Day of Independence (21 page)

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.

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.

He avoided the hotel and the alley where he'd dumped the boy's body, and crossed the street and walked into another shady passage between buildings.

He lit a cigar with a trembling hand and considered his options, which were few. Finally he realized that there was really only one course of action open to him.

He must cross the river and fall in with Sancho Perez.

Ephraim Slough's eyes smarted from the glare of the sun, and he was dry enough to spit cotton.

He considered it a grave fault in the character of Ranger Cannan that he'd left him out in the broiling heat without a bottle of whiskey to wet his parched lips.

Inconsiderate, that's what it was, no regard for another person's welfare.

It never occurred to Slough that he could sneak into town and buy a bottle. Such an action would be a gross dereliction of duty and it didn't enter into his thinking.

He picked up his telescope and ranged the glass across the desert. He saw nothing.

There was no bandit scout, no dust cloud, only a barren, empty, and sun-scorched landscape of sand, cactus, and brush.

Slough shook his head.

Damn, kicking his heels on the riverbank was a waste of time.

What was it Lord Nelson said before the Battle of Trafalgar?

“Frigates forward, seek out the foe.”

Yeah, that was it. Seek out the foe.

Slough's horse, in fact Mrs. Maude Morrison's spotted mare Sophie, stood hipshot and miserable, head and tail lowered, wilting in the heat. “Frigates forward, Sophie,” the old sailor said. “We will cross the river and seek out the foe like Nelson done that time.” His peg leg a hindrance, Slough clambered into the saddle, then kneed the reluctant mare into the river.

Overjoyed to be taking an active role in the defense of Last Chance instead of waiting passively for the Mexicans to act, Slough threw back his head and burst into song.

Hate-filled eyes watched Ephraim Slough closely. It looked like the drunken gimp was heading out in search of Sancho Perez.

Abe Hacker smiled to himself.

Well, let him. He'd die all the sooner.

Hacker had stripped to his shirt, brocaded vest, shoes, and pants and had dumped the rest in the alley beside the hotel. He stood a ways to the east of the river crossing, hidden from view of the street by a projecting toolshed attached to the rear of the Jenkins Bros. hardware store.

And bided his time.

The riverbank was deserted and as soon as the gimp was out of sight he'd make his move.

Slough's raw-edged tenor faded into distance as he was absorbed into the rippling heat haze, and Hacker watched him go.

Hacker was not a swimmer, but judging by the liveryman's horse, the water should only reach as high as his waist. Once into the desert he'd dry quickly.

Sweat beaded his forehead like condensation on an olla, and he had a ferocious headache brought on by stress and fear. As he stepped to the riverbank his earlier feelings were replaced by outrage that a man in his position should be subjected to this indignity. This damned inconvenience.

That he'd killed two people did not enter his mind.

A boy and a whore were nonentities and easily replaceable, but he was not, and that was the crux of the matter.

Abe Hacker, millionaire confidante of presidents, was now running for his life... and America should hang its head in shame.

 

 

Hacker waded across the Rio Grande without incident but he was exhausted by the time he reached the far bank. Wallowing in the depths of self-pity, he'd noticed Cannan's newly dug trench but its significance didn't register with him. His passing thought was that it was a mantrap and he dismissed it totally as a futile defensive gesture.

Hacker had no canteen, so the immediate need was to tank up with water.

Fearing that he would not be able to rise again if he bellied down to drink, the fat man stooped and used a hand to cup water into his mouth. He drank until he could hold no more, wiped his mouth with his great chubby paw, and began his trek to the south.

He was confident he'd meet up with Perez and the others soon.

And then he would make Last Chance pay... and nail the meddling Texas Ranger to a cross hung with red, white, and blue.

Happy Independence Day!

The fat man grinned.

Damn him, Hank Cannan would soon rue the day he was born and curse the two-dollar whore that bore him.

 

 

As the hour of the attack on Last Chance grew closer, Mickey Pauleen rode point, a mile ahead of Perez and the Mexicans.

He wanted no unpleasant surprises.

The Texas Ranger might well be a fool, and crippled, but he was a fighting man and such men were hard to kill.

Pauleen's eyes scanned the desert ahead of him. Every square inch sizzled like hog fat in a frying pan and gave off heat that undulated in the distance like a line of dancing cobras. A town animal, Pauleen hated the wasteland with a passion and saw no beauty in it.

Once he spotted a thin dust cloud trail into the air to the west but dismissed it as a stray Mexican making for the river, and gave it no further thought.

A few minutes later Pauleen rode up on what he took to be a large boulder, then realized it was no boulder but a fat man down on all fours.

To his surprise it was Abe Hacker, red-faced, panting like a lizard on a hot rock.

Pauleen drew rein but stayed mounted. “Howdy, Abe,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Hacker lifted his head. “Mickey, thank God it's you. I'm dying here.”

“Where's Nora?” Pauleen said.

Hacker couldn't see the gunman's eyes in the shade of his hat. “She's safe, Mickey. Real safe.”

“Where safe?”

“Back at the hotel getting packed. You know how women are.”

“Yeah, I know how women are. Why did you leave her alone?”

Hacker moved his immense bulk and half-lay, half-sat on his side.

“The Ranger was on to me, Mickey. I had to run before they strung me up.”

“You're too fat to hang, Abe. Why did you abandon Nora?”

“They've got nothing on Nora, Mickey. She'll be safe at the hotel until we get there.”

“I hope for your sake that's the case,” Pauleen said. He tossed his canteen to Hacker.

“Drink,” he said.

“Thank'ee Mickey,” the fat man said. “I knew when you found me you'd take good care of me.”

Pauleen let that pass and swung out of the saddle. “Get up on the hoss and I'll take you to Perez,” he said. “He's close.”

“Mickey, a man with my portly figure can't ride a horse, you know that,” Hacker said. His whine sounded like an out-of-tune violin.

Pauleen grinned. “Seems like you have three choices, Abe. Ride the hoss, stay where you're at, or I pull you behind me with a rope.”

The fat man's anger flared. “Mickey, a man like you doesn't force Abe Hacker to choose anything. Not a damned thing.”

Pauleen's face was ugly. “Abe, never try to corner a man who's a sight meaner than you. Now make your choice.”

Hacker read Pauleen's eyes and didn't like what he saw.

“I'll ride the horse,” he said.

“Good decision,” the gunman said.

 

 

“Señor Hacker, I am overjoyed,” Sancho Perez said. His face took on a concerned frown. “But what brings you into the desert?”

“They planned on hanging me, Sancho,” Hacker said. “I only just escaped with my life.”

“Is that so, my fren'? That makes poor Sancho ver' sad. Many will die for such a wicked plan.”

Perez had pulled his horse over to one side as his men drove the peons forward with whips. Dead and dying Mexicans littered the churned-up trail behind them, dust sifting over the bodies as though the desert wished to cover up the atrocity.

At Perez's command, three of his men helped Hacker from his horse. Then they stopped one of the donkey wagons bringing up the rear of the column and removed a small tarp and four poles.

“Sancho will give his good fren' shelter from the sun,” the bandit said. “Señor Hacker does not look well and Sancho fears he must weep from heartbreak at such a sight.” Perez gave Hacker a canteen, a couple of cigars, and a bottle of mescal.

“You are a good and loyal friend, Sancho,” Hacker said. He then spoke to the bandit but stared at Pauleen. “Such loyalty will not go unrewarded.”

“Alas, Sancho must go now,” Perez said. “But when the town is taken I will come back for you and we will return to my hacienda and celebrate with wine and women.”

“And afterward, I must return to Washington,” Hacker said from the thin shade of his shelter.

“Of course you must return to where your destiny lies, and Sancho will help because you are his very best fren'.” The bandit turned his horse and rode after the wailing column.

Pauleen lingered long enough to say, “I hope I find Nora alive and well.” The expression on the gunman's face was so malevolent, so dangerous, that Hacker was shocked into silence.

Later, as a hot breeze tugged at his meager canopy, the fat man realized that he was all alone in the middle of the naked desert... and very afraid.