Day of Independence

by William W. Johnstone

  Nora’s hand, which in life had been a dove’s wing of slender beauty, was, in death, a crushed, cracked, and broken thing.

  No longer did Hacker have the strength or inclination to kick the hand back under the bed.

  He grabbed a towel from the rail beside the water basin and dropped it over the hand, hiding it from view.

  Exhausted, Hacker took the chair by the window. Within moments his sweaty face took on an expression of fear mixed with the darkest dread.

  An iron crab reached out for him, clasped his chest in its claws... and crushed.

  Hacker gasped as pain spiked behind his breastbone as though he’d been run through by a rusty saber.

  Like a symphony composed by a sadist, the agony proceeded through its appalling movements, climaxed, and wrenched a stifled scream from Hacker before it slowly ebbed away... and left him.

  Ranger Hank Cannan woke to the dawn and a steady THUMP... THUMP... THUMP... on the stairs.

  It wasn’t Roxie or her friend Nancy Scott, since both young women moved with the quiet, rustling grace that Victorian society demanded of the fairer sex.

  A man then, heavy and wearing boots.

  Cannan drew his Colt from the holster hanging from its belt on the bedpost and, his eyes on the door, waited.

  The events of the night had worn on the Ranger, and his habitually gloomy features were gaunt, his great mustache overhanging a mouth that was gradually losing its ability to smile.

  The thumping on the stairs ceased, replaced by a soft, squeak... squeak... squeak, accompanied by the footfalls of a man steadily walking in the direction of Cannan’s door. The Ranger thumbed back the hammer. Given his physical weakness he was determined to shoot first and apologize later.

  Someone rapped on the door and Cannan, surprised at the feebleness of his voice, said, “Identify yourself and state your intentions.”

  A pause then, “Why it’s me, cap’n, Ephraim Slough, beggin’ your pardon I’m sure.”

  “Come in slow with your hands where I can see them.”

  The door opened and a grinning Slough stepped inside.

  “See, cap’n, ol’ Ephraim as ever was.”

  Cannan holstered the Colt.

  “What can I do for you, Ephraim? Apart from not shooting you?”

  “That ain’t the question, cap’n, an’ it be all the same to you. The question is, what have I done fer you?”

  “All right then, what have you done for me?” Cannan said. He had a splitting headache.

  “Lookee!” Slough said, with the air of a magician pulling a rabbit out of a top hat. He stepped back into the hallway and then, to the Ranger’s surprise, pushed a contraption through the doorway.

  “What the hell is that?” Cannan said.

  “It’s an invalid chair, cap’n. It will get you around today, an’ no mistake. I mean, you feelin’ right poorly an’ all.”

  Cannan said, “Do you expect me to sit in that thing and have someone push me around?”

  Slough’s grin grew wider. “You catch on real quick, cap’n. I already spoke to big Simon Rule the blacksmith and he says he’ll push you around an’ be right happy to do it as a Christian duty.”

  Cannan was outraged, but he managed to keep his voice calm. “Ephraim, you’ve got five seconds to take both you and your invalid chair out of this room.”

  “But cap’n—”

  “Now!”

  Slough waved a placating hand. “All right, all right, but if you need it I’ll—”

  “I won’t need it.”

  Slough angled the Ranger a whipped puppy look and backed the chair out of the room.

  Once he had the chair in the hallway, he stuck his head around the half-shut door and said, “If you change your mind—”

  “Ephraim, get the hell away from me!” Cannan yelled.

  The door closed and a moment later opened again.

  Cannan sat bolt upright in bed. “Ephraim Slough! Step through that door and I’ll shoot you!”

  “Wait, cap’n, I forgot something,” Slough said.

  “If it’s about the damned invalid damned chair I’ll shoot you twice.”

  A careful man, Slough stayed behind the door but shoved his arm inside and waved the Ranger star.

  “Lookee what I found, cap’n,” he said. “Beggin’ your pardon.”

  Cannan looked at the star and felt a chill deep in his belly.

  “Let me see that, Ephraim,” he said.

  Slough, with the wary, shifty eyes of a man who was ready to duck, stepped inside and handed over the star. “Found it in an alley between the general store and the Cattleman’s Hotel,” he said.

  “I gave this to young Andy Kilcoyn after I swore him in as an acting Ranger,” Cannan said. “How did it come to be there?”

  “The boy either dropped it or threw it away, cap’n. But knowing Andy, he wouldn’t get rid of a valuable piece of silver.”

  “Then he must have lost it,” Cannan said. “Though what he was doing near the Cattleman’s Hotel I can’t imagine.”

  “Seems like the case, cap’n,” Slough said. “Boys are a savage breed and they do lose things.”

  “Well, I’m due to meet my particular savage this morning, so I’ll return it to him then.”

  Cannan felt a twinge of guilt for treating Slough so badly over the chair, an act of kindness he should have appreciated.

  “My wife’s coming in on the noon stage today,” he said.

  Alarm showed on the old sailor’s face, but he managed to banish it with a smile.

  “Glad to hear that, cap’n. I’m sure you’re looking forward to seeing the missus again.”

  “Yes I am. Mrs. Cannan is a fine woman.”

  “And purty, too, I bet,” Slough said.

  “I think so.”

  A silence stretched between the two men and both knew what was going unsaid.

  Finally Cannan brought it into the open. “Ephraim, if things go badly at the river and I should fall...”

  “Yes, cap’n?”

  The Ranger swallowed hard. “If Sancho Perez and his bandits break us and get into town, you’re in command of the reserve regiment and...”

  “I’ll do my duty, cap’n. Neither Mrs. Cannan nor any other woman of this town will be carried off by Mexican bandits. Not alive, they won’t.”

  The Ranger nodded.

  “It’s a mighty hard thing to talk about, Ephraim. But it’s something a man must consider. ”

  “I reckon homesteaders who lived in Apache country talked about it often enough, both men and womenfolk.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it any more, Ephraim, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” Slough smiled. “We have Independence Day to celebrate, and I reckon tonight Mrs. Cannan will be dancing like a bobber on a line.”

  “If we don’t have too many new widows,” the Ranger said.

  The old mariner’s smile faded. “Yes, cap’n,” he said. “There’s always that.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  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.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  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 Ra
nger 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.”