There was a pure bright blinding light behind Denniston’s eyes and he knew finally that he was invulnerable, invincible. He knew too that because he was all these things his mortal enemy was delivered into his hands. All he could see in the whole astonishing bright world he now lived in was Ulysses S. Grant, awaiting his punishment, his execution, as the droning sound of the ‘Rogues’ March’ filled Denniston’s mind and he lifted the gun out of its closed-top holster, savoring the moment he would pull the trigger. Somewhere in another part of the mind he heard Angel shout something, but whatever it was had no meaning, no place in this perfect world, so he ignored it, lifting the Navy Colt and cocking it deliberately, the triple click as loud as thunder. He felt as if he were on the top of some snow-covered peak high in the mountains, alone, perfected. And he felt no pain at all when Angel shot him dead.
Chapter Sixteen
Grant’s speech at the Santa Fe Convention was, they read, tremendous. ‘The President,’ Angel read aloud, ‘received a standing ovation lasting more than ten minutes, and many of those present were not ashamed to be seen wiping tears from their eyes.’
‘It actually says that?’ Wells asked.
‘Right here,’ Angel said, pointing to the paragraph in the Optic.
‘Doesn’t sound like the President Grant we all got to know and love,’ said Lieutenant Philip Evans. He was in the bed next to Wells, recuperating from a flesh wound he had received in the fighting at the pass, ten days before.
Grant had come down from the mountains like a grizzly with a sore head. Colonel Whitenfield had been ordered to put an expedition into the field immediately, to ride up into the mountains above Kiowa and wipe out whatever remained of the Denniston compound. They had found the place deserted except for buzzards picking on what was left of the men Angel had killed, and burned it to the ground.
Angel had telegraphed his advance report to Washington, advising them that Wells, although wounded, was not dead. The day before Grant left for Santa Fe, he had sent for Angel.
He had gone into the officers’ quarters in the big adobe on the north side of the sprawling fort and found Grant sitting there, whiskey at his elbow, cigar stuck into his face at the old jaunty angle.
‘Wanted to thank you,’ Grant began with grace. ‘Officially.’
Angel thanked him and Grant waved him to a chair.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said testily. ‘Don’t be so hard to get.’ He got up and walked around the desk, sitting on the edge and stabbing his cigar at Angel.
‘Want you on my personal staff,’ he said abruptly. ‘Like your style, Angel.’
‘Thank you, Mister President,’ Angel said. ‘But—’
‘But me no buts, boy,’ the President said. ‘I’ll talk to the Attorney General about it. Dammit, I’ll order him to transfer you to me. One of the nice things about being President.’ He peered at Angel. ‘Well, what do you say, man?’
‘With respect, Mister President,’ Angel said. ‘I’d prefer to stay where I am. I think it would be better.’
‘Can’t go along with that, Angel,’ Grant said, getting off the desk and going back to his chair. ‘I need men like you around me. God! I can still see that man pointing that gun at me.’
‘I don’t think he really knew what he was doing, sir,’ Angel said.
‘Maybe, maybe,’ Grant said, ‘but I stood there hypnotized. I’ll never laugh at anyone who tells me about birds and snakes again, I assure you. Now, about that job. Say you’ll take it.’
‘No, sir,’ Angel said. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Can’t?’ Grant erupted. ‘Can’t do what the President of the United States tells you to do?’
‘No, sir,’ Angel said, straight faced.
‘You better come up with a damned good reason, boy!’ warned Grant. ‘A damned good reason.’
Angel nodded. ‘I got one,’ he said. ‘You see, Mister President — I’m a Democrat.’
Grant looked at him for a long, long moment, trying hard to hold the scowl on his bearded face.
It was no use. The laughter bubbled up and spread all over it, and he threw back his head and shouted his laughter so loud that the orderly opened the door and poked in his head to make sure all was well.
‘What is it?’ said Grant, his shoulders heaving.
‘Everything in order, Mister President, sir?’ the sergeant said.
‘Yes,’ wheezed Grant. ‘Fine. Fine. Mister Angel is a Democrat, you see.’
The clerk looked at Angel, then back at Grant.
‘Oh, yes, Mister President, I see,’ he said, retreating into his own office and tapping his head significantly in response to the inquiring look of the other orderly sergeant, who nodded.
Everyone knew that Grant was mad. Drank some, too, they said.
In the hospital, Angel stood up and stretched.
‘How long before you’re fit to travel?’ he asked Wells.
‘Month, six weeks, they tell me,’ Wells grinned.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if it took longer.’
‘You want me to tell the Old Man that?’
‘Well, Frank,’ Wells beamed, unashamed, ‘it’d come so much better from you — you being a hero, and getting that special commendation from the President, like. You know, you’ve got clout now.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Angel said. ‘Sure.’
‘Never know,’ Wells said teasingly. ‘The Old Man might even let you take that lovely secretary of his out to dinner.’
‘She pretty, Gus?’ Evans asked from the other bed.
Wells pursed his lips and made one of those movements with both hands that men make to indicate loveliness.
‘Ahah,’ Evans said. ‘Now we know why Frank’s in such a hurry to get back east.’
Angel said something rude and turned to leave. As he did, he caught Wells’ eye and grinned.
‘See you at the May Ball,’ he said.
‘I’ll be there,’ Wells promised. ‘And I’ll be dancing.’
Angel nodded and went out of there. He got his horse, standing ready with his bedroll strapped behind the saddle. He swung aboard and took one last look at Fort Union. Then without regret he kicked the horse into a canter and rode out through the gates on to the trail leading up into the mountains. If anyone had seen him just then they might have been surprised, for he was smiling.
He knew just the place he could take her.
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About the Author
Frederick Nolan, a.k.a. 'Frederick H. Christian', was born in Liverpool, England and was educated there and at Aberaeron in Wales. He decided early in life to become a writer, but it was some thirty years before he got around to achieving his ambition. His first book was The Life and Death of John Henry Tunstall, and it established him as an authority on the history of the American frontier. Later he founded The English Westerners' Society. In addition to the much-loved Frank Angel westerns, Fred also wrote five entries in the popular Sudden series started by Oliver Strange. Among his numerous non-western novels is the best-selling The Oshawa Project (published as The Algonquin Project in the US) which was later filmed by MGM as Brass Target. A leading authority on the outlaws and gunfighters of the Old West, Fred has scripted and appeared in many television programs both in England and in the United States, and authored numerous articles in historical and other academic publications.
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ick H. Christian, Trap Angel (Frank Angel Western #3)
Trap Angel (Frank Angel Western #3) Page 11