Day of Independence (15 page)

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.

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 and 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.

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.

To the front, four rectangles of yellowish orange light marked the windows and a lantern glowed above the door.

Dupoix, his eyes accustomed to dark places, noted the usual corrals and scattered outbuildings, including what he took to be a long bunkhouse with low walls but a steeply pitched shingle roof.

A man stepped out of the house and looked around as though he'd lost his way. The man saw Dupoix, stuck his hands in his pockets, and sauntered toward him.

Since the passing of the Apaches the land had been at peace, and the rancher, if that's who he was, carried no firearms. When he was a couple of yards from Dupoix he stopped and said, “Howdy.”

He was a sandy-haired man, showing gray, short and stocky with a horseman's bowed legs. His ragged cavalry mustache hung over his top lip, and his good-humored eyes held a smile and no hint of suspicion.

“Howdy,” Dupoix said, sitting his saddle as courtesy demanded.

“What can I do for you, mister?” the man said.

“Name's Baptiste Dupoix and—”

“Good God, boy, who saddled you with a name like that?”

“My ma and pa, I guess.”

“I'm Luke Wright and you're on my spread.” The rancher grinned. “An' my handle ain't near as heavy a burden as your'n.”

“I guess not,” Dupoix said.

“State your business,” Wright said.

“I'm here on the behest of a friend of mine. Texas Ranger Hank Cannan.”

“Heard of him,” Wright said. “All shot up and like to die was what I was told.”

“He's recovering.”

“Glad to hear it. What can I do fer him?”

“He needs your help, Mr. Wright.”

“Call me Luke. What kind of help?”

“It's a mite long in the telling.”

“Then light an' set. My old lady has coffee on the bile.”

Dupoix's boots squelched in mud as he followed Wright toward the ranch house.

“That's a nice-looking stud you got there,” the rancher said. “Never much cared for grays myself, got a mighty strong smell about them, a bad thing when the Apaches raided this way.”

Then, before Dupoix could answer, “The barn is out back, plenty of hay and a sack of oats, if you'd like to take care of your hoss first.”

“I reckon not, Luke, I won't stay long. I have another ranch to visit.”

Wright shrugged. “Suit yourself... uh, Baptist.”

“Baptiste.”

The rancher opened the door.

“Whatever you say.”

 

 

Dupoix stepped into a cozy cabin, clean and polished as the plump, middle-aged woman sitting by the fire could make it.

She looked up at Dupoix and smiled.

The two men with her didn't.

One was a healthy-looking man in his early forties, the other a frowning hard case with a tough face and a gun on his hip.

Wright made the introductions. The woman was his wife Julia; the healthy man was his foreman, Aaron Park, who seemed friendly but wary of strangers.

“And this is—”

“George Cassidy,” the tough-faced man said quickly.

Then, to Dupoix's surprise, a huge, friendly smile lit up Cassidy's face.

“Best you know it, Mr. Dupoix, I'm on the scout. I've gotten myself as far from the Wyoming Territory as I can.”

“In my younger days I rode some owlhoot trails myself,” the gambler said. “I treat a man as I find him.”

“George was in the train-robbing profession but had a little difficulty,” Wright said. “But he's headed back to Wyoming in a couple of days and I'll miss him. He's a good steady hand.”

Dupoix was surprised. “You came all this way just to go back?”

“Yeah, but I plan to lay low and go straight,” Cassidy said. “A friend of mine has a long-standing offer of a job at his butcher shop in Rock Springs and I reckon I'll take it.”

It seemed that Cassidy was a talking man, so Dupoix smiled and said, “Glad to hear it, Mr. Cassidy. As far as I know, the butchering business is booming.”

“Folks need meat. My friend told me he'll call me ‘Butch,' because I'll be a butcher, like. He said the lady customers would love it, but I don't hold with that.”

“No, George is a much better name,” Dupoix said. “George Cassidy has an almost genteel ring to it.”

Wright waved to a chair.

“All right, um... ah...”

“Baptiste,” Dupoix said.

“Yeah. Set and tell me what help the Ranger needs and—”

“Luke Wright, you'll do nothing of the kind!”

Julia, her gray-streaked brown hair tied back in a bun, rose to her feet, stepped to Dupoix's side, and wagged a finger at her husband. “Can't you see the poor man is soaked to the skin? He needs to get out of those wet clothes or he'll catch his death.”

“I'm just fine, ma'am,” Dupoix said, thoroughly alarmed.

“Nonsense, Mr. Dupoix. You come with me.”

The gambler looked pleadingly at Wright, but the man shook his head and smiled.

“You better do as Julia says. She's used to getting her own way.”

An affable man, Cassidy said, “I'll put your horse in the barn, Mr. Dupoix.”

“There's no need, I'm moving on soon.”

“You're not going anywhere in wet clothes,” Julia said. “If I let you leave our home in that state, Luke would take a stick to me.”

Privately Dupoix thought that Luke didn't give a damn one way or the other, but when Cassidy left to put up his horse, he surrendered himself to Julia's motherly attentions.

 

 

“Just disrobe and drop your clothes on the floor,” Julia said.

She laid a folded tan blanket on the bed.

“Wrap that around you when you're ready to come out, then I'll put your clothes in front of the fire to dry.”

“Ma'am there's no need to—”

“But there's every need,” Julia said. “I declare, Mr. Dupoix, what a singularly odd thing to say.”

After the door closed behind the woman, Dupoix sighed and stripped down to his gambler's ring. His watch and holstered Colt he left on a dresser. This was obviously a guest room and it smelled musty.

Dupoix wrapped the blanket around him and, his bare feet padding on the wood floor, stepped into the living room.