Hunt Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #5)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘Goddammit all to hellangone!’ he shouted, and got up and ran.

  He ran toward the church, grabbing at his belly instinctively, knowing somehow that he was all shot to hell down there, seeing the white frame building with its red-tiled roof through a blur of misting crimson that floated up over his eyes as if he was sinking in it. He went down on his knees, and he heard someone shouting behind him.

  ‘Kill the old fucker!’ the voice yelled, and he knew who it was, and then something went off like a firecracker in his head, and he thought, that’s all, I’ll never. . . .

  Dan Sheridan was already out in the street and running toward the sound of the shots. People were poking their heads out of windows, doorways, eyes seeking movement and the source of the shooting. The twilight was coming up from the creek bed like a thief, gradually stealing the nearest ground. The alleys between the buildings were already in black shadow, and Sheridan ran harder, suddenly aware of his own vulnerability, Cade back in the jail and nobody to back him if the Flying H boys stepped out on to the street and made him fight.

  As he reached the path that led up the slight rise to the church, he checked, eyes swinging left and right. Nothing. No movement that he could see. A trap?

  ‘Marshal!’ someone called. ‘Up here!’

  The voice came from up the bluff, toward the church.

  ‘Who is that?’ He cocked the gun in his left hand.

  ‘Phil Petrie, Marshal,’ the man shouted. ‘It’s Nate. I think he’s dead.’

  Sheridan ran up the slope toward Petrie, who was kneeling over the body of Ridlow, which lay aflounder on the hard-packed earth, the side of the old man’s head was a mangled mess of broken bone and tissue.

  ‘You see what happened?’ Sheridan snapped. Petrie was one of Ridlow’s men. Petrie shook his head. ‘I was coming up the street, heard the shootin’,’ he said. ‘I saw the boss roll down, as if he was hit. Then he got up and run up the hill. Someone shouted to get him and then he went down like a log.’

  ‘Where did the shooting come from?’

  ‘Over by the livery, ‘s far as I could tell,’ Petrie said, jerking his head at the bulking loom of the stable across the other side of Front Street.

  Sheridan looked up quickly as he heard someone coming up the pathway fast: he had the gun ready, still cocked. He let down the hammer when he saw who it was.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Angel asked.

  For answer, Sheridan scrapped a match on his boot heel. By the flickering flame Angel could see the black blood that stained the entire middle of the old man’s back and the awful gaping mess that had been the side of his head.

  ‘In the back,’ Sheridan said, straightening up. ‘But why?’

  ‘He was shooting his mouth off in the saloon, Marshal,’ Petrie said. ‘Tellin’ everyone what gutless wonders they was. Said he aimed to get word to Fort Worth as to why we was hung up here.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sheridan, as though that explained it all.

  He turned and looked down the slope toward the livery stable. Dark and squat, it was silent, menacing. He measured it all out with his eyes, the old man down there in the street, the men at the side of the stable, the shots, the staggering run toward the church. . . . Old Ridlow had been given about as much chance as a steer in a slaughterhouse.

  ‘Anybody come out of there, Petrie?’ Sheridan said. Petrie looked up, startled by the wicked rasp in Sheridan’s voice.

  ‘Out the stable?’

  ‘Out of the stable.’

  ‘No, sir, nobody,’ Petrie said.

  ‘You think they might still be in there?’ Angel asked.

  Sheridan looked at him as though Angel had just sprung from the ground, a touch of annoyance in his eyes. He put the barrel of the six-gun against Angel’s upper arm and then put pressure on it, moving Angel to one side as if he were some weird new form of obstruction.

  ‘I want to help,’ Angel said, quietly.

  ‘Sure,’ Sheridan replied. ‘Then get your friend Ridlow out of here.’

  ‘No,’ Angel said.

  Sheridan looked at him again, differently this time. His eyes were empty, and Angel knew how he felt: it was the look of the man who knows he is going to get killed but can do no other thing.

  ‘You join in now, you can’t stop there,’ Sheridan said. ‘They’ll mark you down.’

  ‘I know that,’ Angel said. ‘That’s why they killed the old man, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Right,’ Sheridan said. ‘A warning. In case anyone in town was thinking of helping me.’

  He looked down at the body of Nathan Ridlow and then he started down the slope, not looking to see if Angel was following. Sheridan had one six-gun in his hand and another stuck in his waistband. He crossed the street in shadow and eased along the side of a house next to the livery stable until the stable was there in front of him, maybe fifteen feet away. There was a window high on the alley side of the stable, no doors. They were in front and back, the rear ones opening into a fenced corral in which half a dozen horses stood.

  ‘Front or back?’ Angel said. Sheridan turned to look at him, not letting the surprise show too much, but glad someone was with him.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘They’re hoping you’ll do this, you know,’ Angel said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then take the front. Go in fast and hit the floor as soon as you do. They may not be expecting anyone to come in from the back.’

  ‘All right,’ Sheridan said. ‘What for a signal?’

  Angel did an owl hoot. It was pretty good, and Sheridan managed a tight smile.

  ‘OK,’ he said, and went across the open space to the wall of the stable fast and low. Nothing happened. He eased around the front corner of the building, seeing Angel move quartering toward the corral like a shadow, and the thought crossed his mind that maybe Angel wasn’t just a passing drifter, but then it was gone as he put all his thoughts aside and emptied everything out of himself except the cold readiness to move when he heard Angel’s signal.

  Whoo-hoo.

  Sheridan ran across the face of the livery stable and out into Front Street, turning in a tight arc to smash the full weight of his right shoulder and body against the double doors, wincing as the impact jarred his broken hand, diving flat on the pocked dusty floor of the stable, eyes wide to get the darkness out of them, six-gun up and cocked in his left hand.

  Nothing.

  He eased forward slightly, and as he did, a shot from somewhere high up whanged out, smacking dust up into his face, forcing him to roll fast to one side as a second, a third, a fourth shot smashed downward, the slugs seeking his body as he banged against one of the wooden stall partitions, bringing down a harness with a jangling thud.

  He was getting carefully to his feet when Angel came in through the rear door, moving very fast and already having set up his aim for the man up in the rafters of the stable, using the flashes of the man’s gun to fix the spot. Angel moved across the door aperture from left to right, his body going backward onto his shoulders, the six-gun in his right hand spitting fire as he fanned the hammer in a continuous roar, offering the man above no target, no chance. The five slugs were fired in a tight four-inch arc, and the man in the rafters went up like a diver on a high board as the first caught him in the belly, the second just above the breastbone, and the third underneath his jaw at the point where it hinges, below the ear. He came down with a solid thud that sent flickering specks of chaff spiraling in the still warm air, but Frank Angel wasn’t even looking at the man. He knew he was dead. He was jamming fresh shells into his six-gun and running toward Sheridan. Sheridan paused, puzzled, then Angel shouted, ‘Behind you!’ and he whirled to see the dark running form going out through the doorway, and without thinking, without aiming, Sheridan let the hammer of the Colt go, and he saw the man flinch, knew he’d hit him.

  The two of them stood there in the acrid, cordite stinking darkness.

  ‘All right,’ Angel said. He said it as though it w
as a decision, the end of something or the beginning. He went over to the man lying in the middle of the stable and turned him over with the toe of his boot. Sheridan came across as he struck a match and looked down at the mess of the man’s face.

  ‘Dick Ryan,’ Sheridan said.

  ‘Hugess rider?’

  ‘What else?’ Sheridan said. ‘I think I clipped the second one.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Angel said. ‘Where would he hunt cover?’

  Sheridan shrugged. ‘I’d say the Palace. They got rooms over: for the riders, that is.’

  ‘Would they take him there?’

  ‘It’s not likely.’

  ‘Let’s try the Palace,’ Angel said. ‘You can check out the jail on the way.’

  Sheridan looked at him as they came out into the street. ‘Listen,’ he began.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Angel said. ‘I promised myself I wasn’t going to get involved. Wouldn’t have done either. Except for the old man. I liked him.’

  ‘Either way, I’m thanking you,’ Sheridan said.

  ‘Thank me when it’s over,’ Angel said. ‘Which sure as hell isn’t yet.’

  He started down Front Street and Sheridan lengthened his stride to match Angel’s pace. There were people on the front porch of the Oriental. They looked at the two men as though they were dinosaurs.

  ‘Look at them,’ Sheridan said. ‘Sheep!’

  ‘Don’t be too rough on them,’ Angel said. ‘It’s not what they’re good at.’

  ‘You,’ Sheridan said. ‘Where’d you learn—?’ He stopped, aware that he wasn’t observing good manners.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Angel grinned. ‘I’m not on the dodge.’

  They were outside the jail now. Howie Cade was at the doorway, and he had Sheridan’s sawn-off Greener comfortably cradled across his arm.

  ‘Havin’ fun?’ he said sardonically as they got nearer. ‘Enjoyin’ yourselves?’

  ‘Ginger peachy,’ Angel grinned. ‘Back off and let us in a moment.’

  ‘Sure,’ Cade said, not really looking at him his eyes on Dan Sheridan. ‘You OK, Dan?’

  ‘Fine,’ Sheridan said. ‘Angel here pitched in, gave me a hand.’

  ‘That your name?’ Howie Cade said, incredulity in his voice. ‘Angel?’

  ‘Would I lie about a thing like that?’ Frank Angel asked him, keeping his face quite serious.

  ‘Well, shut my mouth,’ Howie Cade said. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Let me go with you,’ Howie Cade said.

  Dan Sheridan just looked at him. Then he looked at Frank Angel. He didn’t say anything. They stood there in the middle of the jailhouse, Howie with the shotgun still cradled across his arm, a look of anguished entreaty in his eyes. Angel knew how he must feel: his need to redeem himself not only in Sheridan’s eyes but also in the eyes of the whole town burned in Howie’s expression. He leaned forward with the very eagerness of wanting it.

  Sheridan shook his head. ‘You better stay here and watch Burt,’ he said.

  ‘Dan!’ Howie Cade said. There was deep hurt in his voice. ‘Dan!’

  ‘Listen, Howie,’ Sheridan said, exasperation tingeing his tone. ‘I don’t know how the hell many Flying H boys there are over the road, but there’s sure as tomorrow half a dozen of them. I don’t want—’

  ‘To have a drunk on your hands,’ Howie said. Sheridan started to speak, but he held up a hand. ‘It’s all right, Dan,’ he said. ‘I guess you’re right. I just thought after what happened down Fat Mary’s, you’d maybe trust me to back you. No offense, Angel.’

  ‘Sure,’ Angel said.

  ‘Give me that shotgun,’ Sheridan said. ‘I’m no damned use with a handgun at all.’

  ‘Dan, let me go with you,’ Howie said again, not looking at Sheridan.

  Sheridan started to refuse, but Angel spoke before he could. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘I can take care of Hugess for you.’

  He was facing Sheridan, his back to Howie Cade, who could not see the facial signals he was giving the marshal. Sheridan caught the message, and his eyebrows rose. Then he nodded, seeing what Angel had already seen, that Howie needed to go out there with him. He knew, and Angel knew he knew, that Howie might not be as effective at his side as Angel in the same place. But he had to have his crack at it.

  ‘I better deputize you,’ Sheridan said to Angel.

  ‘No need,’ Frank Angel said. He reached into the slit pocket inside his belt and drew out of it the silver badge with the screaming eagle. It caught the yellow light of the oil lamp hung from the ceiling, and Sheridan stared at it as if it were a snake.

  ‘Department of Justice?’ he said. ‘What the hell’s that?’

  ‘Accident,’ Angel told him. ‘I was just passing through. But it eases your problem some.’

  Howie Cade’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Oh, brother,’ he said. ‘Does it ever!’ He slapped Sheridan on the back, his grin as wide as a slice of watermelon. ‘Here’s Larry Hugess lockin’ the town up tight to stop us gettin’ word out to the US Marshal, and we got the Department of Justice right in here with us!’

  Sheridan’s eyes lit up some, too. He looked pleased about something, like a man anticipating a good meal. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Well, well, well.’

  ‘You think we can swing it?’ Angel said.

  ‘By God, Angel,’ Sheridan said, his grin coming up full and warm, ‘you just watch us do it!’

  ‘All the luck you need,’ Angel said as they started to move out.

  ‘There ain’t that much,’ Howie said, but he was still grinning, and Angel watched the two men as they walked across the street, dark against the brightly lit windows of the Palace Saloon. He could hear the tinny sound of someone playing a poorly tuned piano inside. He watched Howie brace himself outside the batwings as Sheridan slid down the side of the saloon toward the back door.

  ‘What the hell’s goin’ on out there?’ shouted Burt Hugess from the cell in back. Angel kicked the door of the jail building shut and went around Sheridan’s desk, taking a seat in the swivel chair.

  ‘Nothing but bad news, Burt,’ he replied finally. ‘And all for you.’

  The Palace wasn’t anything like as palatial as the name implied. Johnny Gardner had fancied it up as best a man could in a building that was essentially a long, narrow box. The bar ran down the left-hand side and curved in toward the left-hand wall about three quarters of the way down the building. In the wide space at the end was a raised dais on which Harry Andrews, ‘The Professor’, tinkled endlessly with the jangly old piano. Tables and chairs were grouped in half-circled profusion between the dais and bar, and on the right-hand side of the building a wooden stairway led to a first floor balcony that ran around the place like minstrel gallery. There were rooms on both sides: some for the girls who worked in the saloon, others kept free for any of the Flying H boys who might be in town. The mahogany of the bar was highly shined, and ornately carved fretwork frames held mirrors behind shelves behind bottles that caught amber light from the flaring coal-oil lamps that hung in a row down the center of the building. The floor was pine planking, scuffed and cut by a thousand sets of spurs; brass rail at the foot of the bar, brass cuspidors every yard. There was a chuckaluck layout and another for monte, at which Danny Johnston and a couple of the Flying H boys were sitting when Howie Cade came in through the batwings blinking in the bright light.

  Gardner saw him first and his eyes went wide; he froze, holding the glass he had been polishing to a shine as if he was expecting someone to shoot it out of his hands. He looked at Howie Cade, and Howie Cade looked right back at him, and then through him, quickly counting up the Flying H men in the place.

  Johnston and three others at the monte table; Johnny Evans and Ken Finstatt at the bar. He couldn’t see too clearly through the rolling smoke toward the back of the saloon, and there wasn’t any more time because Johnny Evans had spotted the saloonkeeper’s rigid stance and followed his eyes. Now he nudged F
instatt and pointed at Howie with his chin, grinning. Danny Johnston looked up from his cards, saw Howie, and smiled. His companions at the table stopped talking. They all smiled.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ Johnny Evans said softly. ‘Look who’s here.’

  The Professor’s background music petered slowly out. He looked edgily at Johnny Gardner behind the bar, but Gardner wasn’t moving. His eyes, like all eyes in the place, were on Howie Cade.

  Howie was standing to one side of the batwings, his back against the wall. His gun was in its holster and he didn’t look too well. He let his eyes move across the faces of all the men in the room, ignoring the contemptuous grins. He was looking for someone who might be wounded. None of them seemed to be. Then Sheridan slid in through the back door, almost but not entirely silently.

  There was a collective sound in the room almost like the slow exhalation of a giant breath. Sheridan just stood there with the Greener across his forearm, waiting for Howie to open the ball. Howie opened it.

  ‘Johnny,’ he said. ‘Very, very gently, reach under the bar and bring out that old riot gun you got hidden down there.’

  Johnny Gardner didn’t move, unless you could count the movement of his jaw dropping open as real activity.

  ‘Do it now, Johnny,’ Howie said. His voice was still gentle, almost dreamy, but his hand had moved a couple of inches nearer to the holstered six-gun at his right-hand side, and Johnny Gardner swallowed noisily. He ducked behind the bar and came up with his old sawn-off.

  ‘On the bar, Johnny,’ Howie said. ‘But away from where the boys can get at it. Up here.’ He gestured with his chin at the bar end nearest to himself.

  ‘Yeah,’ Johnny Evans said, his voice heavy, loud in the silence. ‘And give the bum a drink while you’re at it!’

  Howie looked at Johnny Evans thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Come here, Johnny,’ he said, conversationally.

  ‘Uh?’ Evans was surprised.