Day of Independence (20 page)

The tomblike silence of the hotel room and the steady tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway had Abe Hacker teetering on the edge of hysteria.

The sudden attack of chest pain had terrified him. Like fairy gifts, were all his dreams about to fade away?

Hacker sat by the window, his chin sunk on his chest.

How could the delights of his child bride, his future political career, and above all the rest, his son, be held hostage to a weak heart?

A tear trickled down the fat man's cheek. It was so unfair, so damned unmerited.

Hacker stood, sat down again. He did this several times. No pain. Surely that was good?

Perhaps the attack, now it had happened, would take years to happen again? If ever? He had no way of knowing.

Ahead of him in Washington awaited great mental and physical exertions, in the marital bed as well as the political arena.

If he was to become president, his heart must hold up. Be as strong as Chicago steel.

Indian clubs would help, those and freedom from the stress of this latest enterprise, a complicated business from the start. Hacker sighed and brushed away a tear.

The damned street boy and Nora hadn't helped.

Both had heaped a lot of strain on him and brought on the chest pain. Damn them both, they were to blame.

 

 

Hacker got to his feet.

He could not remain in this room so close to Nora's body.

He'd shave, get dressed in his best, and take a stroll down the street to the restaurant and partake of beefsteak and eggs for breakfast and then step into a saloon for coffee and brandy. Under the circumstances it was better to be bold, show himself, and, should anyone inquire, Nora was still in bed sleeping off a hangover.

When Perez's onslaught came, he'd retreat to the livery stable and await the arrival of Mickey Pauleen... then on to Washington and his golden future.

 

 

The water in the basin was red from the boy's blood, so Hacker decided to forgo the shave and immediately get dressed. He stepped to the wardrobe and glanced at the floor.

The towel had been removed from Nora's hand.

Hacker stared, blinked, stared again.

There was no mistake. The towel was gone and the woman's hand was exposed. It looked like a claw and the index finger still beckoned him. Hacker shrieked.

He yanked clothes out of the wardrobe and hurriedly dressed, as though the wrath of God was about to descend on him.

Weary... that's how Ranger Hank Cannan described himself to Roxie Miller when she brought him breakfast.

“You should be in bed,” the woman said. “How many times have I said that to you over the last couple of months?”

“Quite a few, I fancy,” Cannan said.

Despite the early hour and her plain gray morning dress, Roxie's vivid beauty stunned Cannan as it always did. Then, almost guiltily, he said, “My wife is coming in today.”

“I know, you told me that already,” Roxie said. She laid the tray on the table. “You must be very happy.”

“I am. But I wish it was any other day than this one.”

“Maybe it won't happen. The attack, I mean.”

“It will happen, Roxie, depend on it.” Cannan opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He couldn't find the words.

But Roxie, well used to tongue-tied men, read his eyes. “You're worried about me, aren't you?”

“You, my wife, all the other women in this town.”

Roxie reached into the pocket of her dress and produced a .32 caliber Sharps four-barreled pepperbox, ornately engraved with ivory grips. “Baptiste Dupoix worries about the same thing,” he said. “He gave me this and told me when to use it.”

The Ranger managed a smile. “I don't think it will come to that, Roxie.”

“Well, if it does, I know what to do.”

Cannan had shaved and dressed. His gun belt and hat lay on the bed.

“You look very handsome, Ranger,” Roxie said. “Your wife will be pleased.”

“Dupoix tells me I look like a walrus.”

“One of those big seal-y things with tusks?”

The Ranger smiled. “Yeah, one of those. They live up in the Eskimo territory.”

Roxie put her forefinger to her chin and stared into Cannan's face. “Well, maybe a little,” she said. “Of course, I've never seen one except in a drawing.”

Cannan laughed and it felt good. “I guess looking a little like a walrus is better than looking a lot like a walrus.”

Roxie smiled. “No matter, Ranger Cannan. You still look very handsome this morning.”

“And you are very beautiful.”

Roxie smiled and gave a little curtsy. “Why, thank you Mr. Cannan. You are
très galante
.”

 

 

After Roxie left, Cannan ate a hurried breakfast then buckled on his gun belt and adjusted the lie of the holstered Colt. Roxie had put a brave face on things, but he'd read fear in the young woman's eyes.

If he was a betting man he'd stake the farm that the eyes of every man and woman in town revealed the same sense of dread.

And then it dawned on him that he was also scared, for his wife, for the people, and for himself.

Dupoix had not returned and Cannan didn't know if he was alive or dead. The gambler was steady, and his presence would have been reassuring, to say nothing of the ranchers and their tough hands.

Now the whole burden of command lay heavy on Cannan's shoulders, and he had no idea if he was man enough to bear it.

 

 

Ranger Cannan took the stairs one step at a time, pausing often as the cumulative effect of wounds, a loss of blood he'd not yet restored, and restless sleep that was no sleep at all took their toll.

When he stepped out of the hotel the town hall clock, which never kept the right time, claimed it was ten after eight. In fact it was not yet eight o'clock.

The morning smelled fresh of sagebrush and cedar and a faint whiff of gunpowder as a couple of Chinese children, too young to know what they were celebrating, set off firecrackers in the alley next to the laundry.

Ephraim Slough, his face tingling with anticipation, stood beside the invalid chair and behind it the stocky, stalwart form of Simon Rule the blacksmith.

Studiously ignoring the chair and its eager attendants, Cannan looked up and down the street.

Every storefront made a patriotic show of red, white, and blue bunting, some of it quite frayed and torn, the wear and tear of many Independence Days past.

Outside the Last Mile saloon the Polish brothers, hammers in hand, had almost assembled a temporary dance floor, and married women and their young daughters were already setting up trestle tables in the street, covering them with spotless white linen.

The street was already crowded with people, but they seemed to move sluggishly and without enthusiasm and there was no movement toward the tapped beer barrels, though children watched with intense interest the whole hogs turning on spits.

The town knew what was about to happen and what Sancho Perez and his bandits would bring. For the first time in their lives, the people of Last Chance took no joy in Independence Day, and it stabbed Cannan to the heart.

He finally said good morning to Slough and the blacksmith. “Ephraim, still no sign of Andy Kilcoyn?” he said.

“Beggin' your pardon, cap'n, neither hide not hair. His ma says he didn't come home last night and she's beside herself with worry.”

Despite his growing concern for the boy, Cannan's priority was still the defense of Last Chance. “Ephraim, I need someone to take Andy's place,” he said.

“What would be his duties, cap'n?” Slough said.

The Ranger repeated what he had told the boy about scouting for a dust cloud.

“Hell, cap'n, I'll do it myself,” Slough said.

“You can't do it, Ephraim. You're in command of the reserve regiment.”

“Well, cap'n, I don't think I'm likely to have a regiment. Once the shooting starts, the boys and the old coots like me will grab their squirrel rifles and head for the sound of the gunfire.”

“He's right, Ranger,” Rule said. “The boys aren't about to stand in line doing nothing while their pas and older brothers are fighting for their lives. As for the old-timers, they'll do whatever they damn well please anyway.”

“You know what we need here, cap'n?” Slough said. “A regiment of U.S. cavalry.”

“Well we don't have one of them, Ephraim,” Cannan said, irritated.

“Or a battery of cannon,” Rule said.

As Slough nodded his approval of the blacksmith's suggestion, the Ranger snapped, “We don't have one of them, either.”

Two young matrons carrying parasols stopped and Cannan touched his hat brim. “Ladies.”

The one who spoke was a handsome woman with hazel eyes and chestnut hair, swept up and topped by a flowered hat so small it was barely there. “You are the Texas Ranger person?”

“Your obedient servant, ma'am,” Cannan said with a little bow.

“Is it true we will soon be under siege by bandits?” the woman said.

The Ranger saw little point in trying to soften the blow.

“I'm afraid that is so, ma'am.”

“And where, pray, is our army?”

“I imagine still trying to get the Apaches settled, ma'am.”

“Well, it's most inconsiderate of them.” The woman turned to her companion. “Is that not so, Rebecca?”

The other woman nodded without opening her tight little mousetrap of a mouth.

“I strongly suggest, ladies, that when you hear gunfire you immediately lock yourselves in your homes,” Cannan said.

“Indeed we will not, sir,” the woman called Rebecca said. She tossed her head. “Not when our men are exposed to danger. The very idea!” She offered her arm to her companion.

“Come, Susan, let us remain outdoors and explore the festivities further.”

The young women walked away with stiff backs, their bustles swaying back and forth in unison.

“Seems like them two ladies don't plan to be in the reserve regiment, either, cap'n,” Slough said.

Cannan managed a stiff smile. “I don't know if I want to hug them or take a stick to them.”

“One would be quite as unpleasant as the other, Ranger Cannan,” the woman called Susan said over her shoulder.

Slough grinned. “Cap'n, anybody ever tell you that you got a voice like a foghorn and that women can hear a mouse squeak from half a league away?”

Cannan nodded. “I knew it, but I'd forgotten.”

“Your missus will remind you real soon,” Slough said.

Mention of his wife returned Cannan to the present.

He told Slough what he'd ordered Andy Kilcoyn to do.

The old sailor knuckled his forehead. “I'll saddle my mare right away,” he said.

“No, not yet, Ephraim. But stay close to me.”

“As you say, cap'n.”

“Now I want to inspect the trenches at the river,” Cannan said. “Then I'll come back and gauge the mood of the men and remind them of their orders.”

“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.

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.”