Free Day of Independence by William W. Johnstone Page A

said. “Get your work in.”
    â€œI never met a man who wanted to die as much as you,” Randall said. “And for nothing.”
    He drew.
    Dupoix clawed for his gun. Slow. Way too slow.
    Randall’s Colt leveled in an instant.
    He pulled the trigger.
    CLICK!
    The hammer dropping on a dud round was loud in the silence.
    Dupoix fired.
    The gambler did not miss at across-the-card-table distance.
    Dupoix’s bullet crashed into the top of Randall’s chest, an inch below the neck. He thumbed a second shot.
    Randall took the bullet dead center.
    He lifted up on his toes, cast Dupoix a single unbelieving, horrified glance, then fell flat on his face, dead when he hit the sand.
    Â 
    Â 
    Dupoix holstered his Colt and kneeled beside the dead man.
    Dave Randall had been lightning-fast on the draw and shoot, the fastest Dupoix had ever seen. The only reason he was still alive was because the man’s gun had failed.
    Dupoix removed the Colt from Randall’s lifeless fingers and opened the loading gate. He turned the cylinder, then let the failed round drop into his palm.
    The hammer strike on the primer was deep and well defined as it should be.
    Frowning, Dupoix slid the round back into the cylinder.
    He rotated the cylinder again so the hammer would fall on the faulty round.
    He stood, thumbed back the hammer, and pointed the Colt into the air.
    BANG!
    The echo of the shot hammered across the flat and sent a startled covey of bobwhites exploding into the air.
    For a moment Dupoix stood lost in thought.
    It seemed that someone was watching out for him... maybe a crazy old swamp witch named Henriette Valcour.
    Dupoix shook his head, smiled, and came back to earth.
    A defective cartridge often worked on the second strike. There was nothing witchy about it.
    It was not in the gambler’s nature to leave a dead man to the buzzards.
    He manhandled Randall’s body across the saddle of his horse and gathered the animal’s reins before he mounted.
    Under a relentless sun he kneed his gray in the direction of Last Chance.
    Dupoix smiled to himself again. “Thank you, Henriette,” he said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
    â€œDamn it, Dupoix, you should have let Randall kill the Ranger and then gunned him,” Abe Hacker said, his tight little eyes blazing. “This was ill done.”
    â€œI wanted to stop him killing the Ranger,” the gambler said.
    â€œWho’s side are you on, Dupoix?” Hacker said.
    â€œYou’re paying my wages, Abe.”
    â€œThen I want the damned Ranger dead. He could interfere with my plans.”
    â€œHow could a man who’s so shot up he can’t even get out of bed interfere with your plans?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I’m not a man who takes chances.” Hacker waved a chubby hand. “I can deal with the rubes, but a Ranger is the joker in the deck.”
    â€œWhat are your plans, Abe?”
    â€œYou’d like to know, huh?”
    â€œI’ve been sitting around for weeks doing nothing, drawing gun wages I can’t justify.”
    â€œYeah, well, just set tight for a while longer. Your time will come.”
    â€œWhat are your plans, Abe?” Dupoix said again.
    As was his habit of late, Hacker was still in bed though the afternoon light was shading in to evening. He was naked, pale, and sweating like a tallow candle in the fetid atmosphere of the hotel room.
    Nora sat in a chair, in her dressing gown, pretending not to notice her lover’s stink as she kept her eyes lowered to a dime novel.
    â€œYou read the Bible, Dupoix?” Hacker said.
    â€œAll I read are faces across the baize,” the gambler said.
    â€œWell, I’m sure your Ranger friend has a Bible. All them do-gooders have one.”
    â€œWhat do I read, chapter and verse?”
    â€œHell, I don’t know that chapter and verse stuff. Just thumb through the Book until you get to the part that talks about a plague of locusts