Bryant said, "Who?"
The Lone Ranger repeated the name.
Cavendish pondered. His eyes held a faraway expression as he gazed at a corner of the ceiling.
"Answer me, Cavendish—who is Andrew Munson?"
Bryant turned slowly, and looked at the mask. His frown was deep, and his voice without emotion. "I never heard the name before."
The Lone Ranger felt something in him snap. It seemed as if this stubbornness in Bryant was more than he could bear without an outburst! The strain of the past few days; the fight against his wounds, against fatigue and pain; the bitterness of seeing good friends die ... all of these things seemed to roll together in a choking bitter mass that made him speechless. His hands reached out and gripped Cavendish. "You," he whispered in a hoarse, tense voice, "must be shown!"
With strength born of desperation, the Lone Ranger lifted Bryant as if he weighed nothing, and hauled him from the bed. His unanswered question was ringing in his brain.
"Who is Andrew Munson!"