Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone Page B

them.
    Dupoix couldn’t hear what was being said, but the kids listened to Pauleen intently, and whatever he told them, it made all four grin.
    The gambler’s first thought was that Pauleen was sending them after Hank Cannan—but they wouldn’t need blanket rolls and booted Winchesters for that.
    Then what?
    Whatever was afoot, Dupoix had a stake in the game.
    He dressed hurriedly, strapped on his shoulder holster, and made his way downstairs. He met Mickey Pauleen at the door.
    â€œEarly for you, Baptiste,” Pauleen said, his cold eyes speculative.
    â€œYes. I fancy I’ll take an early morning ride,” Dupoix said. “Clear my head of last night’s whiskey.”
    â€œThere’s a serpent in every bottle and it biteth like the viper,” Pauleen said. “Ever hear that?”
    â€œNo, but the serpent is sure enough biting this morning.”
    Dupoix tried to move past Pauleen, but the man stuck his arm out, blocking his way.
    â€œI hear tell you got witch kin over Louisiana way,” the gunman said. “Is that right?”
    â€œOn the bayou folks call my grandmother a swamp witch,” Dupoix said.
    â€œWitches should be burned,” Pauleen said.
    â€œMaybe so,” Dupoix said.
    He couldn’t see a gun on Pauleen, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t carrying a hideout.
    â€œFunny thing is, a man who sticks his nose into things that don’t concern him can get burned. Just like a swamp witch, huh?”
    Dupoix didn’t want to push it with Pauleen. The fight for Last Chance hadn’t yet begun and when it finally came down he wanted to be on Abe Hacker’s side. “Will you give me the road, Mickey?” he said.
    The little gunman nodded. “Enjoy your ride, Baptiste. Remember what I said about witches an’ sich, huh?”
    â€œSure, Mickey, I’ll remember,” Dupoix said. “A tête-à-tête with you is so much fun, how could I forget?”
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    Dupoix left the livery and looped wide around town, then swung south. He passed vast wheat and corn fields crisscrossed by irrigation ditches, then the ripening fruit tree orchards where cicadas buzzed.
    In the distance a couple of punchers drove a wandering Hereford bull back to their home range. The men waved and Dupoix waved back.
    A couple of miles east of town he picked up the tracks of four riders and followed them into the Rio Grande and then to the far bank.
    Ahead of him stretched a wilderness of scrub desert and cactus. The far mountains on each side of him stood as dark purple silhouettes against the lapis lazuli sky. The peaks looked as though they’d be cool to the touch, cascading water.
    There was no sign of the four young Texans, but then the distances were already rippling, distorting the terrain.
    Dupoix kneed his horse forward. The morning sun’s glare was dazzling, spiking white, and he tilted his hat forward over his eyes.
    He’d taken the precaution of filling his canteen at the livery, and it sloshed with every movement of the horse.
    He didn’t drink. Not yet.
    In the desert, once a man feels the need for water, it’s better for him to drink what he has all at once and then find a place to hole up.
    Dupoix wasn’t that thirsty and he had no intention of riding far into the desert. There was a limit to his curiosity.
    After an hour, the tracks veered west and Dupoix followed them.
    A few minutes later he heard a rattle of gunshots and drew rein, his eyes scanning into a patchy wilderness of sand and ocotillo. Nothing moved and there was no further sound.
    It was hard to tell in the desert, but the shots had been close, not the flat statements of rifles but the sharper bark of revolvers.
    Wishful for field glasses, but having none, Dupoix stood in the stirrups and raised his hat above his head, shading his eyes.
    The gambler was by nature a far-seeing man, and he was sure he spotted the four Texans in the