His stretched suspenders let his pants drop low, and his shirt and underwear were generally apart at his stomach, so that he could scratch. There seemed always to be some part of Slim's anatomy that needed scratching, and the degree of his absorption in whatever he might be looking at could be measured by the part he scratched.
It was Slim Peasley who had locked Mort Cavendish up. Bryant had turned his nephew over to the deputy at nine o'clock, before the evening in Red Oak got really started. Slim had actually looked frightened when he found he'd have to guard a sober man until the sheriff came from the county seat to take over. When Bryant placed the charge of murder against his nephew, Slim grew pale. Only stern Bryant's blustered threats made Slim accept the responsibility as the lesser danger. Then Bryant had limped his way along the street, cursing the trollops who accosted him. He had entered the hotel and rented a room in the rear of the first floor so that he wouldn't have to torture himself needlessly with stairs. He was asleep when the evening reached a peak at midnight.
At midnight, or shortly after, the Lone Ranger reached the outskirts of Red Oak, not far from the center of the town. He turned off the trail and guided Silver to the rear of the row of buildings on one side. He felt considerably rested after dozing in the saddle during the ride from the Gap, and ready for whatever might be ahead. His original intention to talk with Bryant Cavendish had not been changed by the confession of his prisoner, who had escaped.
In the shadow of the buildings he dismounted and left Silver, to proceed on foot. Coming to the back of the hotel, he turned and passed through the space between the buildings. At one end of the porch he halted. A man was coming along the road. The Lone Ranger held cupped hands close to his face, as if in the act of lighting a pipe. The gesture, together with his forward-tilted hat, served to conceal the fact that he was masked. He had to be extremely careful in Red Oak. There were people there in the town who had known him as a Texas Ranger. He had hoped that the clerk in the Red Oak Hotel would be a stranger, and that with his mask removed and his face somewhat concealed by dust, he could inquire as to the location of Bryant's room.
He was, however, spared this trouble. Between his fingers he saw the overdressed man who passed him mount the steps and enter the hotel lobby. There was something about the man that was vaguely familiar, yet the Lone Ranger was sure he never had seen him before. He heard the high-heeled, beautifully shined boots clatter on the floor to the accompaniment of jingling spurs.
He could see through the door at an oblique angle. He heard the stranger ask about Bryant Cavendish.
"Room ten," the clerk said curtly, "an' he left strict orders that he wasn't tuh be pestered."
"That's too bad," replied the other, "because I'm going tuh disturb him plenty right now."
The clerk tried to argue but got nowhere. "Room ten," marked the Lone Ranger. He left his post beside the porch and hastened to the rear of the building. A dark window from room ten was opened wide. The masked man crouched beneath it as he heard an insistent pounding on the door.
Bryant Cavendish groaned first in sleep and then in waking. "What the hell?" he grumbled.