“Hi-Ho, Sil—VER!” The masked rider yelled as he spurred his horse across the range. The townsfolk cheered behind him as left a plume of dust and darted into that Western sunset.

“Thank you for saving us, Lone Ranger!” A young lady yelled.

“Hooray for the Lone Ranger!” The Mayor cheered.

“I wanna be a masked crime-fighting cowboy when I grow up!” A small boy exclaimed.

Lone Ranger. Come on. How many years do I have to ride with this incompetent white man before people stop calling him the “lone” ranger? There’s two of us. We’ve been rustling up criminals and thieves for many moons, and they still call this guy the “lone” ranger.

I tracked those kidnappers and cattle thieves across the plains.
I bargained our safe passage through Apache territory.
During the fight, he did a lot of shooting. But tell me this, how many bullet holes did anyone see in the bad guys?

I do the tracking, the hunting, the trapping, most of the fighting, and every bit of the tribal negotiations but I’m the sidekick?