Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone Page B

that.”
    â€œNot this one,” Cannan said. “I’m a happily married man.”
    â€œSo are most of the men who pay me,” Roxie said.
    She pushed on Cannan, eliciting outraged groans from the Ranger, and scrambled to her feet, in the process revealing a considerable amount of shapely knee and thigh.
    â€œHelp me get up,” Cannan said.
    After a considerable struggle, Roxie manhandled the Ranger into bed.
    â€œWho the hell did that?” Cannan said.
    â€œMickey Pauleen took pots at you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI guess because he doesn’t like you, Mr. Cannan.”
    â€œDamn, was he trying to kill me?”
    â€œNo, just scare you. If Mickey wanted to kill you, he wouldn’t have missed.”
    â€œHe’s a son-of-a-bitch and low down.”
    â€œYup, he’s all of that.”
    Cannan breathed hard, hurting all over.
    Fragments of glass covered the floor under the window, and a few shards had reached his bed.
    Roxie bent over and picked a piece of glass from Cannan’s mustache. “There’s nothing you can do about Pauleen,” she said.
    â€œI could arrest him for the attempted murder of a law officer.”
    â€œYes, you could, if you had the strength to get out of bed.”
    â€œRoxie, I’ve got to get well again. You have to help me.”
    â€œWhat can I do that the doctor can’t do better?”
    Defeated, Cannan laid his head on the pillow. “I don’t know,” he said. Then, “How close is Independence Day?”
    â€œA couple of weeks.”
    â€œI’ve got to be on my feet by then.”
    â€œWhat’s the big hurry? You can watch the celebrations from the window,” Roxie said.
    â€œAnd get shot at again?”
    â€œI’ll talk to Abe Hacker. He stinks like a hog and treats his woman like dirt, but he can keep Mickey Pauleen in line.”
    Cannan shook his head. “No, let him be. I think he’s the one who’ll bring the locusts.”
    Roxie look puzzled, then concerned. “Ranger, did you get shot in the head again? Let me look.”
    â€œI didn’t get shot in the head,” Cannan said.
    â€œNo mortal man can bring the locusts,” Roxie said. “They’re a force of nature. Some say an evil force of nature.”
    â€œAnd so is Abe Hacker,” Cannan said.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    By his count, Sancho Perez had rounded up close to seven hundred Mexican peons—men, women and children—and given himself a major headache.
    His original plan was to stash the people in the canyons under guard; but without water, and a lot of it, he feared he’d lose most, if not all of them, before July fourth.
    After a meeting with his captains, the consensus among them was that the peons must be driven east, toward Perez’s hacienda.
    â€œThey’re dying of thirst even as we round them up, patrón ,” one bandito said. “If we can’t water them, they’ll all die on us.”
    The idea of hundreds of thirsty, hungry, and dirty peons descending on his hacienda did not appeal to Perez, but he saw no way out.
    They were still coming north in droves, fleeing the worst drought in memory, and the roundup was going well.
    To throw it all away because of a lack of water was unthinkable.
    Five miles south of the hacienda lay a deep limestone rock pool where the Apaches had watered their horses during spring raids into Mexico. Fed by an underground stream, the pool now met the irrigation needs of the hacienda, and Perez had four large water wagons built to ensure a constant supply.
    Alarmed that he was already losing too many peons to thirst, he sent riders on fast horses to fill the water wagons and bring them back to meet his column.
    Perez’s prompt action would save lives, but as his men rounded up more and more people the water problem would become even more acute.
    He had five wagons, but needed at least three times that