This scrawling stands on its own - you need not have seen the original show.

*~* IN LOVING MEMORY *~*

THE LONE RANGER

1949-1958

Jay Silverheels (Tonto) 1912-1980

Clayton Moore (The Lone Ranger Season 1,2,4,5, Movies) 1914-1999

John Hart (The Lone Ranger Season 3) 1917-2009

PROLOGUE

In the 44th episode of season 3, the current year is given as 1875. The last three surviving members of the Cavendish gang are released from prison – fifteen years after their capture. From this canon statement, it can be extrapolated that the pilot episode takes place around 1860.

To give the reader an idea of the setting...

The Trail of Tears (over 4,000 deaths in a forced march to relocate the native peoples east of the Mississippi River to the western reservations) happened in 1838. Tonto would have been roughly 10 years old. Slavery was a highly controversial but common practice until after the Civil War, which would not begin until 1861. The first official American Police force was established in Boston in 1838, but most big cities had not done so until the mid-1850's. Corruption was extremely common within their ranks by the time the Ranger would have been acquiring his clearly eastern education. Very few educated, experienced, and honest doctors, sheriffs, lawyers, and judges were willing to live in this environment. It was dangerous, and not profitable. These things are an inescapable matter of American history, and almost certainly would have shaped the characters of this legend.

This is the world the heroes of our story lived in.

On a personal note, I enjoyed the 2013 rendition of this legend for what it was. But it wasn't my Lone Ranger. When I came looking for Rangerfic afterward, I did not expect to find such a tiny fandom. Fanfic for the original show did not even exist on this site (or much anywhere else for that matter) until after the Disney version. This old show needs some love!

To that end, I am starting off with the origin story. I have taken a few small liberties, but overall I have worked hard to keep to the script. Instead of simply transcribing the episodes as aired, however, this tale is told exclusively from one character's point of view with a lot of added 'missing scenes'. I do not consider the radio show to be Ranger canon for the TV series, but I have pulled a fair amount of lore from it for this scrawling. Not once in all the 2,956 radio episodes (spanning 21 years), 221 television episodes, nor in the two movies, was the Ranger's first name ever given. In fact, one of the main points of the show was that we did not know his name. For that matter, one of the main points is that we know almost nothing about either of them. It was not the men that mattered, but their deeds.

The former I chose to honor... the latter, however, is the one thing I set out to change.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any part of the Lone Ranger – we all do. The first 16 episodes belong to the public domain. To the best of my knowledge, the portions of the original televised script that I have used for this scrawling fall within the guidelines of this site and the law.

The Lone Ranger

"I believe...

That to have a friend, a man must be one."

The moon had gone through its cycle many times since the last rain fell. A cloud of dust hovered around the feet of the white and brown painted horse as he walked, his hooves sinking a bit into the dry sand and gravel with each step. The rider wore his long black hair tucked into a bundle at the nape of his neck, and a plain leather band about his forehead to catch sweat. His dark, sun-browned skin and high cheekbones distinguished his heritage, as did his clothing; tunic and pants made of light, soft buckskin with fringed strips of leather along the arms, legs, and across his chest to wick away rain. He was slender and fit, perhaps in his thirties, and moved with the quiet assurance that only experience can grant.

A second glance, however, and one might notice that the collar of the tunic was in the pointed style of the white man, and there were no details or adornments that might indicate his tribe. He wore a sturdy belt about his waist, with a gun holster on his right side and a sheathed Bowie knife at his left. The stallion was saddled, with a full complement of saddlebags for supplies, and left clear horseshoe tracks in their wake. This was not a man who had simply strayed from the lands reserved for his people.

Tonto drew his sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the sweat before reaching for his canteen, and Scout ambled to a stop at a slight pressure of the rider's leg against his flanks. As he tilted his head back to drink, Tonto caught sight of several buzzards circling in the distance, high up in the sky. He quenched his thirst, and studied the birds as he replaced the cap on the canteen and looped the strap over the pommel of his saddle. Something very large must have met its end, for so many to be gathering. His gaze lowered to the small, enclosed canyon below and made a mental note to avoid it for a few days.

He frowned as he caught sight of a fully saddled horse grazing on the brittle grass not far from the narrow entrance to the canyon. Farther away still, another horse was limping as it made its way across the flat plain. To his keen eyes, the gear and tack of the horses marked them as most likely belonging to white men. Tonto's eyes flicked back up to the buzzards, knowing they would descend only when their prey was dead. He felt drawn to the place, when by all rights he knew he ought to fear it. This, however, was one of the many things that set him apart. Whatever had happened here, Tonto could not simply travel on. He gently kneed Scout, and the faithful animal dutifully turned toward the canyon and picked up his pace to cover the distance in only a few minutes.

The grazing horse was skittish and bolted as they drew near. Tonto let it go, relaxing a bit. So nervous a creature would not have stayed if anything dangerous was still near. Still, his hand rested on the handle of the gun at his side as he and Scout walked slowly into the gully. The lose dirt was peppered with the hooves of many horses running at full speed directly into this canyon. Tonto could not tell from the tracks if they were chasing or being chased, and the pattern was so cluttered that even he could not tell how many had left afterward. He knew from hunting in this canyon that there was no other way through; the walls at the other end had collapsed, blocking up the gully.

Soon, he came upon a man sprawled on the ground. He lay half on his back, twisted as though he'd been roughly turned over. Tonto quickly dismounted and ran over, but he was dead. The noon sun reflected brightly off the silver badge in the shape of a star pinned to the man's vest. A Texas Ranger.

A cold weight settled into Tonto's belly at the sight. He looked up and around. The steep, narrow walls on either side amplified the sun and nothing but scrub grew here, making it a perfect setting for an ambush. But there had been two horses, and the buzzards had not yet taken advantage of this bounty. The Texas Rangers held a special place in Tonto's heart, and he could not even consider leaving now.

Not far away was another man, also turned over and bearing the crest of the Rangers, and then a third. The chill spread from Tonto's belly into his chest. These men had not stood a chance, for there was nothing here that could have protected them. It must have been a very clever trap for three rangers to ride full speed into an enclosed canyon and get ambushed. Tonto would not leave them here to be eaten by scavengers.

He signaled Scout with a gesture to remain where he was but as he approached the third dead ranger, he caught sight of a felled horse partially hidden by a large rock. Perhaps the rangers had managed to take down their attackers before they died. Tonto hoped so. When he rounded the boulder, though, he found two more dead rangers. They also laid in attitudes of violent death, turned over as if to make certain they were dead. This close, Tonto could see the many bullet holes in them. Whoever had done this terrible thing had been determined to make sure these men did not leave alive.

Tonto was looking at the defeated remains of a Texas Ranger posse.

Whatever group of murderous outlaws had done this, they were clever and strong. It was not done for money or supplies. The badges were made of silver and would have been taken and melted down. The guns and ammunition had all been ignored, the horses with their gear left to wander. The west was hard country, where might ruled more often than right, and things like this were not left behind. This was intended to leave a message, to strike fear into the hearts of men.

He would lay these men to rest, then go to the nearest town and tell them of what he had found. As he approached, his eyes focused on the ground and narrowed. He knelt, gently touching the furrow in the earth, turning his head to track the bloody path it made with his eyes until it entered the mouth of a small cave. Water trickled from a crack in the rock wall, pooling into a small puddle beside a man, and Tonto's heart began to beat faster as he saw a slight movement. He was not dead.

Tonto moved cautiously, keeping low, for he did not know if this was friend or foe. The man lay on his side, pressing a wet bandana to his face with a soft groan, but then suddenly tried to sit up at the crunch of Tonto's moccasins on the gravel of the cave floor. He fumbled for his weapon, but slipped sideways and braced himself on his elbow.

A glint of silver on the man's vest identified him, and Tonto instantly raised both hands. "Lie still," he said quickly, ignoring the threat of the gun as he knelt beside him. "Me not hurt you." The ranger's elbow gave out and he fell back with a small gasp of pain. The scent of blood was strong in the cave, and the man's face was ghostly pale from the loss of it. What little Tonto could see of the face beyond the bandana was covered with dirt, sweat, and blood, with more of the same matting his hair, but one intent, bright blue eye stared up at him through the grime and tried to focus. The ranger did not reply, but tried once more to rise.

Tonto pushed him back down, wishing that the ranger would be still. He reached for the bandana that was serving as a bandage on his face, but stopped as a thin cord of leather about his neck caught his attention. Something about the pendant strung from it was very familiar. Surprised, he reached down and gently lifted the small bit of metal into his palm.

It had once been a ring, that looked to have been damaged at some point and so fashioned into this charm. Tonto ran his thumb over the surface, wiping away the blood. It bore a raised design of two crossed arrows, the symbol of friendship used by his people.

The sight of it made Tonto's breath grow short and his heart ache with memory. He'd been young, barely ten summers old, when his village had been raided and burned by a renegade tribe while the men of his tribe had been away. His mother and sisters had been killed, and he had been left for dead. He did not know how long he had lain there before a young white man came upon him.

The stranger had set up camp right there in the ashes of Tonto's village, determined to offer what help he could. Tonto's English had been very poor at the time, but the stranger was a cheerful sort, and talked a great deal to try to keep the boy from sinking into too deep a grief. When he was well enough to travel, the stranger had given Tonto his own horse so that he could go in search of his father. Tonto refused to accept this offer, and had insisted on trading this very ring. He never saw the stranger again in the nearly twenty summers that had passed since then, but the path of Tonto's life had been altered forever. He had not forgotten him. Could it really be the same man that lay dying beneath his hands?

The leather cord slipped from his fingers. "Kemosabe?" he asked in stunned disbelief.

The ranger tried to lift his head, but was too weak. "... Kemo... sabe?" he managed to get out between labored breaths. "That sounds... familiar..." His head lolled to one side, barely conscious, as he struggled to concentrate.

The man before him had grown to full maturity, with broader shoulders than the youth Tonto had met, and his face was unrecognizable in its current state. But the voice, though older, deeper, and harsh with pain and dehydration, was unmistakable. "That right, Kemosabe," Tonto said. It was obvious that he'd had taken a severe blow to the head, and it would not surprise Tonto if he couldn't even recall his own name at the moment, let alone something from the past. Tonto had felt, when they'd parted ways, that this stranger was destined for great things and would forget all about the injured boy he'd once helped. But he'd been wrong. Kemosabe remembered him, the ring was proof of that. He kept his voice low and calm, speaking slowly, hoping to get through the delirium. "You trusty scout."

"Trusty … scout..." the man muttered.

"Long time back," Tonto persisted. "When we both young, you save me from dying." The ranger struggled to sit up again, and Tonto rested a hand on his chest to keep him from moving. If he could only get Kemosabe to remember him, maybe he would lay still and let Tonto get a good look at the injury. "I call you Kemosabe... it mean Trusty Scout," he repeated. "Now do you remember?"

The ranger wrapped a hand around Tonto's wrist, as if he meant to push it away, but then stopped moving entirely and frowned. "You... You're Tonto," he said. His voice was barely audible, the name spoken with a mixture of surprise and relief.

Despite the dire circumstances, Tonto smiled. "Yes, Kemosabe. Me Tonto." The ranger stared at him in a daze, but had stopped struggling. "Rest," Tonto said quietly. "I take care of you now."

Kemosabe sighed and gave up the battle to remain awake. "Tonto..." he muttered as his eyes closed into exhausted unconsciousness.

Tonto's smile faded as his old friend's arm slid to the ground, suddenly aware that he may have made a promise he could not keep. He returned to Scout, who had been waiting patiently, and led the horse back to the cave. He removed the saddle, dragging everything over to where the man lay, and set up camp near the pool. He filled his small traveling pot with water, set it on the campfire, and then went to work.

Tonto was not a shaman of his people, but he had taken an interest in healing and had a natural gift for it. He'd even learned some of the white man's medicine, whenever he came across some one willing to teach him something new. But then, many things about Tonto were a curious mixture of cultures. Ever since a stranger had stopped by a burned village to look for survivors, Tonto had been unable to do less than the same in his travels.

As he carefully peeled away the wet bandana, however, Tonto had never been so grateful as he was now that he had taken up this practice. A bullet had grazed the ranger's temple, leaving an angry red welt that disappeared into his hairline. A mottled bruise radiated from it and his left eye was swollen completely shut. Tonto ran deft fingers over Kemosabe's cheek and through his hair, but did not find anything that felt as though bone had given way. He considered that a miracle, and gave a small shake of his head at the incredible luck of this man. He certainly had a concussion, but Tonto decided it could wait.

His right shoulder was soaked in both dried and fresh blood and the vest peeled away from the cloth beneath with a sticky, wet sound. This was the source of most of the lost blood. The bullet had not exited, and needed to be removed. The injured man had ground dirt, rocks, and leaves into it as he dragged himself to the water, and this was of more concern to Tonto than the wound itself.

Tonto called upon all the healing lore he knew to save his friend, first boiling the blade of his knife and the few bandages he carried with him. He poured some of the water from the pot into a bowl, sprinkled the contents of a paper packet over it, then set it aside to steep and cool. He stirred in a tried and proven mixture of herbs known to ward off infection into the pot, then let the bandages soak while he cut away the ruined vest and shirt. He carefully pried the bullet out of Kemosabe's shoulder, then used most of his meager supply of bandages to clean and dress the wound. Tonto wrung out the last of the bandages and used it to gently wipe away the grime and blood from the ranger's face.

Having nothing else left to use, Tonto washed the bloodied bandana in the pool and then in the medicine pot before using it to bandage the head wound. He poured what was left in the pot over the ranger's hair, using a comb to remove as much of the blood and mud as he could. Tonto undid the fastenings for the ranger's belt and gun belt, pulled both free and set them off to the side. He was in no condition to fight anyway, and this would ease his breathing. Tonto sighed and patted his unconscious friend on the arm. He would not know until tomorrow for certain, but for now things looked very promising.

Tonto cleared a patch of the cave floor of rocks and pebbles, laid out his sleeping blanket, and situated Scout's saddle. The ranger woke with a groan when Tonto moved him onto the make-shift bed instead of laying in the dirt. "Sorry, Kemosabe."

Kemosabe blinked at him in confusion. "Tonto," he said. "I thought I was hallucinating."

Tonto smiled, and ducked his chin in an almost shy gesture. "Yes," was all he said as he readjusted the bandage on his friend's shoulder. The ranger winced and looked down at it, but when he reached up as if it to touch it, Tonto quickly brushed his hand away. "No, Kemosabe," he said. "It must heal."

Tonto picked up the bowl, and pressed the rim to his parched lips. Medicine sloshed onto both of them as the ranger jerked away, startled, and Tonto quickly pushed against his chest with one hand while keeping the rest of the liquid from spilling into the dirt with his other. This was white man's medicine, and he did not have much of it. "Drink, Kemosabe," Tonto urged, lightly gripping his chin with his fingers to guide him back to the bowl.

The ranger looked down at it, and finally understood. He balked only a moment at the bitterness, but his thirst overruled the taste. He drank deeply until the bowl was empty and Tonto smiled, pleased. This small task had completely drained the ranger, and he was asleep again within seconds of leaning back against the saddle. Tonto checked under the bandage around his head again to reassure himself that it had not begun to swell ominously, then smoothed the cloth back into place. He would wake him in a few hours, just to make sure, but he knew that sleep was the best thing for him now.

All that was left to do for him was wait, but Tonto was not one to keep idle. He stepped out of the cave and looked toward the sun. Most of the day was gone, but there was still several hours of light left to work with and much to be done.

Tonto didn't know how long it would take to get his friend back on his feet. He did not have provisions for an extended stay in any one location, because he preferred to travel light and rely on the land to provide. It was summer, and even in this dry gully there was plenty of brush to shelter small animals. While the ranger slept, Tonto fashioned a simple Paiute trap from the materials at hand. The trap did not require his attention, and would serve its purpose while he attended to his next grim task.

Tonto returned to the rock that the two Rangers — three— had taken shelter behind. It was mostly open space here, and seemed fitting. The ground was dry and came away in large, brittle chunks as Tonto dug into it with his knife. It was the hottest part of day, not the best time to be digging graves, but Tonto refused to allow these brave men to be food for vultures. Tonto was soaked in sweat by the time he was finished, and very tired.

He sat down in the shade of the rock and contemplated the dead men as he rested. He did not know many of the rituals of the white man, and had encountered many different customs in his travels. Even his own beliefs had changed a little over the years since he'd left his home tribe. These were men that had devoted their lives to bringing order and justice, and a great injustice had happened here. He didn't know if the spirits of the rangers would be angry or vengeful about the manner of their deaths, and he did not want to desecrate them in any way.

He knew that white men would often keep something in memory, and he did not believe the spirits of the dead needed clothing and supplies. He did not think they would begrudge their kin the use of them. So Tonto respectfully removed their badges, vests, guns, ammunition, and anything else he found that might be of sentimental value or usefulness. He buried all five of them, one at a time. He said a native prayer for each, hoping they could find peace, but bound two branches in the shape of a cross in the white man's custom to use as a marker for each grave.

Lastly, Tonto stripped the dead horse and brought the gear and supplies into the shelter of the cave. He checked on Kemosabe, but his friend slept soundly. Tonto strung rope over Scout's sturdy neck and shoulders and walked beside the horse as they dragged the heavy corpse to a far corner of the canyon. When they were finished, Tonto looked up at the buzzards again. Theirs was a grizzly job, but a necessary one, and he left them to it.

The sun was setting by the time Tonto and Scout trudged back to the cave. The horse drank deeply from the pool while Tonto used a small brush on the animal's hide to remove the dried sweat. He gave the horse a friendly pat on the rump to send him on his way, and Scout headed directly to a patch of grass near the cave entrance. Tonto checked on the ranger again, and was disheartened to see beads of sweat on his forehead. He had feared he might take a fever despite his precautions. Tonto looked through the supplies from the dead horse, and was relieved to find a compact medical kit. He changed the bandages, noting the red edges of the shoulder wound. He slathered extra salve on it, but ultimately it would come down to the endurance of the injured man. He was young and fit, perhaps five summers older than Tonto, though of a much brawnier build.

Tonto used the last rays of sunlight to collect kindling and dry wood for the fire, and then unpacked the rest of the saddlebags from the rangers. He gathered any cooking supplies and food he found to the campfire, and set the rest aside in a small pile. Rope, clothing, an extra blanket. The Rangers traveled light as well, but Tonto would put everything to good use. Of it all, Tonto was most grateful for the dried foods. He could hunt and gather whatever he needed, but he was tired and glad that he did not need to do so tonight.

Tonto rekindled the fire then made a soup in his pot, and poured most of the broth into a bowl. He stirred some herbs into the bowl and set it aside to cool while he ate what remained in the pot. Tonto knelt beside the Ranger, bowl in hand, and gently tapped his cheek to rouse him. The one uncovered eye drifted open, and eventually managed to focus on him. "Drink, Kemosabe," Tonto said. The ranger seemed confused, and tried to look around, but Tonto pressed the bowl to his mouth. "Drink. Give you strength."

The ranger focused on him again. "Tonto?"

"Yes, Kemosabe," Tonto answered, but persisted. "You must drink."

The ranger gave him a small nod. Tonto tipped the bowl slowly as his friend drank, careful to make sure he did not take too much at once. He managed to get most of the broth into him before he laid back against Scout's saddle in exhaustion. "Rest, Kemosabe," Tonto said softly, setting the bowl on a nearby rock. The ranger said something too quietly for Tonto to hear, but was asleep again in moments.

The sun had slipped over the horizon and soon the chill of desert night would be upon them. Tonto shook out a blanket and covered his friend, then situated the second saddle and laid out a bedroll for himself. He did not know what had happened in this valley, and if anyone else might come along. He checked one of the rifles as a precaution, making sure it was fully loaded, and propped it against the rock wall as he bedded down for the night.

Despite his tired muscles, sleep did not come readily. As he lay on the cave floor, staring up at the rocky ceiling, his thoughts kept turning to the past. It had been the most difficult time of Tonto's life, but it had shaped the man he would become. It had been a time of grief, but also happiness. He turned his head to regard the injured man resting against Scout's saddle. He'd been sent east to be educated, and was on his way home to visit for the summer when he came across Tonto's burned village.

Tonto was not a talkative person at the best of times, and in his grief had been mostly silent. But this man, a complete stranger to him, had talked a great deal. Tonto had listened, first without interest but then with growing enthusiasm as he told many stories about his home state, Texas, and the great deeds of the Rangers that patrolled there. He'd spoken with such vigor that it was impossible not to get caught up in the heroic tales. They'd even made up their own stories, making a game of it. His new friend enjoyed acting out different roles, entertaining his injured young companion. Tonto knew his name, but he'd taken to calling him Kemosabe. It was more a title than a name, one of the highest honors a man of his tribe could earn. At first he'd used it for play, but by the time he was well enough to travel it had just seemed fitting.

The Texas Rangers that Tonto had met in later years had fallen short of the ideals he'd been expecting of them, but no man could live up to the fanciful musings of a teenager. But there were not a great many rangers, and only the very best lawmen were chosen. They did what they believed was right, and Tonto had a great deal of respect for them. Tonto was not the least surprised to find Kemosabe wearing the badge of the Texas Rangers. Tonto's thoughts began to drift, remembering those old stories, and he was not aware that he'd fallen asleep until something woke him.

His gun was in his hand before his eyes had even finished opening, and he stared into the darkness beyond the cave for a long moment. Tonto had become accustomed to relying on Scout to alert him to intruders, and even in sleep he was trained to listen for the various sounds the animal made. But the horse had been dozing quietly until Tonto jerked awake. Scout lifted his head and blinked lazily at him.

Confused, Tonto slowly lowered the gun.

He looked away from the cave entrance when Kemosabe muttered something. Tonto's eyes widened in alarm and he quickly set the gun aside. The ranger was laying on his side, having slipped from the backrest of the saddle. The campfire had burned down to embers, but even in that feeble light Tonto could see that his entire body was drenched in sweat.

Kemosabe groaned as he struggled to rise, and Tonto hurried over to help. The ranger collapsed against the saddle, panting from the effort, and his eyes were glazed over with fever. Tonto quickly grabbed up the nearest bit of cloth at hand – a spare shirt – and dunked it into the small pool beside them. The water was very cold now, and the ranger gasped in surprise when Tonto pressed it to his forehead.

The ranger shoved Tonto's hands aside and started to sit up, and a red stain was already spreading through the bandage on the shoulder wound. Tonto tried to push him back down. "Kemosabe, you be still, or—"

"Dan!" The ranger reached for his gun, and Tonto was very glad now that it was not there. He tried again to push him back, and this time succeeded as the man's strength gave out. His friend was staring right at him, but Tonto knew he was seeing something else entirely. Tonto brushed the cool cloth over his jaw and cheek that was not wrapped in bandages, trying to draw away some of the heat, but paused at the wrenching sadness in the ranger's uncovered eye. "Not Dan..." He went still again, breathing shallowly as fevered sleep claimed him once again.

Tonto dipped the cloth into the pool again with a heavy heart. He had never met Dan, but was not surprised that Kemosabe called for him now in his delirium. He had spoken very fondly of his elder brother in his tales of the Texas Rangers, for Dan was among their number. Kemosabe had proudly declared that he would become one as well one day. Tonto dabbed at his face and throat a bit more until his strained breathing settled into an even rhythm, then rekindled the fire and redressed the shoulder wound.

Kemosabe continued to toss and turn fretfully, muttering, as Tonto waited out the fever with him over the next few hours. Tonto did not speak English well enough to make out most of the half formed words and incomplete sentences. The words he did catch did not make sense. The sky was just beginning to lighten when the fever finally broke, the stars fading from the blackness into the deep blue before dawn. His breathing evened out, and he slipped into a natural sleep.

Tonto made another herbal broth, and mixed in some of the dried vegetables and meat to soften. He leaned back against the cave wall, intending to watch the sun rise, but the very, very long day finally caught up to him. His chin drooped until it rested against his chest, and Tonto reluctantly closed his eyes to the sound of birds beginning their day with song.