Free Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone

attempt to stop him. Unfortunately, the Ranger mistook my intentions and cut loose. Afraid for my life, I panicked and fled into the desert.”
    Randall smiled.
    Yeah, that was it. That’s what he’d tell the rubes, and Hacker would back up his story.
    Hell, they might make him a hero and give him a gold medal or something.
    Randall drank the last swallow of water in his canteen and was wishful for coffee, but had none. He was missing his last six meals, and the thought of a steak with taters and onions was mighty appealing.
    Hunger only added to his hardship, and he vowed that he’d settle with the damned Ranger for putting him to all this inconvenience.
    That Gable was dead didn’t trouble Randall in the least. When the chips were down the man had gotten tangled in his own loop and bungled the whole thing.
    Well, next time would be different.
    As far as Dave Randall was concerned, the sickly, puny Ranger was dead meat. One way or another he’d see to that.
    It was still an hour till noon, but the morning was hot. Already the brush flats shimmered and even the pair of horny toads that had earlier been basking on a limestone rock had sought shade.
    Randall tightened the saddle cinch and was about to mount when a flicker of movement to the south caught his eye. He pulled his boot from the stirrup and shaded his eyes from the sun glare.
    Originally just a speck of black moving across the tan and orange of the desert, it grew into the shape of a horse and rider. Another quarter mile and Randall made out a long-legged gray, moving at a fluid, easy walk.
    He recognized the horse.
    It was Baptiste Dupoix’s mount. Hacker must have sent the gambler out to look for him and escort him back.
    A careful man, Randall adjusted the lie of his gun belt, then repositioned himself so that his back was to the climbing sun. It wasn’t likely, but there was always the chance that it was a lawman riding Dupoix’s horse.
    But Randall’s fears were put to rest when the rider drew closer and he recognized him as the gambler, a plain blue Colt in his shoulder holster.
    Dupoix wore riding breeches and a frilled white shirt. At a time when it was considered the height of bad manners, indeed scandalous, for a man to show his wrists, his sleeves were rolled up on his forearms. The rules of Victorian etiquette did not apply in the desert.
    Dupoix drew rein, and after he and Randall exchanged greetings, the gambler tossed him a canteen.
    Randall drank greedily as Dupoix swung out of the saddle.
    After he wiped his wet mouth and mustache with the back of his hand, Randall said, “You come to give me an escort, Baptiste?”
    Dupoix shook his head.
    â€œNo, Dave,” he said, “I’ve come to kill you.”
    Randall looked as though he’d been slapped.
    â€œWhat the hell are you talking about?” he said.
    â€œYou tried to murder Hank Cannan, Dave, and I set store by him.”
    Now Randall’s face registered amazement.
    â€œHe’s a Texas Ranger! When the hell did you start taking a liking to lawmen?”
    â€œCannan is a brave man, Dave. I won’t step aside and see him murdered in his bed.”
    â€œDid Hacker send you?”
    â€œNo. This is my idea. I’m here to make sure Cannan isn’t shot in his sleep by a treacherous snake like you. That was in your mind, huh? To kill the Ranger and make things right with Hacker.”
    â€œYeah, that’s as true as ever was. But you should have brought someone with you, Dupoix.” Randall grinned, his feral, searching eyes alight. “On your best day you can’t shade me,” he said. “I’ve killed better men than you.”
    Dupoix smiled. “Then I guess you’ll have to shuck the iron and prove that to me,” he said.
    Something in the gambler’s hipshot, confident stance gave Randall pause. He felt a finger of sweat trickle down his back.
    â€œDraw the iron, Dave,” Dupoix