Day of Independence (19 page)

Ephraim Slough was not a sleeping man.

Too many four-on, four-off watches on men o' war had disrupted his slumber in the past and he'd gradually lost the habit of it.

Thus it was that when he restlessly prowled around at the back of the livery, a dark, jumbled and cobwebby place, he found the chair. Slough realized that he'd made a valuable find.

He dragged the chair out of its hiding place and instantly caused a clattering avalanche of old harnesses, timber boards, and empty paint cans.

But once the chair was exposed to the lamplight, Sough's suspicions were confirmed. It was indeed a treasure.

He did a little wooden-legged version of that jig mariners call a hornpipe, and then, after he used a rag to dust off the chair, examined his find more closely.

It was a superb wheelchair with a hickory and oak frame and wicker seat and back. It had two iron, rubber-tired wheels to the front and a smaller version at the rear. A discreet little brass plaque screwed into the top of the frame declared that the chair was made by
Jas. Brougham & Son, Market Street, Boston, Mass.

Slough thought the contraption superb, and just the thing to get Ranger Cannan around come the fight on the river.

The only trouble that Slough could see was that Cannan was a big man and the chair itself weighed close to sixty pounds. It would take another big man, and strong, to push it. Slough rubbed his stubbled chin, thinking it through.

There was only one candidate, big Simon Rule the blacksmith. But Rule had already been chosen by Cannan as one of his fighting men. Also on the downside, the smith was inclined to surliness and very down on demon drink and had often made Slough himself the object of his temperance tirades.

But Rule was the only man in town who could push the chair with Ranger Cannan in it, so no matter how distasteful it may be he was the obvious choice.

The wheels squeaked a little and Slough used his oilcan until they turned smoothly. Then he stepped back and admired the chair again.

It was a fine chariot for a Ranger and would sure help him get around come morning.

But Slough was not a man to do things by half.

He rolled the chair out of the livery to take it for a trial spin. It pushed very well empty, and Slough walked it along the street, alone but for himself, the restless mist, and the waning moonlight.

As he approached the Cattleman's Hotel the wheels began to squeak again.

Slough stopped but the squeaking continued, loud and increasingly frantic. Then he realized the noise was the steady shriek of a bed coming from the front room of the hotel.

Slough's jaw dropped.

What was going on inside, and now he heard a man's laughter rise above the screech... screech... screech... was indeed a heroic copulation.

Awed, Slough removed his hat, bowed his head in silent homage to the industrious stud, and turned the chair around.

Suddenly feeling inadequate, Slough got ready to retrace his steps to the livery when he saw the last of the moonlight glint on something lying in the narrow alley that separated the hotel from the general store.

The old sailor was ready to dismiss the gleam as moonlight on an empty bottle or can, but to satisfy his curiosity he let loose of the chair and stepped closer.

What he stooped to pick up was a five-pointed star that he'd seen before, pinned to the shirt of Mrs. Edith Kilcoyn's mischievous son, Andy.

Slough shook his head. Had the boy lost it already, or thrown it away? The latter seemed unlikely. The star was solid silver, the words
TEXAS RANGER
picked out in gold. As a piece of jewelry it had not been cheap to make and Andy, a street urchin, would appreciate its value.

The boy had lost it then.

But what had he been doing at the Cattleman's Hotel?

Slough peered into the alley but saw only darkness.

He put the star into his pocket and stepped to the wheelchair again.

The bed in the front room was now silent and Slough gave a second, perfunctory bow in the direction of the window before walking back to the livery.

The same moonlight that illuminated Ephraim Slough's path streamed through Henriette Valcour's window and bathed the old woman in mother-of-pearl radiance as she sat by the fire.

Her lamp was not lit because she'd hung the flag outside her door to mark Independence Day and a loup-garou, attracted by the thirty-eight stars, had squatted on the porch and tried to count them.

But such a number was well beyond any werewolf's ability and he'd continually lost his way and had to start all over again. Finally, after three hours, he'd bellowed his frustration like a bull alligator out in the swamp and had scurried away.

Henriette waited a while to make sure the loup-garou was gone. While not clever, they were sly and very dangerous, especially if they'd recently lost count.

Finally the old woman rose to her feet and stepped onto the porch.

The feral smell of the loup-garou lingered. The flag was undisturbed.

A gray fog hung on the swamp like a fallen raincloud, and out in the darkness Henriette heard a splash, followed by another.

“Jacques St. Romain, is that you out there?” she called.

The old black man's voice sounded hollow, like a bass drum in the darkness.

“I sure am, Miss Henriette.”

“You fishing?”

“No, Miss Henriette. I trying to shoot me a wild hog fo' dinner today, me.”

“You can't see in this mist.”

“I kin hear a hog, smell him, too. Got me my forty-five.”

“Jacques, you see a loup-garou at my door?”

A long pause, then the old man's voice carried flat across the swamp.

“I sure didn't, Miss Henriette. Is that why you sound troubled?”

“I can't see you, Jacques.”

“You don't need to see me an' I don't need to see you to know you feel bad.”

“I have a troubled mind, me.”

“You havin' them visions again, Miss Henriette?”

Moonlight tinted the fog lighter gray in places but was so thick the old woman could barely see her front door.

“I see blood and murder and the deaths of children,” Henriette called.

She heard the splash of oars and again there was a long pause before Jacques St. Romain answered, his voice echoing through the mist. “Don't you go tellin' me that now, Miss Henriette. I don't want to hear that.”

“I mean no harm to you, Jacques,” Henriette said. “You're a good man.”

“I'm leavin' now, me,” the old man yelled. “Got my hand on the cross around my neck so nothin' can harm me 'cause the Good Lord will watch over me.”

“Jacques...” Henriette called.

But the old man had disappeared into fog and distance and a solemn silence settled on the bayou but for the croak of frogs among the roots of the cypress trees.

Henriette stepped back into the cabin, lit a lamp, and made herself tea.

She sat, cup in hand, and stared long and hard at the doll on the table beside her, the one she'd made in the shape of the fat man who so haunted her dreams. The old woman finished her tea, laid the cup on the table, and picked up the doll and a pin.

For a while the pin hovered over the doll's chest, but finally Henriette sighed and set down both doll and pin.

To thrust at the fat man's heart and bring about his death would deplete her power and she'd need all her strength to save Baptiste.

She couldn't be left weak and helpless when the battle—Henriette could not tell from her vision what it was—began when the sun was high in the sky.

It would be then that her grandson would be in the greatest peril. The fat man who had murdered the child would have to wait.

His time would come.

The coming of the dawn of Independence Day woke two men in Last Chance at the same moment.

One was Ranger Hank Cannan, the other Abe Hacker.

The sky was a riot of color, cobalt barred by vivid scarlet, jade, and fish-scale gray, like an impressionist artist's vision of a medieval tournament. Buildings cast long shadows on the street, shop windows tinted red, and the morning air was fresh, July 4, 1887, coming in clean.

 

 

Abe Hacker woke to horror, the remembrance of what had happened in the night returning to him in jagged, bloody shards, one painful piece at a time.

Hacker lay still, his eyes open, listening. But the dead make no sound.

“Nora?” he whispered.

The room was still. Nothing moved, as though frozen in time.

Five minutes passed... then ten...

Hacker stared at the ceiling.

Two murders. Two bodies.

One in this very room.

Hacker's gasp of apprehension was almost a sob.

Please, Sancho, come soon and free me from this hell!

He made an effort, rolled off the bed and glanced nervously at the floor... then shrieked.

Nora's hand, white as marble, the long nails blood-red, again lay exposed on the rug. Her forefinger was bent, as though beckoning Hacker to join her. The fat man stared at the dead hand with revulsion, then rage.

Like a man possessed, he stomped on the hand again and again as though it was a pale spider that had crawled out from under the bed. Hacker felt bones splinter under his heel and he stamped harder, harder, harder still, cursing, his breath fluting through clenched teeth.

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.”