Day of Independence

by William W. Johnstone

  He’d been warned when he’d first signed on that to stay aboveground a Ranger must develop the instincts of a lobo wolf.

  “You take ol’ Bardolph now, he’s out there in the woods howlin’ an’ fussin’ because he reckons hard times are comin’ down,” an old-time Ranger once told him. “He’s only a wolf, so he can’t rightly tell what they are, but he sure as hell knows they’re comin’.”

  The old Ranger took time to light his pipe, then said, “If he wants to go on living, a Ranger must mind his instincts just like Bardolph does and know when hard times are sneakin’ up on him.” He nodded. “Yup, them’s true words of wisdom as ever was spoke.”

  Recalling that advice, Cannan minded his instincts now.

  He said, “Roxie, please bring my gun over here.”

  “You planning to shoot your nurses, Ranger?” the woman said.

  Cannan smiled. “No, I don’t want to do that. I’d just like it closer, is all.”

  “You’ll get spooked in the night and shoot your toes off,” Roxie said.

  “I’ve been spooked in the night plenty of times before and I’ve still got all ten,” Cannan said.

  “It might make Hank feel better,” Nancy said. “Lawmen like their guns close at hand.”

  “Well, don’t blame me if you shoot your fool head off,” Roxie said.

  She picked up Cannan’s holstered Colt from the corner and buckled the cartridge belt before looping it over the bedpost.

  “There,” she said. “Does that make you feel better now?”

  “Safer,” Cannan said.

  Roxie smiled. “Now who’s going to harm a man in his sickbed?”

  “I don’t know,” Cannan said.

  “Me neither,” Roxie said. “But if it makes you more at ease...”

  “It does,” Cannan said. “It surely does.”

  Mickey Pauleen stood beside his saddled horse in the livery stable, the reins in his hand, and said, “You boys got it? A fast in, kill him, and a fast out. Then light a shuck for the hills and lie low for a couple of days before you head back to town.”

  “We got it, Mickey,” Jess Gable said, grinning. “It’s gonna be easy.”

  “Maybe,” Dave Randall said. “The Ranger killed Merritt and nobody figured Black John a bargain.”

  “I can get somebody else, Dave,” Pauleen said, his voice iced.

  “I was only saying, Mickey,” Randall said.

  “He’s sick. How much can a sick man bring to a gunfight?” Pauleen said.

  “I’ll get the job done,” Randall said. “I was only saying.”

  Dave Randall had run with Jesse Evans and that hard crowd in the Lincoln County War, and he’d been at Presidio del Norte in Mexico when Evans was outgunned and captured by Texas Rangers.

  Randall had escaped, turned to bank robbery for a couple of years, then became a deputy marshal for Judge Parker up Fort Smith way.

  He’d quit after only a couple of months and had since sold his gun to the highest bidder. By his own count, he’d killed eight white men.

  Abe Hacker thought highly of him.

  Pauleen, still dressed like a country parson, pointed to a pile of empty burlap sacks in a vacant stall.

  “Make a couple of masks out of those, Jess,” he said. “It’s probably best your faces aren’t seen. And wear slickers you can get rid of afterward.”

  Gable was genuinely puzzled. “What difference does it make, Mickey?” he said. “There ain’t no law in this town.”

  “I know, but until I get back here with the Mexicans we’ll play it Hacker’s way. He says if you cover your faces and wear slickers over your clothes, the rubes will have some doubt about who actually pulled the triggers.” Pauleen swung into the saddle and adjusted the angle of the Winchester booted under his right knee. “Just get it done, boys,” he said, straightening. “Get it done tonight.”

  Making up for his lapse, Randall said, “We’ll do it, Mickey. It’s no big thing.”

  “Killing a Ranger is always a big thing,” Pauleen said. “But by the time they find out about it, we’ll be long gone from here.”

  “What about Hacker?” Gable said.

  “What about him?” Pauleen said.

  “Does he plan to stay on in Last Chance?”

  “Hell, no. When his business is done, he’ll head back to Washington.”

  Randall smiled. “The Rangers can’t touch him there.”

  “Nobody can touch him there,” Pauleen said. “With his money, he has half the damned government in his pocket.” He kneed his flashy sorrel forward. “So long, boys. I’ll see you when I get back with the plague of locusts.”

  After he was gone, Randall said, “What the hell is a plague of locusts?”

  “I don’t know,” Gable said. “Mickey talks strange sometimes. He believes in ghosts and ha’ants and sich and he reads the Bible every single day.”

  “Why are so many of the boys scared of him, Jess? Even Shotgun Hugh Gray steps around him.”

  “Because Mickey is a born killer, that’s why.”

  “He don’t even carry a gun, for God’s sake.”

  “He does, but only when he needs it.”

  Gable’s hand made a rasping sound as he ran it over his stubbly chin. “Dave,” he said, “you ever see Mickey Pauleen strap on a gun and come in your direction, know that you’re already a dead man and make peace with your Maker.”

  “You think he’s that fast, huh?” Randall said, his lip curling a little.

  “I know he’s that fast,” Gable said. “Faster than you’ve ever seen or can imagine.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Moonlight lay on the town of Last Chance like a winter frost. A slight breeze rippled through the acres of winter wheat that surrounded the settlement and stirred the fruit trees, making little sound.

  The hour by the town hall clock was fifteen minutes past midnight and the street was deserted, false-fronted buildings casting rectangular shadows the color of blue steel.

  Even the sporting crowd was already abed, saving their money and energy for Friday night, when the cowboys came in and the saloon girls were at their prettiest.

  Only two men moved.

  Their heads covered in burlap sacks, holes cut out for their eyes and mouths, they stood on the boardwalk and studied the blank window of the Ranger’s room.

  “You reckon he’s asleep, Jess?” Dave Randall said.

  “Of course he’s asleep,” Gable said. “He’s all shot up, ain’t he?”

  “How do we play it?” Randall said.

  Gable sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Once more,” Randall said. “I want to get it right.”

  “Dave, you ain’t the smartest puncher in the bunkhouse, are you?” Gable said.

  “One more time, Jess.”

  “And you ain’t a listener.”

  “One more time, Jess.”

  “All right,” Gable said, sighing again, “here’s how it will go down. After I kick in the Ranger’s door, I’ll start shooting. You’ll stay back and cover the room, just in case he’s got somebody in there with him. You savvy that?”

  Randall nodded.

  “Man, woman, or child, you kill anybody that’s in there,“ Gable said.

  “I got it, Jess.”

  “I’ll make sure the Ranger is dead, then we run downstairs, mount up, and light a shuck,” Gable said. “It ain’t real complicated, Dave.”

  “He killed Black John,” Randall said. “That was something.”

  “You told me that already,” Gable said.

  He pulled his Colt and slid a round into the empty chamber that had been under the hammer.

  “The Ranger lying in bed up there ain’t the same man as done for Black John,” Gable said. “He’s at death’s door, or so they say.”

  “He was a rum one was Black John,” Randall said.

  “Save the conversation for later,” Gable said. “Let’s go kill ourselves a lawman.”

 
Hank Cannan woke with a start and, his eyes wide, listened into the darkness.

  Nothing.

  Not a sound.

  Yet his heart hammered in his chest and the night seemed oppressive, as though the walls of the hotel room were closing in on him.

  His instinct for danger clamored, even as he told himself that he was acting like a scared old lady who hears a rustle in every bush.

  There!

  A faint creak... just a whisper in the silence.

  It could be the protest of a stair step recently repaired with green timber or the wooden floor in the hallway reacting to a man’s weight.

  It was time to move.

  Cannan grabbed his Colt from the holster and rolled out of bed. His head swam, and his weak, wounded body shrieked in pain.

  The danger was very close now. He could sense it. Smell it.

  Still fevered, Cannan sweated as he kneeled behind the bed and pulled the pillows down to form the vague outline of a sleeping man.

  His hands were wet, slippery, too sweaty to hold the Colt steady.

  He dragged the sheet off the bed and wrapped a corner of it around the gun handle. He grasped the revolver again, his hold firmer now.

  Cannan eased back the hammer, its triple click loud in the room.

  He fought for breath, fear spiking at him. He grabbed the sheet with his left hand and wiped sweat from his face.

  God, he was sick, much weaker than he’d thought. He was in no shape for a gunfight, or any other kind of fight, come to that.

  Slow seconds slid past, then...

  A booted foot crashed into the door. The door splintered on its hinges but held firm.

  A second kick, harder this time. The door crashed inward and scattered shards of wood buzzed around the room like stinging insects.

  A man, his bulk huge in the darkness, thumbed two shots into the bed.

  An explosion of pillow feathers erupted into the air and then lazily drifted downward like fat flakes of snow.

  Cannan fired into the dark, hulking silhouette of his would-be assassin.

  Hit, the man cried out and staggered back against the doorframe.

  A gun blasted from Cannan’s left.

  There was another man in the room!

  The gunman’s bullet tore through the Ranger’s left bicep and into his ribs, just below his armpit. Cannan swung his Colt to cover the second assailant, but the sheet had tangled in the trigger guard and the Ranger’s shot was delayed.

  But it didn’t matter.

  The gunman, his head covered with a hood, bolted for the door, jumped over the sprawled, groaning form of his companion, and Cannan heard the thud of his boots on the stairs.

  The Ranger pushed on the bed for support as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

  He was done, all used up, finished.

  His gun dropped from his hand, thudded to the floor... and a second later Hank Cannan followed it.

  Cannan woke to the concerned brown eyes of Dr. Hans Krueger.

  “How are you feeling, Ranger?” the young physician asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cannan said.

  Krueger sat on the bed and Roxie Miller peered over his shoulder. “You got shot again,” she said.

  “The bullet went through your arm and into your rib cage,” the doctor said. “Luckily it didn’t penetrate far and I was able to extract it.”

  “You have to stop getting shot,” Roxie said.

  Without lifting his head from the pillow, Cannan said, “I didn’t have much choice in the matter.” He was surprised at how weak his voice sounded.

  Krueger smiled slightly.

  “I’m afraid Miz Roxie is right, Ranger Cannan,” he said. “I keep patching you up, but I’m not a miracle worker. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

  “Doc, I’m all shot to pieces,” Cannan said. “How lucky can a man get?”

  “As you can tell, Mr. Cannan is not a good patient, Dr. Krueger,” Roxie said. “He was drinking whiskey and smoking cigars with Baptiste Dupoix, the gambler, and him sick in bed.”

  “No more smoking and drinking until we get you on your feet, Ranger,” the doctor said.

  “When will that be?” Cannan said.

  “A few weeks.” Krueger thought for a moment, then said, “Will your superiors come looking for you?”

  Cannan shook his head. “No, I’m on my own. A Texas Ranger is supposed to look out for his ownself.”

  “Even if his life is in danger?” Krueger said.

  “Yes, even if his life is in danger. He’s expected to handle it. That’s how it works.”

  Cannan moved in the bed, and immediately jagged shards of pain stabbed at him.

  “Damn it,” he said, breathing hard, “who shot me?”

  Roxie answered that. “Feller by the name of Jess Gable. He works for Abe Hacker.”

  “There were two of them,” Cannan said.

  “According to Hacker, the other one was Dave Randall,” Roxie said.

  “You said, works for Abe Hacker. You mean he’s still alive?” Cannan said.

  “Barely,” Krueger said. “He has a belly wound, and there’s nothing I can do for him except ease his pain and make his dying easier.” The young doctor’s face took on a strained look as he forced himself to admit that death, his archenemy, had beaten him. “He won’t last the night,” he said.

  “Why did they try to kill me?”

  Cannan addressed his question to Roxie. She worked the saloons where whiskey-talking men freely exchanged gossip about the citizens of Last Chance.

  “Hacker says Gable and Randall were rogue employees who wanted to kill a lawman,” she says. “He says his men are out hunting for Randall and when they find him, they’ll turn him over to the law.”

  “What law?” Cannan said. “I’m the only law in Last Chance. I mean, what’s left of me.”

  The Ranger and his wife had once been invited to attend a mummy unwrapping party at a grand house in Austin. Now, lying in bed, swathed in bandages, he felt like that Ancient Egyptian feller... before he was unwrapped.

  “Where is Gable now?” Cannan said.

  “Across the street at the Cattleman’s Hotel,” Dr. Krueger said. “He’ll die in his room, and Hacker says he’ll bury him decently, for old times’ sake.”

  Cannan badly wanted to sleep, just close his eyes and drift, but he forced himself to stay alert.

  Outside the reflector lamps were lit along the street and from one of the saloons a bored piano player one-fingered the notes of a Chopin étude. An owl, perched on the top of one of the false-fronted buildings, asked its question of the night and in the distance a pair of hunting coyotes yipped back and forth.

  Cannan, his voice no louder than a whisper, said, “Who is this Hacker feller, and what’s he doing in Last Chance?”

  “He came looking for gold and didn’t find any,” Roxie said.

  “Then why is he still here?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  “Is Mickey Pauleen working for Hacker?”

  “Yeah, him and a bunch of other Texas draw fighters,” Roxie said. “They act real big in the saloons, and spend big, too.”

  “Why did...” Cannan’s voice failed him and he coughed painfully, then tried again. “Why did Pauleen kill your town marshal?”

  This time Dr. Krueger answered. “Marshal Isaac Dixon was nearly eighty years old. The town gave him the job because he won a medal in the war and was wounded at Gettysburg.”

  “For the South?” Cannan said.

  “Of course.”

  “So what happened?”

  Krueger’s face was empty. “The story is that Isaac knew Pauleen from somewhere before and ordered him out of town. Witnesses said that the marshal drew down on him and Pauleen killed him.”

  “Who were the witnesses?”

  “Hacker’s boys. The shooting took place at the livery stable and nobody else saw it.”

  Cannan was silent for a few moments, then said, “I’d guess the old man
was lured to the stable, then murdered.”

  “That’s not how Hacker’s men tell it,” the doctor said.

  “What about the townspeople?” Cannan said. “Didn’t they do something?”

  “What could they do? It was an open-and-shut case of self-defense. And the folks around here are not much inclined to lynch a man.”

  Cannan was again quiet for a spell.

  Then he said, “Why does he want to take Last Chance away from the people who founded it and still live here?”

  “Where did you hear such a thing?” Roxie said. “I think that’s enough for tonight, Ranger Cannan. You’re starting to imagine things. Dr. Krueger, can you give him something to help him sleep?”

  “I don’t need anything,” Cannan said. “I reckon I’ll sleep real good on my own.”

  Krueger rose, snapped his bag shut and said, “By the way, your gambler friend has taken a room next to yours. He says he’ll make sure you don’t get your damned fool head blown off.”

  “Doctor!” Roxie said. “I’ve never heard you cuss before.”

  The physician smiled. “I’m only repeating what he said.”

  “Baptiste Dupoix is no friend of mine,” Cannan said. “I should have strung him up years ago.”

  “Well, he still seems to like you,” Krueger said. He smiled. “I’ll drop by again in the morning, Ranger Cannan.”

  After Roxie and the doctor left, sleep would not come to the exhausted Hank Cannan. Baptiste Dupoix’s words still haunted him...

  “We’re going to take it all away from them.”

  The pain from his wounds tormented Cannan, but worse a torment was the growing certainty that Abe Hacker planned to destroy Last Chance, with its fields and orchards, ranches, and the dreams of its people.

  But why?

  And how?

  And when?

  Cannon had no answers.

  But he did know this: When the hard times came down, he was in no shape to fight them. He was stove up and weak as a kitten. Hell, he could barely get out of bed.