Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone

pounds, but Roxie was a strong, capable woman, and she helped him stagger to the window.
    â€œGrab the window frame and I’ll get a chair,” she said.
    When Roxie returned Cannan sank gratefully into the chair and directed his attention to the street.
    He was just in time.
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    Even a pang of self-doubt about his gun skills can slow a man on the draw and shoot. And Stutter knew that better than most because he’d killed men whose doubt indulged became doubt realized.
    Pauleen had dismissed him as a no-account and undermined his confidence just a shade, but enough.
    He had to prove him wrong.
    Fast.
    Stutter drew.
    And a moment later wished he’d died quick.
    Two bullets from Pauleen’s .45 slammed into the big man’s belly and he staggered, screaming, then joined his shadow in the dirt.
    Mickey Pauleen stepped off the porch and held his gun high.
    To the crowd that had gathered, gawping at Stutter who was dying hard, he said, “Stay back. I’ll kill anyone, man or woman, who tries to help this trash. Let him lie there like a dog.”
    â€œThen you’d better kill me, Pauleen,” Ed Gillman, the general store owner, said. He pushed through the crowd and took a knee beside Stutter, whose face was twisted into a mask of pain, suffering an agony that was beyond any man’s ability to endure.
    â€œSon, make your peace with God,” Gillman said. “Your time is short.”
    Blood in his mouth, Stutter grabbed the front of Gillman’s white apron in a scarlet fist and pleaded, “Help me.”
    â€œI’m afraid you’re beyond help,” Gillman said. “But I won’t let you die in the street.”
    â€œYes, you will,” Pauleen said.
    He pushed the muzzle of his gun into Gillman’s temple, the triple click of the cocking hammer loud in the silence. “Touch that man again and I’ll scatter your brains,” he said.
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    The moment Gillman kneeled beside the dying man, Hank Cannan had seen enough.
    He made an attempt to raise the window, but it was beyond his strength. “Help me, Roxie,” he said.
    The woman took in at a glance what was happening in the street, and she helped the Ranger struggle the window open.
    Cannan didn’t hesitate.
    He stuck his head out the window and yelled, “Pauleen, shoot that man and I’ll see you hang!”
    The little gunman hesitated, his snake eyes darting as he tried to pin down the source of the voice.
    Then he spotted Cannan and grinned.
    Pauleen cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Ranger!” Then, before Cannan could answer, “You go to hell!”
    â€œLeave Gillman be, damn you,” Cannan said.
    â€œOr what, sick man? You’ll come down here and arrest me?”
    Pauleen pushed the muzzle of his gun harder into Gillman’s temple. “Git up, you,” he said, his words venomous.
    The storekeeper ignored Pauleen, his attention fixed on Jake Stutter. The man’s agonized death shrieks were terrible to hear.
    It’s a natural fact that no matter how game he is, in the end a gut-shot man screams like a woman in the midst of a difficult labor.
    â€œMickey! No!”
    Two words, as loud and authoritative as rifle shots.
    Abe Hacker stood on the hotel porch, dressed in broadcloth and brocade, a massive gold watch chain across his belly.
    Then before anyone could speak, Hacker said, “What happened here?”
    â€œThis trash called me out,” Pauleen said.
    â€œMost unfortunate,” Hacker said. “How is he?”
    â€œDying like a gutted hog,” Ed Gillman said.
    A smart man, Hacker had sized up the situation immediately.
    â€œThen let Mr. Gillman succor the dying, Mickey,” he said. His little eyes telegraphed a warning to Pauleen. For the benefit of Gillman and the crowd of onlookers, he said, “The Ranger is right. We need no more unpleasantness this morning.”
    Accusation edged