Day of Independence

by William W. Johnstone

  Whether that was a good thing or bad, the Ranger couldn’t tell.

  Cannan had Rule push him along the trench, and he repeated constantly, “When they get within seeing distance, down to the bottom of the hole and stay there until I holler, NOW!”

  The mayor broke the townsmen’s silence.

  “We got you, Ranger.” Then, “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Frank,” Cannan said. “And that goes for all of you.”

  Solemn faces turned in the Ranger’s direction, but the men remained silent. One checked his revolver and another had red rosary beads that looked like drops of blood wrapped around his shooting hand.

  Cannan swallowed hard and tried his best to keep his face empty.

  My God, when the shooting starts will they stand? Will I stand?

  He had no answers, none at all.

  The dust cloud drew closer as the afternoon sun dropped and shadows lengthened. On Cannan’s orders, the pianos still played in the saloons and as many people as possible, most of them women, crowded the street.

  Roxie Miller, no longer dressed in blue silk, took Daphne Curtis’s place on the beach. “Mrs. Curtis has had nursing experience, Ranger Cannan,” she said. “She’s more valuable where she is.” Roxie wore a split canvas riding skirt, a shirt, a man’s battered hat, and French perfume. She carried a Winchester.

  Cannan wanted to tell her that she was too beautiful to risk her life, but he realized how silly that would sound and kept silent.

  Ominous as a twister, the dust was now so close Cannan could see people move within its folds like gray ghosts. He estimated the Mexicans would arrive on the far bank in thirty minutes, maybe less.

  Ephraim Slough walked along the trench as confidently as he’d once paced a gun deck. “Easy, lads,” he said. “Easy now. Stand to your guns. Easy, lads...”

  After a few minutes of this, Cannan’s heart soared when a man called out, “Ephraim! You say ‘Easy, lads’ one more time and I’ll put a bullet in you.”

  The Ranger smiled.

  That was not the voice of a frightened man.

  “Getting close,” Simon Rule said.

  “Seems like,” Cannan said.

  “I think I see horseman out front. Do you see that?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Cannan said. “I’m not a praying man, but I hope to God that Perez attacks ahead of the people he’s forcing into us.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Rule said. “He’ll swamp us with his peasants and then attack. We’d never be able to kill enough of them. They’ll keep coming and coming.”

  “Will our men fire into starving women and children?” Cannan said.

  “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t count on it,” Rule said. “What do you think?”

  Silence is sometimes the best answer and the Ranger said nothing.

  Ten minutes passed... then fifteen... watching... waiting.

  The sun dropped lower, the shadows lengthened.

  A saloon piano played “Oh, Mildred, Leave Me Not” and the women of Last Chance no longer moved around but stood in the street together and watched the river.

  The horsemen moved out, deployed into line, and came on at a trot.

  Cannan counted fifty, more than he’d bargained for, and the mass of humanity behind them was beyond counting.

  “Down, boys!” Cannan yelled. “Don’t let them see you.”

  Slough and Rule relayed the order and within seconds along the riverbank not a head was to be seen.

  The Ranger rubbed dry lips with the back of his hand. He’d been scared before, like when the bushwhacker shot him, but never like this. He was not only afraid for himself, but for a whole town.

  “Ranger, I’m pulling you back,” Rule said. “You’re a sitting duck in the wheelchair.”

  “No, leave me right here,” Cannan said. “Perez has to see a man in an invalid chair.”

  “The bandits will target you,” the blacksmith said. “You’re right out front, for God’s sake.”

  “It’s about time I earned my Ranger salary,” Cannan said.

  He looked along the bank. Himself, a few old men and boys, Rule with his hammer, and Ephraim Slough showing his wooden leg to good effect.

  And Roxie.

  Her glossy hair cascaded from under her hat over her shoulders, and the proud sight of her in that moment was one Cannan would treasure for the rest of his life.

  Cannan levered a round into the chamber of his rifle.

  As he’d planned, Last Chance wasn’t showing Perez much. But would the bandit take the bait?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Sancho Perez stared across the Rio Grande and liked what he saw.

  “Look, Mickey, the men have all fled and left their women behind,” he said. “This makes Sancho ver’ happy.”

  “It looks like the Texas Ranger in the invalid chair,” Pauleen said.

  “And a few old men and boys,” Perez said.

  “I don’t like it, Sancho. It could be a trap.”

  The bandit’s grin twisted into a scowl.

  “Mickey, are you afraid?” he said.

  Pauleen grabbed Perez by this thick bicep. “For pity’s sake, send the peons first,” he said.

  Perez jerked his arm free. “You are a coward, Mickey,” he said. “Get away from Sancho.” Perez raised a hand and yelled, “Follow me, muchachos!”

  He swept his hand downward.

  Fifty horsemen followed their leader headlong into the river, great fountains of water splashing up around their mounts.

  Cannan waited.

  Next to him Simon Rule whispered, “Oh, my God.”

  Ephraim Slough turned his head in the Ranger’s direction. “Give the order,” he said.

  “Not yet,” Cannan said.

  The bandits were halfway across, a few of them already firing.

  A bullet buzzed past Cannan’s head and made him flinch.

  Unnerved, he roared, “NOW!” And threw the Winchester to his shoulder.

  Along the length of the trench works men popped up and stared, stunned, into a nightmare...

  The bandits, Perez in the lead, were coming on strong. Their faces contorted into war masks, the Mexicans fired as they neared the riverbank, using spurs on their floundering horses.

  Cannan fired, missed. Cursed. Fired again.

  The townsmen of Last Chance recovered.

  A volley, ragged but accurate, tore into the advancing horsemen like grapeshot.

  Saddles emptied, horses went down kicking, and men screamed. The charge faltered.

  A dozen bodies floated in the river and wide arrowheads of blood streamed in the current.

  The bandits swung their horses around and fled for the far bank.

  But then Perez was among them. He rallied his men, roared orders, and turned their fear into anger. A quarter of their amigos were dead or dying and now the surviving bandits wanted revenge.

  A cheer rose from the trench, and men grinned and waved their hats, thinking the battle was over.

  “Get ready,” Cannan yelled. “They’ll be back.” He looked around and what he saw cut him to the bone.

  Following his orders, the old men and boys had fled toward town as soon as the Mexican charge started. But Ephraim Slough was down, sprawled on the ground, and Roxie was on one knee, bent over, the front of her shirt red.

  “Roxie!” Cannan called out.

  The woman turned to his voice, smiled, then fell over onto her side.

  Simon Rule was already running. He lifted Roxie in his strong arms, stared at her beautiful face, and gently laid her back on the ground.

  When he returned to Cannan’s side, he didn’t have to say a word.

  “They’re coming again!” a man in the trench yelled.

  And indeed, Perez had re-formed his bandits for another charge.

  Unlike the American men in the trench, Sancho Perez had never read accounts of the War Between the States nor had he listened to veterans who’d fought its battles. He di
dn’t know therefore what the generals on both sides had learned from long years of bloody trial and error—that light cavalry should never attack steady, entrenched infantry.

  Perez paid for his ignorance.

  Withering fire from the trenches again broke his charge.

  Then, as the Mexicans wavered, Hank Cannan drew a bead and fired.

  Hit hard, Perez shrieked and slumped in the saddle.

  Gut shot, he grabbed frantically at his belly, screaming, and then splashed headfirst into the river.

  The Ranger had scored a hit, but it made him a prime target.

  A bullet hit the receiver of his Winchester, caromed off the steel, and slammed into Cannan’s left shoulder. An instant later, as the Ranger’s rifle spun away from him, a second round splintered its way across the ribs on the right side of his chest.

  He fell forward and Rule, himself bleeding from wounds to his head and right hand, grabbed for him. But his clumsy attempt tipped the wheelchair onto its side and Cannan went with it.

  For a moment, it seemed that Perez’s men, stung by the death of their leader and half their number, might rally.

  But from the direction of town, hooves hammered on hard ground and the strange yodeling wail of the rebel yell pierced the smoke-streaked day.

  A dozen hard-riding fighting men, Baptiste Dupoix among them, crashed into the Mexican line, six-guns blazing. Riflemen climbed from their trenches and joined the melee that turned the river shallows red and clogged its flow with dead men and horses.

  Their ranks broken, some Mexican banditos fled into the desert to avoid the slaughter, but their numbers were few and those that survived long enough to become old men would recall the Batalla del Rio Grande with shuddering horror.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Mickey Pauleen took no part in the battle.

  After he saw the first charge shattered, he rode into the horde of Mexican peons who’d recoiled from the violence at the river and now held back, confused and afraid.

  Pauleen used the human shield to loop to the east a hundred yards, and then swung north. He swam his horse across a deep section of the Rio Grande and approached Last Chance from the south.

  The street was deserted and he arrived unseen.

  It seemed everybody was down at the river and he wondered if Nora was there. If she was, he’d hide in her hotel room until she got back.

  Surprise her, like.

  Pauleen tethered his horse to a parked freight wagon at the rear of an alley, then drew his gun and angled across the street to the Cattleman’s Hotel.

  Gunfire rattled in the distance, and Pauleen fervently hoped that Sancho Perez and his rabble were all dead. He had a plan, something he should have thought about before, a plan that would make him rich. But first Perez had to be out of the way.

  He smiled, relishing his brilliant scheme. With Nora by his side and a fortune at his back, life would finally be good for Mickey Pauleen. He recalled the quote from the Book of Psalms he’d been taught as a boy:

  Surely there is a reward for the righteous. Surely there’s a God who judges on earth.

  Pauleen had no doubt that those words applied to him.

  He stepped into the hotel, ready to kill anyone who stood in his way. But like the town itself, the place was empty, echoing, the only sound the tick of the hallway clock. Pauleen made his way to Nora and Hacker’s room. To his surprise, the door hung slightly ajar on a splintered frame. He pushed it open with the muzzle of his Colt.

  “Nora?” he said.

  There was no answer.

  He stepped into the room.

  Nora lay on the bed. At first Pauleen thought she was asleep, then he moved closer he realized that she was laid out under a sheet.

  A shroud.

  The little gunman pulled the sheet off Nora’s body. Someone, most probably an undertaker, had crossed her arms over her breasts. Her left hand had been smashed into a blackened claw.

  The terrible bruises on Nora’s throat, blue, black, and yellow against her gray skin, revealed in gruesome detail the manner of her death.

  Pauleen’s face tightened into hard, vicious planes.

  For years Abe Hacker had used and abused Nora and in the end he’d done for her.

  Pauleen didn’t love the woman, never had, and never would. But Nora was supposed to be his. He’d even planned that she play a small role in his future life. Now Hacker had stolen her away from him, and that was a thing he could not forget and forgive.

  Pauleen replaced the sheet, disturbed by Nora’s still, white nakedness, and the loud, unfeeling tick... tick... tick... of the clock.

  He left the hotel and retraced his steps to the waiting horse.

  A cheer rose from the riverbank, white men’s cheers.

  So Perez was defeated and most likely dead.

  Pauleen figured his plan was working out nicely. Nora’s murder was the only fly in the ointment, but in the long run it didn’t matter a damn. Money could buy the kind of women he liked.

  He swung into the saddle.

  Now it was time to settle accounts—with a treacherous fat man.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Mickey Pauleen figured he had a couple of hours of daylight left and that was good. He’d spend the night at Perez’s hacienda and even longer, depending on the mood of the bandit’s women.

  He and his horse ghosted long shadows on the sand when the little gunman saw Hacker’s shelter ahead of him, a spindly thing, shaking with every gust of the hot desert wind. Pauleen was close before the fat man caught sight of him.

  Abe Hacker rose to his feet and waved. He had stripped to only a shirt.

  Pauleen did not wave back.

  Hesitancy, concern, showed in the way Hacker stood, his massive belly hanging over his rolling thighs and knock-knees. His little blue eyes were bloodshot; his round nail keg of a head tilted to one side, as though he wondered what Mickey had to tell him. When the gunman was within hailing distance, Hacker cupped a hand to his mouth, “Is Last Chance burning, Mickey?”

  Pauleen didn’t answer until he was a few feet from the canopy.

  He drew rein and said, “Perez is dead. They’re all dead.”

  Shock hit Hacker like a blow and he dropped to a sitting position. “But how...”

  “The Ranger was too smart for your friend Sancho, I guess,” Pauleen said. “You can never trust a greaser, my ol’ pappy used to say.”

  “Then you have to take me away from here, Mickey,” Hacker said. “We have to get to Washington.”

  “To your young bride, huh?”

  “Yes, and then the presidency, Mickey. You’ll be at my side and along the way I’ll make you a rich man.”

  Pauleen smiled with all the warmth of a Minnesota blizzard. “Why did you kill Nora?” he said.

  The fat man’s face sagged. “It wasn’t me, Mickey. I wouldn’t strangle Nora. Never, ever, ever.”

  “How did you know she was strangled?” Pauleen said.

  Hacker knew he’d run out of room on the dance floor. “She was going to tell the law about us, Mickey,” he said. “I had to stop her.”

  “What law? A crippled Texas Ranger?”

  “The army. She could’ve told the army.”

  “There are no soldiers in Last Chance.”

  Desperately, Hacker tried a different tack. He grinned and said, “Mickey, come sit in the shade and have a drink and a cigar. We’re both men of the world and we shouldn’t have a falling-out over a whore.”

  “She was my woman, Hacker,” Pauleen said. “And you took her from me.”

  “I’ll get you another, a dozen others if you want them.”

  “I wanted Nora. You should’ve thought about that before you killed her.”

  “After just a week in Washington you’ll forget that Nora ever existed,” Hacker said. “Now sit beside me in good fellowship and we’ll have a drink.”

  “On your feet,” Pauleen said. He drew his gun. “Now, fat man.”

  Hacker struggled
erect. He trembled and his fat bottom lip quivered. “Mickey, be reasonable. All the money you want... power...”

  “Turn around, then run,” Pauleen said.

  “My heart, Mickey. My heart...”

  “Run, you fat, useless pig.”

  Hacker looked into merciless eyes and felt fear.

  “Make it to Perez’s hacienda and I’ll let you live,” Pauleen said.

  “I can’t run that far, Mickey. And I think I’m having another heart attack.”

  “Try,” Pauleen said.

  But Hacker dropped to his knees, then rolled on his back. His blue lips peeled back from his teeth and his face knotted in pain.

  “Help me, Mickey,” he said, gasping.

  Pauleen smiled. “Sure, Abe, sure.”

  He grabbed a canopy leg and dragged the whole thing with him as he rode away. After a hundred yards, he dropped the canopy and looked back. Hacker rolled back and forth on the sand, his hands convulsively clutching at his chest.

  It was, Pauleen decided, a terrible way to die. He raised a hand and smiled.

  “Adios, amigo!”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  The Mexicans lined the far bank of the Rio Grande that still ran red from the carnage that had taken place.

  Dead men and horses bobbed in the current but refused to be swept aside. It would take days to clear the river.

  Baptiste Dupoix’s body had been dragged onto the bank close to where Hank Cannan slumped in his wheelchair. The gambler had died well, getting his work in even after he’d suffered a mortal wound, and Cannan felt deep sorrow for his loss.

  “You’ve got four ribs broken, and the bullet that hit your shoulder went right through,” Dr. Hans Krueger said. He dropped the spent round into the Ranger’s hand. “Dug it out of the invalid chair. It looks like it hit bone, so you won’t be using your left arm for a while.”

  The doctor shook his head, and pursed his lips, the sympathetic gesture physicians practice in the mirror, and said, “In fact, you won’t be using anything for a while. You’ll be in bed.”