for your life. Shoot. Shoot at him. Hurry. Get away. The sight of man was strange to the wild horses. Man was an enemy. Man was to be driven out. The thundering hoofs surged forward. The white one sounded the battle cry. Thunder roared from weapons in the hands of the men. Wild screams of pain came from the herd. But the fury of those hammering hoofs could not be withstood. The men retreated, running to save their lives. The white one, true leader that he was, had conquered man as he had overcome members of the herd in gaining his exalted place. But there was little joy in this victory for Sylvan, the mighty monarch of the valley, had sent his soul to join that of Musa. Sylvan's strong neck had been cruelly hurt by the rope of the white man. Sylvan was no longer king. In his stead, the white one should rule. But to what end? As he stood there, the white horse found little left for him in the valley. His was the heart of a conqueror. He would leave the valley to cross that purple ridge in the distance to see what was beyond. While he stood with proud head lifted high, there came again the form he had so recently learned to hate. Man! The white one would not attack. He would evade. He would cross the hills that surrounded the valley. He remembered the cruel ropes that had broken the neck of his father. He remembered the strange weapons that spoke like thunder and made horses fall to the ground. He turned and fled, heading for the distant hills, heading for new worlds, as the lone ranger and Tonto rode into the valley. Oh, follow that dusty poo. Uh, we get here too late. I've been here and gone, Tonto. But look, that horse. See, it's running toward the hills. Did you ever see such a splendid creature? Oh, him heap fine. Too bad dusty not be like him. Poor dusty. Poor girl. She did her best to get us here in time to trail those outlaws, Tonto. No, we not know where they go. We can't follow them further without resting. Dusty has done all she can. Outlaw may plan, rob someplace. They plan to rob someplace, Tonto, but we don't know where. Just look at that fine horse they've killed. Hmm. Tonto won't get them outlaw. Poor old dusty. You've earned the rest, old partner, and you're going to have it. Then we'll try to follow those two men. The curtain falls on the first act of our lone ranger drama. Before the next exciting scenes, please permit us to pause for just a few moments. Now to continue the story. You recall that we left the great wild white horse as it departed from the valley. Alone, he made his way through the mountains. For an hour, he climbed steep hills, drawing farther and farther away from the valley where he had known joy and peace and grim tragedy and sudden death. Away from the valley where he had first seen man, his hated enemy, a creature that had killed his father. Here was a new world. For a time, he enjoyed the strange sights. But as the trail grew steeper, the path became more narrow. Sharp thorns frequently raked his beautiful white body. Broken, jagged rocks hurt his hoofs that had known only the soft grass of the valley. Strange insects drove their wicked daggers into his muscled flesh, and flecks of red stained the white coat. Here there was no gentle moosa to tenderly cleanse the torn places with a mother's gentle care. But on he went. He was a king, a conqueror, not to be daunted. Finally, he reached the top of the mountain ridge, and then proceeded to the plains beyond. Vast stretches of almost level country beckoned him on. New adventure was ahead, and with a shot of defiance, he left the hills to dash ahead. As he raced onward, the white horse remembered stories that his mother had told him. Stories of his ancestors that had roamed these plains, but had been forced to leave them for the safety of the valley. Stories of horrible beasts that roamed the plains. Wild buffalo with flaming eyes and fire-breathing nostrils. Suddenly, the white horse stopped. Just ahead, he saw the foe. A huge, shaggy buffalo, an ugly beast of dull mud color with a tangled mane and a huge hump on its back. Its bloodshot eyes glared at the white horse in hatred, and its sharp hoof feet stamped on the ground in rage. From the horrible beast, there came a roar. And then the creature charged with what seemed to be a long, pent-up fury. With all the agility he could command, the white one stepped aside to dodge the furious charge. And as the buffalo swept past him, the white one felt the brush of the horse's rough fur against his slender body. Its tender nostrils quivered with a foul odor. Mad with fury, screaming with rage, the buffalo whirled quickly to attack again. And again, the white horse stepped aside. Time after time, the game was played, but it could not last forever. Sooner or later, the horse in buffalo must come to grips. This was to be a battle to the end, where one would move away victorious from the torn and mangled body of the other. Then, the battle began in earnest, filled with bellows and whinnies of rage and defiance. Poops turned the ground, and the reek of blood and sweat added to the rage of both of the struggling animals. Again and again, the horse ribs striped down with his sharp hooves, and many times the blows took effect. The sharp hooves of the buffalo had even greater power, and the huge, hairy head became a living, battering ram, as it drove hard into the white horse time after time. The white one didn't have the protecting mass of hair of his enemy. Trembling, weak and close to exhaustion, the white one grew unsteady, but his gallant heart would not accept defeat. He fought on, desperately, despairingly, and hopelessly. Then, at length, with a mighty sobbing whinny, he sank to the ground. The buffalo stood glaring for a moment at the conquered animal. The evil eyes glowed in savage hatred, in gloating joy at victory. He drew back a pace, the better to strike the blow of death. The white horse, only barely conscious, saw the buffalo prepare to leap in a last thrust of the sharp hoofs that would forever end the reign of the king of the horses. Head down, the buffalo roared and began his charge, but then it seemed as if a miracle had happened. There was another horse approaching, the wild cry of an oncoming rider, and then a roar like thunder. Several heavy slugs of land crashed into the buffalo as it leaped. The force of the blows turned the rearing animal aside, and beneath it, the short legs crumpled. The buffalo fell close beside the white horse, conquered by the lone ranger. Then a great peace descended on the white horse, and he was aware of a gentle hand that touched his cruelly battered head. Poor fellow, great hearted horse. Tonto, he's alive, huh? Tonto, get him water. The white one opened his eyes. Glazed with fever and bright with pain. He saw a face, and even in his anguish, he knew that man was not at all times an enemy. Here was a friend. Gentle hands caressed him. Cool water, nature's own remedy soothed his wounds. His strength, so nearly gone, returned to him, little by little. The proud head came up. Man was here. Man had killed Sylvan, his father. Man was another hated enemy, a thing to be feared. The white body rose. For a moment, the great white horse trembled on his weakened legs, then fled. Fled from man who killed. Tonto, there goes the king of all horses. Dusty's a grand horse, but that one, that silver one, we get on trail crook. They can't be far ahead of us, Tonto. They must know they're being followed. Ah, money. Then come on, Tonto. We'll head for Cooper's Bend. Faithful Indian friend Tonto continued on the trail. As they came into Cooper's Bend, the two horsemen rode toward them at full speed. Squint and Butch had robbed the express office and were making their escape. The outlaws saw the two men that had trailed them and knew there was no time to lose. Squint drew his gun and opened fire. Leave, Tonto, to the ground. Tonto, shoot. Dusty. They have the money bags with them. We're too late. Ah, we not get them now. We not got horse. After this long trail, how do they escape us? They've succeeded. We've no way to overtake them. You, look. The silver horse. Ah, him come to you. Here, boy. Here, fellow. After leaving the lone ranger, the great white horse seemed to feel that he had left one who would be a friend. He sought to overtake the man, and never could a horse have been more welcome. On he thundered to where the masked man stood. There he paused, willing to be a servant to this man. The lone ranger swung to the white back without saddle or bridle, and turned as one with the white horse in pursuit of the bandits. For the first time, a cry rang out through the still air that was led to echo across the whole country. Faster than any horse had ever moved. Swift as the wind, a flash of white flame, the great stallion swept across the prairie, his strength seemingly greater than ever before, as he turned and leaped at the touch of his master. A man he could love with all the unselfish love of horse for master. The man who had brought him life when death seemed near. The outlaw's horses could not match the terrific speed of the great stallion. They were overtaken, roped by the quick hand of the lone ranger, brought to earth, and held until the sheriff's men could overtake them. Then, once again, the voice of the rider called to the white one. Oh, silver. Oh, boy. Oh, there, fellow. You understand me, great horse that you are. Your heart of gold and your coat of silver. Silver, come what may, we'll travel together always over there, silver. That's your name, fellow. Silver. Let's join Tonto, my friend. Our friend. You have just heard as a copyrighted feature of the Lone Ranger, Incorporated.
