Day of Independence

by William W. Johnstone

  “Your chariot awaits, Ranger,” Rule said.

  “Get rid of that damned thing,” Cannan said.

  He took a step, then another, and staggered a little as a wave of weakness washed over him. He sat on the edge of the boardwalk, his head spinning.

  Cannan groaned, feeling his wounds. Dear God, am I ever going to feel strong again?

  Big Simon Rule stepped beside him.

  “Man hasn’t been born yet who never needed help now and then, Ranger.”

  Cannan lifted his eyes to the blacksmith. “Bring that infernal contraption over here,” he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  To Mickey Pauleen the Mexican peons looked like the damned shuffling toward the gates of hell.

  Sancho Perez’s men drove them on with whips in the direction of the river, and too thirsty, hungry, and sick to resist, the host of men, women, and children staggered onward under a merciless sun.

  Bodies, some of them tiny bundles, littered the sand where the peons had last camped, a sight that disturbed Pauleen.

  “Damn it, Sancho, did you have to lose so many?” he said, as he and the bandit sat their horses and watched the procession.

  “There’s enough left, Mickey my fren’,” Perez grinned. “We have all we need.”

  “If more die before we reach the Rio Grande,” Pauleen said, “you’ll lose money.”

  “Not too many more will die, I think,” Perez said. “They have not far to go.”

  The bandit stood in the stirrups and yelled a stream of cursing Spanish at one of his men who’d ridden past a woman who sat on the ground.

  “I told him to get her to her feet,” Perez said to Pauleen. “If one is allowed to sit, they’ll all sit.”

  The bandit was dressed for battle, ammunition bandoliers across his chest, a belt gun and spare tucked into his embroidered pants. He still wore a sombrero, but the poke bonnet hung by its ties from the saddle horn.

  Perez produced a bright blue bandana from his sleeve and wiped his sweaty face. “Mickey, my very good fren’,” he said. “Sancho longs to be in his cool hacienda, drinking tequila and attended by his women.”

  “You’ll be there soon enough,” Pauleen said. “And I’ll be with my own woman.”

  “Ha! Is she pretty, this woman?”

  “Real pretty.” The little gunman cupped his hands and held them in front of his chest. “And she’s got a pair of big ones.”

  Perez grinned and his teeth flashed. “Sancho would like such a woman.”

  “She’s mine, sorry.”

  The bandit shrugged. “No matter, the town of Last Chance is full of such women.”

  Pauleen nodded. “Of course it is. You and your men can take your pick, Sancho.” The gunman kneed his horse forward. “We’ll be choking in peon dust and stink if we don’t move,” he said. He and Perez rode until they took the point of the moving human herd.

  Whips cracked and now and then someone cried out as braided leather cut into thin, dehydrated flesh. Some cried out for water, but Perez and Pauleen ignored them.

  The peons must hit the river thirsty and the town starving.

  “Let me tell you something, Mickey,” Perez said. “In my hacienda I have much treasure, gathered together after years of raiding and robbing.”

  “What you going to do with it all, Sancho?”

  “Retire after this raid and no longer ride the desert. I plan to spend the rest of my life in Guadalajara or maybe Mexico City and live like a rich man should.” The bandit turned to Pauleen and grinned. “Come work for me, Mickey. I like you, and it is good for a wealthy man to have a famous pistolero by his side.”

  Pauleen shook his head. “I can’t do that, Sancho. The thing you ask I already promised to Abe Hacker.”

  “Ah, then I will not try to tempt you from such an honorable man. But poor Sancho is ver’ sad.”

  Pauleen turned in the saddle, his snake eyes troubled. “Sancho, when you start shooting up the town, take care you don’t hit my woman. You understand me?”

  “Sí, I do. But how to know one woman from so many others?”

  “She’ll be in the Cattleman’s Hotel. You got that? The Cattleman’s Hotel.”

  “I will take care, but as to my men, who knows?”

  “I’ll kill any man who lays a finger on her,” Pauleen said.

  Perez grinned. “She means much to you, this woman, huh?”

  Pauleen’s gazed into the distance ahead of him. “All my life, I’ve never owned something beautiful.”

  “You mean, like a painting or a marble sculpture as I have in my home?”

  “Yeah, like that.”

  “Is she as beautiful as a painting, this woman, Mickey?”

  “Enough that I want to own her.”

  “Then my men won’t touch her, my fren’. She is yours.”

  Pauleen smiled. “One day her loveliness will wane, and she’ll change. Her beautiful colors will fade to gray, but until then she’ll be my possession. Mickey Pauleen’s property—hands off.”

  Perez laughed and slapped his thigh. Startled, his horse shook its head and the bit chimed.

  “You are funny, Mickey. That’s why I like you.” The bandit knitted his thick eyebrows. “But who owns this woman now?”

  “Abe Hacker.”

  “She is beautiful, yet he gives her away? Sancho does not understand such a thing.”

  “He has his eyes set on someone much younger he plans to take as his wife.”

  Perez grinned. “Señor Hacker is... how do you say it?... a lady-killer.”

  “That he is,” Mickey Pauleen said. “He’s a born lady-killer.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Ranger Hank Cannan endured a bumpy, jolting ride to the riverbank, and Simon Rule’s lecture on the evils of demon drink added to his misery. To his joy, the trench remained relatively dry, and there was no sign of lifting dust to the south.

  “Maybe they ain’t comin’,” Ephraim Slough said. “Called the whole thing off, maybe so, cap’n.”

  “They’ll come,” Cannan said.

  He passed Rule his Winchester, then tried to get up from the chair, but the effort overwhelmed him and he quickly sat down again.

  Rule smiled. “Don’t get uppity, Ranger.”

  And Slough cackled. “That’s a good one, Simon, a real stingeroo.”

  “Yeah, you boys are just killing me,” Cannan said.

  He’d sat on his holstered Colt and now he had to stand up again and lift the revolver out of the way, causing more mirth among his companions.

  “Ephraim, I want you to stay right here,” Cannan said. “When you see the bandit scout leave, get on your horse, cross the river, and watch for dust, then—”

  “I know the rest, cap’n, begging your pardon,” Slough said. “You done tole me all that maybe sixty times already.”

  “Then remember it and stay off the whiskey,” Cannan said.

  “Amen, brother,” Rule said.

  “The whole town is depending on your courage and your eyesight, Ephraim,” Cannan said.

  The old sailor knuckled his forehead. “Aye-aye, cap’n. You can depend on me.”

  “Then let’s go, Mr. Rule, and we’ll talk to the mayor and anybody else who needs talking to. And keep your eyes open for Andy Kilcoyn. I want to have words with that young man.”

  “He’s a scamp,” the blacksmith said.

  Cannan said, “I hope he hasn’t deserted in the face of the enemy.”

  “Andy sometimes helps me around the forge,” Rule said. “You know how many times he’s been burned and never a word of complaint?” Rule answered his own question. “Dozens of times, Ranger. The youngster has sand.”

  “Then his not showing up for duty is all the more mysterious,” Cannan said.

  On a normal occasion, a Texas Ranger getting trundled around in an invalid chair by the town blacksmith would have generated a certain amount of questions and suppressed giggles.

  But as the reality of the situation
took hold the mood in Last Chance had become more somber.

  Firecrackers crackled constantly and the trestle tables groaned under the weight of food, the air fragrant with cinnamon from the apple pies and the tang of roasting pork. But there were few smiles.

  Mayor Frank Curtis met Cannan in the street. He did not comment on the chair, as though it was an insignificant concern among so many others that were much more pressing. “No sign yet?” Curtis said.

  A normally polite man, he did not precede his words with a “good morning”—a measure of his anxiety.

  “No, nothing,” Cannan said. “Ephraim Slough is down by the river, watching.”

  “Is that old pirate sober?”

  “I reckon he is,” Cannan said. “Ephraim knows what’s at stake.”

  A talk between a Ranger and their mayor attracted a crowd, and a score of people stood around listening, their faces solemn.

  The saloons, which on a normal Independence Day would have been booming, were unnaturally quiet.

  Cannan saw Roxie, wearing a short, bright blue dress, step through the open doors of the Last Mile saloon and stand on the boardwalk. She studied the chair for a few moments and smiled at him.

  Cannon touched his hat and looked away.

  “Ranger, is there no other way?” Curtis said.

  People in the crowd muttered the same question to one another then looked expectantly at Cannan. “Yes, you can surrender and let Sancho Perez and his bandits ride into town,” he said.

  “Surrender is not an option,” Curtis said. “Especially on this Independence Day.”

  “Then there’s no other way,” Cannan said.

  “My God, how many will we lose?” a woman said.

  “I don’t know, lady,” the Ranger said, his anger flaring. “I don’t know when Perez will come. I don’t even know if my plan will work. I don’t know anything, not a damned thing, so don’t ask me.”

  “It was a fair question, Ranger Cannan,” Curtis said mildly.

  “I don’t care how fair it was, Mayor. I have no answers.” Cannan glanced around at the strained faces the surrounded him. He was not a speechifying man, but he tried.

  “More than a hundred years ago our Founding Fathers chose liberty over death,” he said. “They declared it was better to be free men and die on their feet than be slaves and die on their knees.

  “Now you people face the same choice, and only you can decide.”

  “We’ve already made our decision,” Curtis said. “We’ll fight to the last breath, and that’s our very own Declaration of Independence.”

  Now there were cheers and no dissenting voices.

  Cannan, much affected by this display, said, “Mayor, I want to swear in every man, woman, and child in this town as deputy Texas Rangers.”

  “No, Mr. Cannan,” Curtis said. “We’ll fight this battle as ordinary American citizens, as it should be this Fourth of July.” He pointed to the church tower. “Yonder is the bell of freedom. When it rings, we’ll answer the call.”

  Without waiting for a comment from Cannan, they mayor stepped away and walked into the crowd. “Listen up, everybody. I’m tired of seeing all the long faces around me,” he said. “Now let’s celebrate this memorable day as we’ve always done in the past.”

  That last drew cheers, and it seemed as though a good-humored angel had passed through the crowd, slapping backs and shaking hands. At a signal from Roxie, the piano in the Last Mile started up, and soon others up and down the street joined in, their tinny dueling notes getting hopelessly tangled. It seemed to Cannan that Last Chance had returned to its usual, carefree ways, at least for now.

  But the Ranger felt deeply depressed.

  He wondered how the townspeople would react when he presented them with the butcher’s bill.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Roxie Miller hailed Hank Cannan from the boardwalk. She stepped into the street, treading carefully in silk, high-heeled shoes, her vivid blue dress tight across her bust and hips.

  “Happy Independence Day, Roxie,” Cannan said, touching his hat brim. “I forgot to say it this morning, didn’t I?”

  The woman didn’t answer that. Instead, she said, “Guess who’s in the saloon, bold as brass? Abe Hacker.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  Roxie smiled. “What any man does in a saloon. He’s drinking.”

  “Is he alone?”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Where’s his... where’s—”

  “Nora? He says she’s sleeping off last night’s drunk.”

  “Time for me to read to him from the book,” Cannan said. He turned to Simon Rule. “Push me to the boardwalk and I’ll take it from there.”

  The blacksmith did as he was told, but Cannan couldn’t step up to the walk without Rule’s assistance. “I swore I’d never again enter a saloon, Ranger,” Rule said. “But I’ll come in with you if you want.”

  “Too much temptation for you in there, Simon,” Cannan said. “Demon rum is lying in wait in every corner.”

  “It’s pleased I am, Ranger, that I’ve showed you the righteous path of abstinence,” Rule said.

  “Amen, brother,” Cannan said. He badly needed a drink.

  Cannan stepped from the bright street to the cool shade of the saloon, and it took his eyes a while to adjust. When his vision returned he saw Hacker sitting in a corner, his back to the wall.

  There were a score of men in the Last Mile, all of them drinking, but none were drunk. “Take it easy now, boys,” the Ranger said as he lurched rather than walked to the bar.

  “We hear you, Ranger,” a man said, nodding.

  Cannan ordered a whiskey, then made his way along the bar, not trusting himself to stand without support.

  When he was within speaking distance of Hacker, the fat man grinned. “Sorry to see you keeping so poorly, Ranger Cannan. That’s who you are, isn’t it?

  “You know it, Hacker.”

  The fat man had a pot of coffee and a bottle of Hennessy on the table. “Can I offer you a drink?” Hacker said. “My, my, it looks like you need a brandy, being so weak and sickly and all.”

  “Where’s your boy?” Cannan said.

  Hacker pretended puzzlement. “Oh, you mean my associate Mr. Mickey Pauleen? He’s out riding or sparking a farm girl, I suppose. He comes and goes.”

  Hacker was dressed up like a Wall Street banker, but was unshaven. Cannan wondered at that.

  “I hope you haven’t come to arrest me, Mr. Cannan,” the fat man said. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “You’d be making a big mistake.” The spout of the coffeepot steamed as Hacker poured some into his cup.

  “You’re responsible for what’s going to happen here today, Hacker,” Cannan said.

  “Really? Me? The Independence Day celebration? I’m flattered.”

  “I mean the impending attack on this town by the bandit Sancho Perez and the driving of hundreds of starving Mexicans across the Rio Grande to lay waste to the land.”

  “And you have proof of this... fantasy?” Hacker said. “And a motive?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll get them. And I’ll see you hang.”

  “Your word is good enough for me, Ranger,” a man said. “I say we string him up right now.” Cries of agreement from others followed, and angry voices were raised.

  The man who’d first spoken, a tall drink of water who wore a store-bought suit and celluloid collar, pointed an accusing finger at Hacker. “His hired gun shot old Marshal Dixon, and I reckon the same man murdered Ed Gillman.”

  There were calls of “String him up,” and “Drag him out of here.”

  But Hacker put on a remarkable show of calmness. “You’re a rabble-rouser, Cannan. I’m a respectable businessman and you won’t put the run on me,” he said. “Now call off your dogs.”

  “We’ll have no lynching, men,” Cannan said. “We won’t crawl around in the slime with Hacker and his kind. When you wallow with pigs you can expect to get dirty.”

 
“Eloquent, Ranger,” the fat man said, his tight eyes glittering. “Really impressive for an illiterate, dollar-a-day lawman.”

  Cannan felt someone brush past him, and to his surprise Roxie stepped toward Hacker’s table, her heels drumming on the wood floor. Alarmed, Hacker half-rose from his chair and met Roxie’s stinging slap across his jowly cheek. “You will not insult Ranger Cannan in my presence,” she said, her beautiful face flushed.

  For a moment Hacker sat openmouthed in astonishment, then his anger flared into violence. He stumbled to his feet, snarling like an animal, derringer in hand.

  “You cheap whore! I’ll kill you for that.”

  No one ever said that Hank Cannan was slow on the draw, just mighty uncertain on the shoot. His Colt slicked out of the holster and he yelled, “Drop it, Hacker or I’ll kill you.”

  The fat man turned, saw both fire and ice in Cannan’s eyes, and let the belly gun thud to the table.

  “I’ve had my fill of you, Hacker,” the Ranger said. “Get back to your hotel and stay there until I come for you.”

  The fat man looked at the circle of hostile faces surrounding him and decided not to push it. “You’ll regret this,” he said. “Every man jack of you.”

  “Git, Hacker,” Cannan said. “Git while you still can.”

  With as much of his old arrogance as he could muster, Hacker walked toward the door. But the thin man in the celluloid collar blocked his way.

  “Know this,” the thin man said. “If things come to pass as the Ranger says they will, when the smoke clears you won’t be among the living.”

  “Depend on it,” another man said.

  Hacker clove his way through angry, threatening men. His outward demeanor was calm, but inwardly he was in turmoil. No power in heaven or hell could get him back to the hotel room to see again the terrifying specter of Nora’s broken claw beckoning to him.

  It was time to make another plan.

  Hacker passed along the crowded street and saw no one. He was a man alone, an island of seething hatred in a sea of celebrating people.