Day of Independence

by William W. Johnstone

  “You believe me now.”

  “Damn right I do. I saw them with my own eyes, more people than I could ever count.”

  “They’ll come across the river, starving, and lay waste to the land and sack the town,” Dupoix said. “Then, when it’s over, Hacker will pick up the pieces.”

  “How do I stop them?” Cannan said.

  “You can’t, big man.”

  “You’re right, I can’t. I can’t gun down hungry Mexicans who’ll step over their dead and keep on a-coming because they’re desperate.” Cannan drank again and drew deep on his cigarette. “The Texas Rangers would hang me.”

  “Or the Mexican government would.”

  “Then I can’t win.”

  “Seems like.”

  “I can lock up Hacker, put him out of the locust business.”

  Dupoix smiled. “That won’t work.” He answered the question on Cannan’s face. “Through Mickey Pauleen and Sancho Perez, Hacker told a couple of thousand ravenous people they were bound for the Promised Land,” Dupoix said. “Mickey says Perez can barely hold them as it is, and once they start moving they won’t stop at the river.”

  “And the best crossing is right here, at Last Chance.”

  Dupoix nodded. “Yup, Ranger, we’re the Red Sea.”

  The gambler poured more bourbon, then glass in hand, stepped to the window. It was gone four o’clock, yet the day’s heat was still intense. But the street outside was busy, and shirtsleeved men jostled women carrying packages and parasols. A piano player was already at work in one of the saloons and outside the greengrocer’s a young female assistant held a struggling urchin by the back of his neck and cuffed his ear, apparently for apple-stealing, since the rosy evidence was still in the boy’s hand.

  “Folks getting ready for Independence Day,” Dupoix said, without turning.

  “If only they knew,” Cannan said.

  “They’ll know, because you’ll tell them.”

  “Will they stand in a line on the bank of the Rio Grande and shoot into hungry women and children?”

  “A few will. Most won’t.”

  “None will, especially not on Independence Day. Those are decent people out there, and they won’t betray the principles that makes this nation of ours great.”

  When Dupoix turned he was smiling. “You should run for politics, Hank.”

  “I believe in America and Americans. To slaughter innocents is not our way.”

  “And that suits Abe Hacker just fine.”

  Cannan made no comment on that, but he said, “You going to drink the whole bottle by yourself?”

  Dupoix poured the Ranger another glass. “Mickey Pauleen doesn’t talk to me much, but I’ve listened in on conversations between him and Hacker. And I spoke to Nora Anderson just before you rode into town with your baby girl.”

  “She isn’t my—”

  “And I can give you something to think about.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  “It may be nothing.”

  “Let me hear it.”

  “Trivial, perhaps.”

  “Damn you, Dupoix, let it out. I’m clutching at straws here.”

  “Sancho Perez has a burning hatred for gringos.”

  “I reckon that’s obvious.”

  “He’s also crazy.”

  “I know. I spoke with him.”

  “He’s also a very proud man.”

  Cannan looked up from the cigarette he was building. “You’re giving me nothing, Dupoix.”

  “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” The gambler grinned. “That’s from the Bible, Proverbs, I believe, or so I recall my grandma Henriette told me.”

  “I’m not catching your drift. In fact, you’re running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.”

  “If you can induce Sancho to attack across the river before he sends over the Mexicans, you might be able to end this thing.”

  Cannan let his exasperation show. He was weak, light-headed, and angry.

  “So what do I do? Stand on the bank of the Rio Grande and say, ‘Sancho, I know you’re tetched in the head, so would you please attack me so I can shoot you down?’”

  “Why is it,” Dupoix said, “that the bigger the man, the dumber he is?”

  “You ain’t exactly runtified your ownself,” Cannan said.

  “Hank—may I call you Hank?”

  “Seems to me you’ve been doing it. And no, I sure ain’t calling you Baptiste.”

  Dupoix let that go. “You play to his pride, Hank,” he said. You tell him he’s a coward who’s hiding behind the skirts of women, too scared to face real American men.”

  Dupoix stared at Cannan over the top of his glass.

  “Sancho will not want to lose face in front of his men.”

  “Hell, that’s as thin as a rail,” the Ranger said.

  “It’s all you have.”

  Dupoix watched Cannan as the big man considered the implications of what he’d just said.

  The gambler prodded him. “You won’t stop the Mexicans, nothing can stop them now, but killing Perez could make the situation more manageable.”

  “And Hacker and Pauleen?”

  “Figure that one for yourself,” Dupoix said.

  “And you, Dupoix? What about you?”

  “Figure that for yourself as well.”

  Cannan sat upright in bed, then wiped whiskey off his mustache with the back of his hand. He opened his mouth to speak, but Dupoix got his words in first.

  “Your bride will be here day after tomorrow,” he said.

  “Yeah, I’m aware of that.”

  “Then you know what you should do?”

  “No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “Get her back on the stage and go with her. Leave this whole, sorry mess behind. Buy a house with a white picket fence within the sound of a church bell and enjoy married life together.”

  “I can’t do that, Dupoix.”

  “I know, the brave Texas Ranger can’t turn his back on trouble.”

  “Wrong, I’m not brave. Right, I’m a Texas Ranger.” Cannan was silent for a few moments, then said, “Dupoix I need a favor.”

  “From me? The man you aim to hang?”

  “Yeah, from you. We’ll forget the hanging thing for now.”

  “That’s white of you. All right, a favor, but with very narrow limits. I’m still drawing wages from Hacker.”

  “Visit the cattle spreads. Tell the ranchers that when they come into town for Independence Day they can wear their best goin’ a-courtin’ suits, but I want them well armed. Tell them to bring rifles and plenty of ammunition.”

  “Most of the seasonal hands are paid off,” Dupoix said.

  “There will be enough,” Cannan said. “What’s left are good men and they’ll stand.”

  “You’re pushing it, Hank,” Dupoix said.

  “With the ranchers?”

  “No, with me.”

  “You already told me you wouldn’t stand by and see Last Chance and all it stands for destroyed. Hell, we’re defending our corner of the United States of America. Doesn’t that mean something to you?”

  “More than you know,” Dupoix said. “But when I take a man’s wages I ride for the brand.”

  “A man can be loyal to the wrong cause. How many southern boys wore the blue?”

  “All right, I’ll do this for you, Ranger, since you can’t ride,” Dupoix said. “But afterward, I go my own way. Understand?”

  “You’ve stated your intentions and I respect them.”

  Cannan eased his aching back against the pillows. He felt worn out, as though he’d been up the trail and back.

  “As far as I know, the ranches—”

  “I know where they are,” Dupoix said. “Two to the west, one east of us.”

  Cannon nodded. “I appreciate this, Dupoix.”

  “Now you’ve run out of favors, Hank.”

  “Tell those boys to get in early,” the Range
r said. “I don’t know when Perez will open the ball.”

  Dupoix smiled without humor. “You’ll know, Hank. Trust me, you’ll know.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Abe Hacker was a brooding man.

  Fully dressed, a diamond stickpin in his cravat, he stared morosely out at the street where late-afternoon shoppers gathered their final Independence Day supplies.

  The fun would start tomorrow morning, but the noise of firecrackers would soon be replaced by the reports of rifles and revolvers.

  Hacker squeezed his cigar and decided that all in all things had gone well.

  He was sure the Texas Ranger—what was his name?—suspected something, but a bedridden man could do little. Besides, he’d ordered Mickey to gun—Cannan, yes, that was the name—gun him once Sancho Perez hit town.

  As for the rubes, the death of Ed Gillman had them well and truly cowed. If he could be killed, so could they.

  Ah well, as he’d said before, wolves fight, sheep don’t.

  Nora stirred in the bed and muttered restlessly in her sleep. Hacker admired the dramatic curve of her hips under the sheet, but only for a moment. He was about to take a new bride and throw Nora to Mickey.

  He was finished with her.

  Best not allow the witch to rouse him at this late stage.

  Hacker squeezed his cigar and smiled.

  Indian clubs! Yes, that was the ticket. As soon as he got back to Washington he’d buy a pair of Indian clubs and get in shape for his coming marital exertions. He needed a strong son, and strong sons are sired by strong men. A few sessions with Indian clubs and he’d be more than ready for his young bride.

  Hacker licked saliva from his thick lips. It would be a memorable wedding night.

  A tap at the door interrupted his titillating reverie. Irritated, Hacker snapped, “Come in!”

  Mickey Pauleen stepped inside, wearing his guns. “Dupoix just rode out of town,” he said.

  Hacker consulted his watch, then snapped it shut. “It’s five o’clock. Where is he headed at this time of day?”

  “You tell me, boss,” Pauleen said. His eyes flicked to the bed. “She sick?”

  “No, she’s just taking a nap.”

  “Plumb wore her out, huh, boss?” Pauleen said.

  “Please, Mickey, no crudity,” Hacker said. “You know how it offends me.”

  “All right, what about Dupoix?”

  “Follow him. If he’s up to no good, kill him.”

  “How about I kill him anyway? We don’t need him any longer.”

  “Yes, indeed. Sancho will take care of all my business.” Hacker thought for a few moments, his cruel mouth pursed. Then, “Yes, kill him, Mickey. I never trusted him anyway.”

  Like a hungry buzzard, Pauleen’s attention moved to Nora again. “Remember, I want that,” he said.

  “And you’ll have it, Mickey. Just be patient for another day.”

  The little gunman nodded. “One other thing, boss...”

  Hacker nodded. “Speak.”

  “When I get back, we’ll discuss her dowry.”

  Hacker was taken aback, his three chins falling at the same time. “What the hell are you talking about, Mickey?”

  “I’m taking Nora off your hands. You should pay her dowry.”

  “You don’t pay a dowry for a whore.”

  “You will. Or me and her will invite ourselves to your wedding.” Pauleen’s grin was vicious. “I’ll get her to wear the dress I like. The bright scarlet silk. Show off Abe Hacker’s former woman to all them senators and their ladies and the like.”

  Hacker squeezed his cigar. “You trying to blackmail me, Mickey?”

  “No, not in the least. I just want my due. A dowry is my due.”

  Hacker let his black anger subside. It wasn’t good for his heart. “We’ll discuss it when you get back,” he said.

  Pauleen said, “That’s fine with me, boss. But let me warn you, I’m talking tall dollars here, five figures, not a grubstake.”

  “Don’t warn me, Mickey,” Hacker said. His piggy eyes hardened and his voice iced. “Don’t ever again warn me about anything.” Pauleen wore the guns, but Hacker had the power. “Take a step back, Mickey,” the fat man said. “A big step back.”

  The gunman knew that this was not the time or place to push it. He backed down. “We’ll discuss the dowry when I return,” he said.

  “No, we’ll discuss your crude attempt at blackmail when you return,” Hacker said. “Then, if I feel like it, we’ll argue the dollar value of an aging whore.”

  The fat man waved a dismissive hand. “Now go kill that tinhorn gambler.”

  Abe Hacker felt that Mickey slammed the door behind him just a little too hard.

  No matter. Perez would take care of him.

  The fat man frowned.

  Hell no, he should reserve that pleasure for himself.

  The Remington derringer in his vest pocket would take care of that little chore. Especially if Mickey didn’t see it coming.

  The fat man smiled.

  How simple...

  A fatherly pat on Pauleen’s back, then POW! POW! Two .40 caliber balls into the man’s head.

  The plan pleased Hacker greatly, and he would put it into effect when Mickey returned. The rubes would pass off the racket of the shots as firecrackers or some drunk rooster shooting at the moon, starting his Independence Day celebrations early.

  But Pauleen had left him with a mathematical problem that he now turned over in his mind. The sight of Nora, sitting up in bed, regarding him with damp, wounded eyes, could only help with his calculations. Hacker presented himself with the problem: How much was a past-her-prime whore worth in American dollars?

  Fifty... a hundred... less?

  The fat man tried, but couldn’t come up with a figure.

  Then he had an idea. “Nora, get up and take your clothes off,” he said.

  “Why, Abe?” the woman said, sniffing back a tear.

  “I want you to dance for me,” Hacker said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The last thing in the world Baptiste Dupoix had expected was a summer rain... and a heavy one at that.

  Once past the grain fields he’d picked up a wagon road that stayed close to the river, in some places coming within twenty yards of the bank, at others swinging wide past acres of mesquite and its attendant bluebonnets.

  With still no sign of a ranch house in sight, ragged gray clouds drifted in from the canyon lands, dragging behind them the snarling black mass of a thunderstorm.

  Within a few minutes the heavens opened and Dupoix found himself drenched to the skin.

  He swung his horse into the scant shelter of a mesquite, prepared to wait out the storm. The gray seemed in total agreement with that plan.

  Ten minutes later, as the storm raged, the big stud suddenly pricked its ears and turned its attention to Dupoix’s back trail.

  A rider, veiled by rain, headed in the gambler’s direction.

  Blinking against the downpour, Dupoix slid the Winchester from the boot under his knee.

  He recognized the slender, significant form of Mickey Pauleen.

  Like himself the little gunman had made no provision for rain, riding head bent and miserable through the lashing downpour.

  Dupoix had a gambler’s instinct, but he was not about to take his chances with a named draw fighter like Mickey Pauleen. He was too fast... too certain... too dangerous.

  The man had obviously seen him ride out of Last Chance and the fact that he followed did not bode well.

  Pauleen suspected nothing, chin sunk on his chest.

  Dupoix levered a round into the chamber of the rifle, his face set and grim.

  Something wicked this way comes...

  The distance was fifty yards, and he’d sight through an iron-colored murk of mist and rain, but Dupoix, a good hand with a rifle, knew he could make the shot.

  He had never murdered a man in cold blood before, but he’d squeeze the trigger an
d live with it later.

  Dupoix threw the Winchester to his shoulder.

  Thunder cracked, then roared like the detonation of a hundred barrels of gunpowder, followed an instant later by the serpent hiss and sizzling dazzle of a lightning strike.

  Momentarily blinded by searing light, Dupoix lowered his rifle.

  After his eyes adjusted, he saw Pauleen sprawled on the wet ground beside his stunned horse.

  The gambler put it together.

  The strike had hit close, killing Pauleen, but for some reason Dupoix couldn’t understand, spared his mount.

  Now wary of the lightning, the gambler replaced the Winchester in the boot and stayed where he was.

  He would pay his last respects to Mickey after the storm passed.

  But Dupoix didn’t get that opportunity.

  Pauleen suddenly jumped to his feet, shook himself off, and sprang into the saddle of his startled horse. He swung his mount around and took off at a fast gallop, his legs flapping as though all the hounds of hell were after him.

  At first Dupoix was surprised, but then what he’d just seen tickled his funny bone, and he laughed loud and long, ignoring the storm that crashed and growled around him.

  The lightning had put the crawl on ol’ Mickey, and he wouldn’t slow down until he hit the barn in Last Chance.

  Dupoix wiped tears from his eyes.

  If for nothing else, the sight of a terrified Mickey Pauleen, hatless, flapping his chaps for home was well worth the trip.

  Mickey had intended to kill him. Dupoix had no doubt about that.

  And the order could only have come from Hacker.

  There was a limit to the gambler’s loyalty to the brand and the fat man had pushed it too far.

  It was time to cut the ties.

  Besides, Dupoix had recently outrun his losing streak at the tables, and the cards were finally falling his way.

  He glanced at the darkening sky where the storm clouds had given way to a single sentinel star. It was a good omen, the star, since it pointed the way to N’Orleans and the steamboats.

  Dupoix smiled.

  That’s where his future and his destiny lay.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  In the ticking aftermath of the storm, Dupoix followed the wagon road, and the day shaded into evening before he saw the Elkhorn ranch house in the distance. The structure itself seemed fairly modest, but nonetheless it was a cabin that stood tall enough to blot out a major proportion of the starry sky behind it.