Day of Independence

by William W. Johnstone

  “All right, Ranger Cannan, back to the hotel,” Simon Rule said. A fat bandage swaddled his head.

  Cannan was in pain from wounds old and new, and his broken ribs made every breath a torment, but despite feeling half-dead he was reluctant to play the invalid again.

  His decision was made for him.

  A stocky, tough-looking customer wearing wet range clothes stepped in front of the wheelchair.

  “Howdy, Ranger, my name is George Cassidy, I ride for Luke Wright.”

  “Right glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Cassidy,” Cannan said. “You find me very low, I’m afraid.”

  Cassidy nodded. “Shot through and through, I reckon.”

  “Exactly so,” Cannan said, needing no reminder of how he shot-up he was.

  “Baptiste Dupoix, the gambling man, was a friend of your’n, huh?”

  Cannan glanced to where the parson prayed over Dupoix’s body. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, he was.”

  “I just want to tell you that he died game,” Cassidy said.

  “I expected nothing less,” Cannan said.

  “He was good with a gun, was Baptiste, killed a few before he got shot.”

  The Ranger nodded, but made no comment.

  “A fine man,” Cassidy said. “I liked him a lot.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cassidy,” Cannan said.

  “I just thought you should know.”

  A moment after Cassidy left, his place was taken by Mayor Curtis. He waved a hand to the river where the scared Mexicans were spread out along the far bank. A few had already attempted a crossing but turned back.

  “What the hell do we do, Ranger?” Curtis said. “There’s hundreds of them, and it will be dark in a couple of hours.”

  “Fire a couple of volleys over their heads,” Rule said.

  “That will scatter them.”

  Frank Curtis absorbed that, then said, his voice tinged with doubt, “Fire into them, maybe?”

  “You want to kill women and children, Frank?” Cannan said.

  “Then what do we do?” Curtis said. “Ranger, you’re hurt real bad, and you ain’t thinking straight. Smooth it out for me.”

  “Damn it, Frank, I don’t know what to do,” Cannan said.

  “HENNNRY!”

  The woman’s yell came from behind Cannan. He laboriously turned his head and saw... his wife.

  Jane Cannan was a tall, gaunt woman with a slightly pinched face that laid no claim to beauty. Her black hair was scraped back in the severe bun then fashionable among women who aspired to the middle class, and she wore an iron-gray dress, dusty from her travels.

  Those who knew her well said her breath was cold.

  Jane stepped to the wheelchair and pecked her husband on the cheek.

  “How are you, Henry?” she said.

  “He’s badly wounded, ma’am,” Simon Rule said.

  “Is your name Henry?” Jane said.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then speak when you’re spoken to. How are you, Henry?”

  “I’m shot up again, Jane.” Then, “How did you get here?”

  “By stage, of course. What a silly question.”

  “I mean when did you get in?”

  “Half an hour ago. But you know I never interrupt you when you’re working.” Jane turned. “You there, with the medical bag.”

  Hans Krueger bowed, “At your service, ma’am.”

  “My name is Jane Cannan. Are you a fully qualified physician?”

  Krueger smiled. “Yes, ma’am. University of Michigan.”

  “Really? Then I suppose that must do,” Jane said. “You will be responsible for my husband’s care. I in turn will see to it that he doesn’t smoke or drink and is given a liberal dose of prune juice every day. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly, ma’am,” Krueger said.

  He gave Cannan a “God help you” look and stepped away.

  “Jane, maybe—”

  “Do not object, Henry, please,” Jane said. “I do resent your little objections to my good sense. Now where is that mayor?”

  She looked around, spotted Curtis, and called out, “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Mayor, over here.”

  When Curtis arrived, Jane said, “I have already organized the ladies, and now it’s time to organize the male fraternity.”

  “To what purpose, ma’am?” Curtis said, after a glance at Cannan’s long face.

  “Sir, this is Independence Day, and from what I’ve been told and from the evidence of my own eyes, this town had to fight for independence all over again.”

  “That is so,” Curtis said. “But—”

  “Please, don’t interrupt,” Jane said. “Now, what about those starving people across the river?”

  “Ma’am, your husband, I mean Ranger Cannan, is considering a course of action.”

  “And that is?”

  “To shoot into them, ma’am.”

  “Jane, I didn’t—”

  “Be silent, Henry. That is a murderous course of action and one we will not tolerate. Now look behind you, Mr. Mayor.”

  Curtis did and his eyes popped and jaw fell. Every man along the riverbank reacted in much the same way, including the tough ranchers and their hired hands. A line of women, young and old, made their way to the river, all carrying food... pies, cakes, bread, meat, and every other edible they could get their hands on.

  “Stay to the shallows, ladies,” Jane yelled. “And step carefully.” Then to Curtis, “Independence Day is a time for sharing, Mayor, and so you will split your men into two divisions. One will carry food, including the roast pigs, tables and, oh yes, lanterns. It will be dark soon.”

  “Ma’am, Mrs. Cannan, we can’t feed that many,” Curtis said. “Look at them, there are many hundreds, maybe more than a thousand.”

  “The Lord will provide,” Jane said. “Then He took the five loaves and the two fishes, and looking up to heaven, He blessed them, and brake, and gave to the disciples to set before the multitude. Don’t you read your Bible, Mayor?”

  Curtis opened his mouth to speak, but Jane held up a silencing hand.

  “Your second division will immediately clear the river of the deceased Mexicans and remove the bodies of our own suffering dead,” she said. Jane looked over the mayor’s shoulder. “Reverend, would you be so kind as to come here,” she said.

  Pastor McRae introduced himself and Jane said, “Reverend, the Mexicans belong to a misguided popish religion, but please see that they’re afforded a good Christian burial.”

  The pastor said he would and attempted to talk further, but Jane had already dismissed him. “Well, Mayor?” she said, “Why are you standing there like a cow in quicksand? Organize your divisions at once.”

  Jane watched the women, skirts and petticoats billowing, slowly cross the river, food held high above their heads. A few had already reached the Mexicans.

  “Wait, Mayor, come back,” she said. “Since this is Independence Day and you’ve won yet another battle for freedom, the saloons may open. After their work is done, just see that your men drink in strict moderation. And for heaven’s sake get the pianos playing. Remember, we’re celebrating our nation’s birth.”

  Jane turned away and called to a struggling older woman, “Oh, let me help you with those pies. It’s time I got my feet wet.”

  She glared at her husband.

  “Shoot into them indeed. I’m surprised and more than a little disappointed in you, Henry.”

  After Jane left, Curtis shouted, “All right, boys, you heard the lady. Half of you into the river and haul out those dead Mexicans. The others come with me. I want all the food we can spare.”

  Before he walked away, Curtis stabbed a finger at Hank Cannan. “She’s your wife,” he said.

  “Don’t I know it,” the Ranger said.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Mickey Pauleen rode under a bronze sky toward the Perez hacienda. The setting sun tinted its white walls gold, a gleaming El Dorado beckoning the little gunman closer
.

  Pauleen had no idea how much treasure Perez had stashed, and a safe would present a problem, but he figured there would be jewels and money aplenty lying around for the taking, enough to keep him in grand style for years.

  There were no guards at the gate and Pauleen grinned. All right, so far, so good.

  He swung out of the saddle and led his horse into the echoing courtyard, the clatter and clang of its shod hooves loud on the flagstones. The fountain sang as it played, each drop of water falling like a silver coin into the basin, and to Pauleen this was yet another good omen.

  He let the reins drop and looked around. There was no one in sight, and the gunman felt a stab of panic.

  Had the place already been looted?

  Pauleen took the stairs two at a time and burst into Perez’s living quarters.

  The ornate room seemed undisturbed, the floor was swept clean, and the furnishings glowed from a recent polish.

  Housework suggested the presence of women, and Pauleen decided to take one with him when he left, the prettiest of them.

  His spurs ringing on the wood floor, he walked around the room hunting for a safe.

  There was none. As he suspected, the damned Mex didn’t have enough sense to lock away his valuables. But a massive walnut desk with heavy iron drawer pulls stood near a window and promised much.

  Pauleen tried a drawer. Locked. They were all locked.

  The gunman gauged the strength of his Barlow and decided its thin blade would not force open such massive drawers. But a bowie would.

  When he first entered the room Pauleen noticed a broad-bladed, engraved bowie knife on a deer-antler stand on a top of a dresser. The blade was thick at the base and twelve inches long, ideal for forcing open locked desks.

  “Are you looking for these, señor?”

  Pauleen turned, surprised.

  A young woman of considerable beauty, despite a thin knife scar on her left cheek, stood watching him. She had a set of keys in her hand.

  The woman wore a peasant blouse, richly embroidered, and a dark red skirt clung to her hips and swept to the floor. Her hair was inky black, falling straight and long over her bare shoulders. A tiny cross on a silver chain hung between her breasts.

  Pauleen grinned. Right here was the woman he’d take with him.

  “Gracias, señorita,” he said.

  “Señora,” the woman said. “My husband is dead.”

  “Too bad,” Pauleen said. “Give me the keys.”

  The woman did as she was told.

  “Is this where Sancho kept his treasure?” Pauleen said.

  “Some of it,” the woman said. “There are other hiding places.”

  “You’ll show them to me?”

  “Of course.”

  “And after that pack a bag,” Pauleen said, his eyes dwelling on the swell of the señora’s breasts. “You’re leaving here with me.”

  “As you wish,” the woman said.

  After trying several keys Pauleen unlocked the desk’s top drawer. Inside was a short-barreled Colt and bundles of money bound by rubber bands, all of it American bills.

  Pauleen laid the money on the desktop, ten thousand dollars he reckoned, maybe more.

  The bottom drawer was the largest, twice as high as the others.

  That’s where most of the treasure lay. Had to be. Excited, he bent from the waist and tried a key. Then another.

  A moment later he screamed.

  Twelve inches of Sheffield steel driven into his back by a hating woman can put a major hurt on a man.

  The hilt of the bowie sticking out between his shoulder blades, Pauleen turned, his rodent face twisted by pain, and stared into the flashing black eyes of the Mexican woman.

  “My husband was murdered by Sancho Perez only because you needed a horse, remember?” she said.

  Pauleen remembered. “Sandoval,” he said through the blood that filled his mouth.

  “Yes, that was his name. God brought you here to me that I could avenge him.”

  Pauleen reached for his gun, but it was so heavy he couldn’t pull it from the holster. So heavy... like an anvil...

  His eyes flew wide open and he screamed.1

  Pauleen fell dead at the woman’s feet, and she stepped around his body and put the money back in the drawer. She then locked it and left the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Jane Cannan sat knitting, stiff-backed and severe in a rattan chair, a ball of dark gray yarn slowly unwinding at her feet.

  Ranger Hank Cannan, looking more like a grouchy walrus than ever, contemplated the table beside his bed. It held no whiskey, no makings, just a bottle of prune juice and a spoon. His life, he decided, had taken a decidedly downward turn.

  And he was no longer in his comfortable hotel room.

  Jane had decided that the hotel was far too expensive and she’d procured a single room in what she’d described as “a respectable, God-fearing home, free of tobacco and strong drink.”

  That the house had a homicidal cat named Precious who despised Cannan and ambushed him at every turn was neither here nor there to Jane.

  Someone tapped on the door and Jane said, “Enter.”

  Hat in hand, Mayor Curtis stepped inside.

  “Good morning, Mayor,” Jane said. “And what can we do for you? I see most of the Mexicans have gone.”

  “Indeed, ma’am,” Curtis said. “Word came from the rurales that there are heavy rains to the south and they’ve gone home.”

  “Good news, Mayor. Did you provide adequate provisions?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Enough water and food to see them through.”

  A silence stretched, then Frank Curtis said, “I’m here to see Ranger Cannan.”

  “His wounds hurt, but Dr. Krueger has supplied laudanum to ease the pain. Apart from that he’s feeling as well as expected.”

  “How long did the doc say you’d be laid up, Ranger Cannan?” Curtis said.

  “The doctor says at least another month,” Jane said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Curtis said.

  “And so is Mr. Cannan, I assure you.”

  The mayor reached into his pocket and produced a sheet of paper. “Here are the names of our dead,” he said. “It’s the decision of the town fathers that we set up a granite memorial on the riverbank to record the sacrifice of those who fought on July fourth for our independence from tyranny and fear.”

  “Excellent, Mayor,” Jane said. “These names will go on the memorial?”

  “Yes, ma’am, with Ranger Cannan’s approval.”

  “Then give the list to me, Mayor. I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, you won’t!”

  Jane and Curtis looked at Cannan in surprise.

  “Well, Henry, really,” Jane said, her face shocked.

  “This is my job, Jane. Leave it alone. Frank, give me the list.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Jane,” Cannan said. “Now mind your own damned business.”

  Jane dabbed a small lace handkerchief to her eyes. “This is all the thanks I get for my love and devotion,” she said, sobbing. “It’s too much to bear.”

  Cannan ignored his distraught wife and took the list from Curtis. After a glance, he said, “Come back later, Frank. I’ll write down what I want on the memorial.”

  “Just too much to bear...” Jane sobbed.

  “Ranger Cannan, this town owes you its very existence,” Curtis said. “We’ll inscribe the stone anyway you want.”

  “Half an hour, Frank,” Cannan said.

  After the mayor left, the Ranger said, “Jane, get me pen and paper.”

  Her back as stiff as a poker, his wife flounced out of the room. But she returned a little later with pen, ink, and paper, and a small portable writing desk.

  “For all the thanks I get...”

  “Shh, Jane,” Cannan said. “Let me write.” And this was what Texas Ranger Hank Cannan wrote that day:

  ANDY KILCOYN – Texas Ranger. Patriot.
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  ROXIE MILLER – sporting gal. Patriot.

  NORA ANDERSON – sporting gal. Patriot.

  BAPTISTE DUPOIX – sporting gent. Patriot.

  EPHRAIM SLOUGH – mariner, retd. Patriot.

  ANDRZEJ ZELAZNY – Polish man. Patriot.

  CLEM HARTE – drover. Patriot.

  Hank Cannan laid down his pen and, for the first and only time in his life, allowed himself a tear.

  J. A. Johnstone on William W. Johnstone

  “When the Truth Becomes Legend”

  William W. Johnstone was born in southern Missouri, the youngest of four children. He was raised with strong moral and family values by his minister father, and tutored by his schoolteacher mother. Despite this, he quit school at age fifteen.

  “I have the highest respect for education,” he says, “but such is the folly of youth, and wanting to see the world beyond the four walls and the blackboard.”

  True to this vow, Bill attempted to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (“I saw Gary Cooper in Beau Geste when I was a kid and I thought the French Foreign Legion would be fun”) but was rejected, thankfully, for being underage. Instead, he joined a traveling carnival and did all kinds of odd jobs. It was listening to the veteran carny folk, some of whom had been on the circuit since the late 1800s, telling amazing tales about their experiences, that planted the storytelling seed in Bill’s imagination.

  “They were mostly honest people, despite the bad reputation traveling carny shows had back then,” Bill remembers. “Of course, there were exceptions. There was one guy named Picky, who got that name because he was a master pickpocket. He could steal a man’s socks right off his feet without him knowing. Believe me, Picky got us chased out of more than a few towns.”

  After a few months of this grueling existence, Bill returned home and finished high school. Next came stints as a deputy sheriff in the Tallulah, Louisiana, Sheriff’s Department, followed by a hitch in the U.S. Army. Then he began a career in radio broadcasting at KTLD in Tallulah, which would last sixteen years. It was there that he fine-tuned his storytelling skills. He turned to writing in 1970, but it wouldn’t be until 1979 that his first novel, The Devil’s Kiss, was published. Thus began the full-time writing career of William W. Johnstone. He wrote horror (The Uninvited), thrillers (The Last of the Dog Team), even a romance novel or two. Then, in February 1983, Out of the Ashes was published. Searching for his missing family in a postapocalyptic America, rebel mercenary and patriot Ben Raines is united with the civilians of the Resistance forces and moves to the forefront of a revolution for the nation’s future.