Day of Independence (6 page)

A severe drought in the southern-steppe growing zone of Chihuahua forced the Mexican farmers north, toward the desert country.

Riding through sandy brush country thirty miles south of the Rio Grande, Mickey Pauleen learned from distressed peons that the drought was in its third year and that they were heading for the sky islands, hanging valleys in the mountains that stayed wet and cool enough to grow pines and hardwood trees.

Although it was late in the planting season, many of the peons carried seed corn with them. If the high valleys were not dry as mummy dust, they could plant their corn and expect a harvest in the early fall.

“And if there's drought in the mountains, what then?” Pauleen asked a farmer, who was trailed by a pregnant wife riding a burro and seven children.

“We will eat the burro and our seed corn and when those are gone my family will starve,” the man said.

This was good news for Pauleen.

He reckoned he'd seen several hundred Mexicans already, and their presence in great numbers this far north would help Sancho Perez's roundup.

The bandit had several strongholds scattered around the desert country, but his permanent quarters was a hacienda located among a group of low-lying hills a few miles to Pauleen's east.

Pauleen slid the Winchester from his boot and laid it across the saddle horn. Then he swung his horse toward the hills and his eyes reached out across the sun-blasted yellow desert and hoped Perez was at home and not raiding into Texas or the New Mexico Territory.

After a mile or so, three men appeared in the distance, horses and riders strangely elongated in the shimmer like gaunt knights in an old Gothic tapestry.

Gradually, as they rode closer, men and horses slowly regained their proper proportions, and sunlight flashed on silver bridles and saddles. Dust lifted from the hooves of the oncoming horses and laced away in the unceasing desert wind, and suddenly Pauleen's mouth was dry.

Sancho Perez was insane, and that made him an unpredictable and dangerous hombre.

The riders spread out, but the foremost man rested the butt of his rifle on his thigh and came on at a walk. Judging by his massive girth, he was Perez.

Pauleen felt a surge of relief.

It seemed that the bandit had decided to talk first and shoot later.

Mickey Pauleen drew rein and waited. His sober clothes were covered in a thick layer of dust, and his red-veined eyes burned in the harsh light.

Perez stopped when he was five yards from Pauleen and his outriders came back and flanked him, their broad, peasant faces set and hard, revealing nothing.

The bandit chief grinned and revealed that his two front teeth were set with diamonds.

“Mickey Pauleen, my good fren',” he said. His black eyes flicked to the gunman's horse. “I see you are prospering since Piedgras Negras.”

It was difficult for Pauleen to keep a straight face while talking to a mustachioed, stubble-chinned man who wore an Amish woman's white bonnet instead of a sombrero, but he managed it.

“That was not a good fight, Sancho,” he said. “We found no army payroll, only rurales.”

“
Sí
, that is so,” Perez said. “The last I saw of you, you were running across the desert as though the devil himself was after you.”

“And you were galloping south on my horse,” Pauleen said.

The bandit laughed, a loud, rollicking bellow that shook his great belly. “Good times, Mickey, good times,” he said.

“For you, Sancho, not for me.”

Perez's face fell. “Ah, now Sancho is ver' sad that you did not enjoy Piedgras Negras.”

He turned to his men, first one and then the other. “Is Sancho not sad?” he said.

Both Mexicans nodded their agreement and Perez sighed.

“And I am sadder still, because I am a thief and I have to take your fine horse and set you on foot again.”

But before Pauleen could say anything, Perez's face brightened.

“Wait, I have a plan, and then I will not be so sad,” he said.

He turned to the man on his left. “Sandoval, give my friend Mickey your horse.”

The young man shook his head.

“This horse is mine,
patrón
. I will not part with him.”

Perez drew his Colt and shot the man.

The young bandit's swarthy face registered a moment of surprise before he tumbled out of the saddle and hit the ground.

“See, Mickey, my fren', now you can have his horse and I will take yours,” he said. He spread his hands and smiled. “I have solved the problem.”

“
Viva Perez!
” the surviving bandits yelled, grinning.

Pauleen knew he had to talk fast, and the sight of the dead man on the ground loosened his tongue.

“Sancho, if you accept my proposition you can buy all the blooded horses you want,” he said.

Perez scowled. “Proposition? What is this proposition? Do you try to bargain with Sancho?”

“It's from Abe Hacker,” Pauleen said.

As he knew it would, the name made a difference.

“Ah,
Señor
Hacker is a ver' rich man. We have done business before.”

“And you can do business again,” Pauleen said.

Perez glanced at the sky, the same shade of faded blue as a washed-out pair of dungarees, and said, “We will talk at my hacienda.”

He turned to the man at his side.

“Clemente, put poor Sandoval on his horse, and we will give him to his woman to bury,” he said. “I am ver' sorry he died with disrespect on his lips. It makes Sancho so sad.”

He grinned at Pauleen. “Now, my friend, we will go and drink some wine and talk business.”

When Sancho Perez called his place a hacienda, he had not exaggerated.

It was a sprawling complex of adobe with a red tile roof and an elegant arch over the main gate. Every inch of the masonry was covered with plaster as white and even as fallen snow. The hacienda was shaded by broadleaf trees that spoke of constant watering and extensive, shriveled flowerbeds that did not.

Perez was an irrational man, and his cultivation efforts reflected his mental state.

When Pauleen rode under the arch into a large flagstone courtyard he realized that the hacienda was much older than it first appeared. Its pillared verandas and balconies suggested its original builder had been a Spanish hidalgo who'd been in the grave for at least a hundred years.

While Perez's bandits lounged outside a timber barracks block, peons in white cotton shirts and straw sombreros rushed to take the horses, and when the word got around that Sandoval was dead, the courtyard filled with crying, wailing women.

A small chapel lay at a distance from the house and the women quickly carried the body there.

Perez didn't spare the sad procession a glance as he ushered Pauleen inside.

 

 

The interior of the house was shady and cool. In the Spanish colonial style, it had substantial furniture and exposed wood beam ceilings. But native craftsmen had made the tables, chairs, and chests from walnut, cedar, cypress, and mesquite, lighter woods than the original heavy oak and mahogany.

Perez untied his sunbonnet, threw it onto a chair, and indicated that Pauleen should sit in another.

The gunman chose a massive, leather-upholstered chair by the cold fireplace, and Perez sat opposite him.

The bandit clapped his hands and within seconds a young woman stepped into the room.

“Wine,” Perez said.

The woman poured wine into a pair of fine silver goblets. She served Perez and then Pauleen.

“Now go,” the bandit said. Then, grinning, “Come to me tonight, Consuela.”

The woman nodded, unsmiling, and said nothing.

She left the room on silent feet and Perez said, “Why did Hacker send you and not come himself?”

“I'm here because Hacker needs to win,” Pauleen said. “I'm the man who ensures that he does.”

“An answer of sorts,” Perez said. “Where are your guns?”

“I had no need for them, Sancho,” Pauleen said. “You are a great and powerful man and under the roof of your hacienda I am safe from all harm.”

The flattery worked. Perez bowed his head and said, “This is true. All are welcome here and are protected while they are my guests.”

Because of the summer heat, the bandit wore only a frilled white shirt open to the waist, and woolen pants tucked into fine English riding boots. His gun belt was buckled over the vaquero's traditional red sash.

“The wine is not to your taste, Mickey?” Perez said, his obsidian eyes glinting.

“It is an excellent vintage,” Pauleen said. He lifted the goblet, put it to his closed lips, and pretended to drink.

“Tell me about Hacker's proposition,” Perez said.

“A dollar for every peon you can drive across the Rio Grande,” Pauleen said. “It's as simple as that, Sancho.”

Perez was surprised. “What peon is worth an American dollar?”

“Man, woman, or child, that is their worth to Hacker.”

“How many?”

“As many as you can round up. Hacker mentioned a figure of a thousand and more if you can get them.”

“That is all I have to do? Herd peons across the river like cattle?”

“Yes, but to a certain place in the river, the town of Last Chance.”

“How will I feed and water so many on the drive?”

“Better they cross the border hungry and thirsty. The fields and orchards around Last Chance will look like the Garden of Eden to them.”

“Ha! The Spanish monks taught me about the garden when I was a boy,” Perez said. “The people were cast out by holy angels with fiery swords.”

“The peons will not be cast out. They're welcome to stay and work for wages,” Pauleen said.

Perez said, “A bowl of beans and a couple of pesos a day. That's all a peon needs, or asks.”

“Can you round up the number Hacker needs?”

“In a normal year, it would be impossible. But the drought drives the peons north. Some have already set their eyes on crossing the Rio Grande, I think.”

“By the fourth of July, huh?”

“This I will do, if I can keep them alive that long. But my fee is three dollars a head.”

“You're a robber, Sancho,” Pauleen said without rancor.

“
Sí
, that is my profession,” Perez said. “And I am ver' good at it.”

“Then three dollars it is. Bring more than a thousand and Hacker will pay a bonus.”

Perez nodded. “He is a fine man.” He rose to his feet, leaned into the fireplace, and grabbed a handful of fine wood ash from the grate that he scattered on his head. His black hair now streaked with gray, Perez said, “Come with me to the chapel. We will mourn for poor Sandoval who now lies so stiff and cold.”

 

 

When they were still twenty yards from the chapel, Perez screamed his grief, then moaned and beat his chest with a fist as he approached the door.

“Eeeiii, poor Sandoval,” he wailed. “What have I done to you?”

Inside, thick yellow candles guttering in wrought-iron brackets on the walls relieved the dimness of the chapel.

Sandoval's body, as gray and still as marble, had been washed by the women and lay naked on a bier in front of the altar. The air was thick with candle smoke and the musky tang of ancient incense.

Gray ashes mingled with the sweat on his forehead and cheeks, Perez shrieked and threw himself on the dead man. “Sandoval, forgive your Sancho,” he howled. “Aaahhh... I am surely damned. How can God forgive me such a sin?”

Pauleen sat in a pew and listened to the bandit's lamentation, a smile tugging at his lips. The man was either acting or insane. No, he was an insane actor.

Who better than a madman to carry out his part of Hacker's mad plan to bring the Plagues of Egypt to Last Chance and thus destroy the very thing he lusted to own?

Amid the cries of Perez and the sobs of women, Pauleen came to the realization that Hacker and Perez were both loco, but in different ways.

Sancho Perez was a roaring, unbuttoned buffoon, a born criminal who could kill a man without thought and regret it a moment later.

Abe Hacker was cooler, smarter, more calculating... and just as deadly.

Both made treacherous friends and deadly enemies.

Pauleen made his mind up right there and then.

Once the locusts crossed the river, he'd take his money and his woman and ride. Maybe up Wyoming way where a gun for hire was always welcome.

Pauleen rose and stepped to the bier, where Perez still wept and wailed.

He tapped the bandit on the shoulder, then whispered into his ear, “July fourth.”

Perez dashed away tears and nodded.

As Pauleen turned to walk away, his eyes clashed with a young woman's who stood by the bier. Her left cheek bore the deep scar of a knife wound, but her beautiful black eyes glittered as she stared at him with stark, vicious hatred.

Pauleen, the fastest and most dangerous man with a gun on the frontier, shivered—as though a goose had just flown over his grave.

Dave Randall had had it up to here with hiding out in the brush.

It was time to head back into Last Chance and let Hacker smooth things over, use that glib tongue of his to convince the town that Randall's part in the attack on the Ranger had been a misunderstanding.

Jess Gable was dead. Randall was pretty sure of that.

Well then, here's what he'd say:
“See, Gable tried to murder the Ranger in his bed and I made a brave attempt to stop him. Unfortunately, the Ranger mistook my intentions and cut loose. Afraid for my life, I panicked and fled into the desert.”

Randall smiled.

Yeah, that was it. That's what he'd tell the rubes, and Hacker would back up his story.

Hell, they might make him a hero and give him a gold medal or something.

Randall drank the last swallow of water in his canteen and was wishful for coffee, but had none. He was missing his last six meals, and the thought of a steak with taters and onions was mighty appealing.

Hunger only added to his hardship, and he vowed that he'd settle with the damned Ranger for putting him to all this inconvenience.

That Gable was dead didn't trouble Randall in the least. When the chips were down the man had gotten tangled in his own loop and bungled the whole thing.

Well, next time would be different.

As far as Dave Randall was concerned, the sickly, puny Ranger was dead meat. One way or another he'd see to that.

It was still an hour till noon, but the morning was hot. Already the brush flats shimmered and even the pair of horny toads that had earlier been basking on a limestone rock had sought shade.

Randall tightened the saddle cinch and was about to mount when a flicker of movement to the south caught his eye. He pulled his boot from the stirrup and shaded his eyes from the sun glare.

Originally just a speck of black moving across the tan and orange of the desert, it grew into the shape of a horse and rider. Another quarter mile and Randall made out a long-legged gray, moving at a fluid, easy walk.

He recognized the horse.

It was Baptiste Dupoix's mount. Hacker must have sent the gambler out to look for him and escort him back.

A careful man, Randall adjusted the lie of his gun belt, then repositioned himself so that his back was to the climbing sun. It wasn't likely, but there was always the chance that it was a lawman riding Dupoix's horse.

But Randall's fears were put to rest when the rider drew closer and he recognized him as the gambler, a plain blue Colt in his shoulder holster.

Dupoix wore riding breeches and a frilled white shirt. At a time when it was considered the height of bad manners, indeed scandalous, for a man to show his wrists, his sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. The rules of Victorian etiquette did not apply in the desert.

Dupoix drew rein, and after he and Randall exchanged greetings, the gambler tossed him a canteen.

Randall drank greedily as Dupoix swung out of the saddle.

After he wiped his wet mouth and mustache with the back of his hand, Randall said, “You come to give me an escort, Baptiste?”

Dupoix shook his head.

“No, Dave,” he said, “I've come to kill you.”

Randall looked as though he'd been slapped.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he said.

“You tried to murder Hank Cannan, Dave, and I set store by him.”

Now Randall's face registered amazement.

“He's a Texas Ranger! When the hell did you start taking a liking to lawmen?”

“Cannan is a brave man, Dave. I won't step aside and see him murdered in his bed.”

“Did Hacker send you?”

“No. This is my idea. I'm here to make sure Cannan isn't shot in his sleep by a treacherous snake like you. That was in your mind, huh? To kill the Ranger and make things right with Hacker.”

“Yeah, that's as true as ever was. But you should have brought someone with you, Dupoix.” Randall grinned, his feral, searching eyes alight. “On your best day you can't shade me,” he said. “I've killed better men than you.”

Dupoix smiled. “Then I guess you'll have to shuck the iron and prove that to me,” he said.

Something in the gambler's hipshot, confident stance gave Randall pause. He felt a finger of sweat trickle down his back.

“Draw the iron, Dave,” Dupoix said. “Get your work in.”

“I never met a man who wanted to die as much as you,” Randall said. “And for nothing.”

He drew.

Dupoix clawed for his gun. Slow. Way too slow.

Randall's Colt leveled in an instant.

He pulled the trigger.

CLICK!

The hammer dropping on a dud round was loud in the silence.

Dupoix fired.

The gambler did not miss at across-the-card-table distance.

Dupoix's bullet crashed into the top of Randall's chest, an inch below the neck. He thumbed a second shot.

Randall took the bullet dead center.

He lifted up on his toes, cast Dupoix a single unbelieving, horrified glance, then fell flat on his face, dead when he hit the sand.

 

 

Dupoix holstered his Colt and kneeled beside the dead man.

Dave Randall had been lightning-fast on the draw and shoot, the fastest Dupoix had ever seen. The only reason he was still alive was because the man's gun had failed.

Dupoix removed the Colt from Randall's lifeless fingers and opened the loading gate. He turned the cylinder, then let the failed round drop into his palm.

The hammer strike on the primer was deep and well defined as it should be.

Frowning, Dupoix slid the round back into the cylinder.

He rotated the cylinder again so the hammer would fall on the faulty round.

He stood, thumbed back the hammer, and pointed the Colt into the air.

BANG!

The echo of the shot hammered across the flat and sent a startled covey of bobwhites exploding into the air.

For a moment Dupoix stood lost in thought.

It seemed that someone was watching out for him... maybe a crazy old swamp witch named Henriette Valcour.

Dupoix shook his head, smiled, and came back to earth.

A defective cartridge often worked on the second strike. There was nothing witchy about it.

It was not in the gambler's nature to leave a dead man to the buzzards.

He manhandled Randall's body across the saddle of his horse and gathered the animal's reins before he mounted.

Under a relentless sun he kneed his gray in the direction of Last Chance.

Dupoix smiled to himself again. “Thank you, Henriette,” he said.