At the southern edge of town was a wooden bridge crossing the stone-strewn sandy bed of the Rio Arriba, its level almost nil at this time of year. One or two scattered stone or adobe houses, a frame shack on this side, a flat-roofed hovel on the other fringed the wide, empty street before you encountered the first building of any appreciable size on the right: the livery stable. Up the street perhaps twenty yards stood the Silver King, with the jail’s L-shaped hulk directly opposite it. Next to the saloon was the long, porch-shaded barrack like store which catered to such needs as the inhabitants had or could afford. Opposite it was the eats house, run by an elderly Chinese whose name no one had ever found out. A few more houses skirted the street, with others further back on the higher ground above the town and alongside the Rio Arriba. The cribs occupied by the girls who worked in the Silver King were in broken, litter-strewn ground in back of the livery stable and to the south of the saloon. Fischer’s Crossing was just about all it had to be and not a plank more.
Inside the saloon, the tables had been cleared back against the walls, with rows of chairs facing towards the rear of the saloon. Benches were set up on the southern wall opposite the bar. All were crammed with men, and even one or two women, whose subdued speculation raised an audible buzz as the two prisoners were marched down the aisle between the rows of chairs in the of the room towards the cleared space in back, where a square table and a bentwood chair had been placed. On the left of the table, four chairs, two by two. The prisoners were led to these and told to sit down, while the deputies sat in the chairs behind them, the riot guns laid conspicuously across their knees. Rawley took a chair in the empty row in front, his face as expressionless as the furniture.
Angel could feel the stares of the onlookers on the back of his neck, but he kept his own face empty, impassive. There were people behind him who had seen Rawley try to murder the boy in the saloon in which they were now sitting. There was no point in expecting any help from them. Or anyone else, come to that, he reflected. His reverie was interrupted by Rawley, who stood up and rapped on the table with the barrel of his six-gun. “All rise!” the lawman said loudly, and the people in the audience shuffled to their feet, open grins on some of their faces. Heads turned to see the man who had come in through the batwings and was. now making his way towards the table. He was a wobbling, lard-faced old man of about seventy, his grubby shirt collarless, his face stubbled and unshaven. His eyes were narrowed, the weak mouth querulous, his expression the rheumy vacancy of the compulsive drinker. His old black claw hammer coat looked as if it had been slept in. In a cowshed.
A rumpot, Angel thought as the old man fumbled his way into ,the chair and lifted his watery eyes to look around. The kind that will fish in a spittoon for a dollar to buy his morning set-up and then hang about a saloon all day on the off chance of a free drink or doing a simple chore in exchange for one. The shifty eyes met Angel’s, flickered away quickly, fixed themselves as malevolently upon Dick Webb and flickered away as quickly when the youngster looked up.
“This court is now in session!” Rawley said loudly and sat down.
The old man nodded, but before he could say anything, every head in the place turned and there was a hum of anticipation in the crowded room that Angel knew could only mean one thing: the Fischer boys had arrived. Now ,he saw them coming down the gangway, heard one or two men call a quietly respectful greeting. If either of the two men coming towards the table heard any of these greetings, they made no acknowledgement, vocal or physical. Not so much as a curt nod.
“The shorter of the two is Mike,” Dick Webb muttered out of the side of his mouth. “Ed’s the one with the high style.” Angel hardly needed to be told. Mike Fischer was squat, barrel-shaped, an ugly, powerful man, his face a broken, scarred, blurrier version of his brother’s. He looked like what he was: a man who could enforce and would enjoy enforcing his brother’s decisions. But it was Big Ed himself who caught the attention and held it.
He was a big man and a handsome one, and he knew it and was proud of it. Well over six feet tall, broad as a young bull across the shoulders, Ed Fischer was in the prime of his life and looked as if he was enjoying every moment of it. His lips were thick and sensual, his eyes deep and dark and liquid, a hint of cruelty in the lines at their outer edges. On him sat that indefinable air of confidence which comes from many years of being obeyed without question, from a knowledge of superior and unchallenged intellect, from a decade or more of fine food and fine clothes and fine whiskey which, even if they had thickened him slightly around the middle, combined to exude from the man as power, strength, confidence. Unlike his brothers, and in spite of the heavy hard heat of the sun, he affected a dark broadcloth suit which fitted him the way that only a handmade suit will hang on a man, and which, despite its film of trail dust, was obviously expensive, Eastern-cut. A heavy tooled-leather gun belt sagged around his waist. His Frontier Model Colt was nickel-plated and had ivory butt-plates.
Without looking to the right or the left, Big Ed stalked up the gangway and sat down heavily in the chair next to Trev Rawley, nodding briefly to the old man at the table, giving his permission to begin. Mike Fischer sat meekly beside him, head hunched into his shoulders, eyes glaring from beneath the beetling brows. Angel saw Joe Fischer now for the first time; the youngest of the brothers took his place next to Mike, smiling and nodding at people who had said hello to him as he went past.
Dick Webb nudged Angel, pointing with his chin at a pale-skinned man with yellow-white hair that curled down over the collar of his dark blue shirt. The man was moving unobtrusively across the room towards the deserted bar; he looked about fifty at first glance, but then Angel saw that he was much younger—no more than thirty. The impression of age was created by the withered, whitened skin of the albino, that curious genetic mistake which produced an almost transparent texture in skin, hair, and eyes. The man was thin, frail-looking, perhaps five feet seven in height. He moved soft and catlike on small feet.
“Francey King,” Webb whispered. “Fischer’s foreman.”
Angel nodded, noting the tied-down holsters, twin eagle-bill Colt’s .38 double action revolvers, the wide leather gun belt with its silver conchos, subtle Navajo patterns beaten into them matching the tooling ,of the leather.. He had no time himself for fancy gun rigs or for double-action pistols either, but that was not to say that he would ever underestimate a man who used them. The tied-down fancy holsters, the gleaming nickel plated guns, were a sign plain for anyone who cared to read it: saying, “killer” Foreman King might be. Hired gunman he most decidedly was. Any man who wore King’s kind of outfit—the dark clothes, the dramatically flat-crowned Stetson —did so from a need to be noticed, to set himself apart, to be challenged. This pink-eyed one looked to be about as poisonous as the breed came.
“Court’ll come to order!” the fat old man at the table wheezed. The buzz of conversation which had resumed after the Fischers took their seats fell to a murmur, and Rawley got to his feet. He took his place in the cleared space in front of the table.
“Court’s in session, Judge George Regenvogel presiding!” he announced.
“Judge,” Angel heard Webb mutter contemptuously.
“Bring the first prisoner before the bench,” the judge said.
There was a stir of anticipation as Angel was prodded to his feet by the shotgun barrel and shepherded forward in front of the makeshift bench. The old man bent his rheumy gaze on the tall man in front of him.
“Your full name?”
“Frank Angel.”
“Where you from, Angel?”
“You mean originally, or lately?”
“Don’t get smart, Angel,” Rawley growled, stepping forward. “Just answer.”
“Washington,” Angel said. “Lately I’ve been working down Kiowa way.”
“Doing what?”
“Anything that came along.”
“I will not tolerate impertinence, my friend,” warned Regenvogel. “Do you hear?”
“I hear,” Angel said. “And I’m not your friend.”
The deputy behind him again poked the shotgun barrel into his back, making him lurch forward, slightly off balance. For a moment, Angel’s temper flared and he half-turned, only to see Rawley watching him expectantly, a thin waiting smile on his mouth. Angel took a deep breath and turned to face the judge again.
“I was guarding a special shipment going from Animas to Fort Union,” he said. It was near enough to the truth. The fact that the “shipment” had been the President of the United States, Ulysses S. Grant, was another matter.
“What brings you to these parts, Angel ?” asked Regenvogel.
“Just passing through,” Angel told him. “On my way home.”
The old man looked at Trev Rawley and licked his stubble-shaded lips.
“What charges you bringing here, Trev?” he asked.
Rawley grinned like a mongoose and held up a hand with the fingers spread. He began ticking off as he spoke.
“Assault with a deadly weapon, one; felonious assault on duly appointed officer of law, two; resisting arrest, three; interfering with officer inna course of duty, four; inciting civil disturbance, five—hell, any of those would do, judge. But we’ll go with attempted murder!”
A malicious little smile played around the corners of the old man’s prune-lipped mouth as Rawley spoke. He looked at Angel from beneath his brows and then his tricky gaze slid over towards Ed Fischer. Fischer’s nod was almost imperceptible; but only almost. Angel saw it and his lip curled.
“Any witnesses?” Regenvogel asked the marshal.
“Plenty,” Rawley said. “You want me to call them?”
“Let’s see about that,” the judge said. “Prisoner, how do you plead: guilty or not guilty?”
“You mean it makes a difference?” Angel asked in mock surprise. There were one or two involuntary snickers from the well of the court, quickly stifled. Dick Webb laughed out loud, his laughter ceasing in a gasp of pain as one of the deputies jammed the barrel of his shotgun into the kid’s ribs.
“Allus liked a fellow with plenty of spunk,” said Regenvogel, no sign of liking or admiration visible on his sunken face. “I’ll bear it in mind when I pronounce sentence.”
“You’re ready to pronounce sentence already,” Angel observed. “Without even letting me speak in my own defense?”
Regenvogel cocked his head like an intelligent lizard.
“Think it’ll make a difference?” he mimicked. This time the courtroom exploded with laughter, and the old man’s shoulders shook as he looked towards the seated Fischers for approval. His laughter sounded like a rattlesnake in a box full of old newspapers.
“Probably no damned difference at all!” snapped Angel, stilling the laughter with an angry voice that cut through it, sharp and commanding. “But I expect to be heard!”
“Go ahead,” Regenvogel shrugged. He leaned back and closed his eyes, an expression of complete disinterest on his face. There were sniggers at this patent indication of boredom with anything the accused might have to say.
“Take it easy, Angel,” Rawley advised softly.
“Easy, hell!” Angel retorted. “What the hell kind of kangaroo court is this, anyway?”
Regenvogel’s eyes snapped open, a mottled flush rising to stain his face. He leaned forward and banged on the table with the flat of his hand.
“Sir!” he screeched, “You are in contempt of this court!”
“Sir!” Angel told him flatly. “You’re damned right I am!”
“Marshal, sit this man down!” Regenvogel shouted, banging the table again and again, his voice mounting to be heard over the awed mutter of conversation which had started. “Sit him down! We shall deal with him presently!”
Angel shrugged, not resisting as the deputies jostled him back to his seat. He ignored the glaring eyes of the Fischers: the hell with them. What had just happened was such a breathtaking travesty of judicial procedure that railing against it was as futile as cursing a thunderstorm. It might make you feel better, but it sure as hell wouldn’t make you any drier. With protest doomed to failure, and more overt action likely to get not only himself but young Webb killed where they stood, there was nothing to do but sit down and try to control the churning anger inside him.
Now he realized that the deputies had hustled Dick Webb up in front of the old man at the table and he looked up as Regenvogel asked a question.
“You know my name, you old fraud,” Dick Webb said stoutly. “And you know where I live and what I do for a living. And why I’m here, I don’t doubt. Although I reckon you won’t want the real truth none.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” leered the judge. “Rawley, why is he here?”
“Attempted murder like the other one, judge,” Rawley said. “Fact is, I reckon young Webb here hired this other one, Angel, to come into town an’ try to whipsaw young Joe Fischer for reasons of his own we ain’t dug up yet. Lucky for Joe I was around to put the blocks on that.”
This distortion brought a shout of anger from Dick Webb, and he turned towards Rawley with his hands clenching into fists, only to stop in mid-turn as the deputy behind him reminded the youngster once again that there were two short barrels of buckshot within an inch of his spine. Webb let it all drain out of him fast, his shoulders coming down from their angry hunch.
“There you go, judge,” Rawley said, gesturing towards Dick Webb. “Real little catty-mount, ain’t he? No question he was out to kill Joe Fischer. A dozen men saw him, heard him say he was about to do it.”
“I see,” Regenvogel said. He pursed his lips and steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair and weighing the matter in such a ham-actor way that it would have been funny in any situation other than this grim one. Angel got to his feet, ignoring the deputy behind him.
“Why doesn’t one of you ask the kid why he came looking for Fischer?” he shouted. “Let him tell his side of it!”
“I’ve heard the kid’s side of it, judge,” Rawley said evenly, not taking his eyes off Angel. “Some cock-and-bull tale about Joe attacking his sister, killing some Mexican kid down at the Flying W. Plain nonsense. I checked with Joe: he tells me he ain’t been out of town in three days. Sent a man down to the Webb place. Nobody there. No dead Mexican boys, no beaten-up sisters, nobody at all.”
“I see,” the judge said again. He looked levelly at Dick Webb, whose eyes were on Rawley, looking at the man with a disgust that was almost admiration.
“Well, boy,” Regenvogel said, harshly. “How do you plead?”
“If you’re asking me did I come after Joe Fischer intendin’ to kill him like the sniveling skunk that he is, the answer is yes, I did! And I plead guilty as hell to the charge!” snapped Dick Webb. There was a ,hiss of indrawn breath from the watching spectators as he rapped out the words, which was stilled to a stunned silence as he added, “And if I had a gun in my hand I’d shoot the son of a bitch right now!”
Trying unsuccessfully to keep the triumph off his face, Regenvogel turned towards Ed Fischer, who smiled faintly, and gave another of his almost imperceptible nods. His rheumy eyes swiveled around ,to fix upon the boy in front of him and he smacked the table with the flat of his hand.
“You stand convicted by your own statement!” he said. “Duty of this court is to insure you have no chance to effect the threat you have uttered openly and in such contempt of the law before this bench.” Regenvogel peered towards the spectators in the well of the courtroom.
“In the normal course of events, we would empanel a jury and hear all the evidence in a case of attempted murder. But the prisoner has just made a public confession, admitted not only his guilt, but indicated quite clearly that given the opportunity he will attempt to take the life of Joseph Fischer again. Clearly he must not be given that chance. Is there anyone in the court who wishes to dispute my judgment?”
There wasn’t a movement among the spectators. Trev Rawley stood off to one side, his thumbs hooked negligen
tly in his belt, eyes checking every face in the room. By the bar, Francey King was looking about the room eagerly, as though hoping someone might speak up. But no one did. No one was going to buck the assembled might of the Fischers. Regenvogel let the silence build for a few more moments, glaring at the spectators from beneath his tatty eyebrows. Then he made a curt gesture towards Rawley.
“Bring the other one up here as well,” ,he said.
Angel let his gaze move from face to face. He saw no sign of sympathy, no indication that anyone gave a damn about what was happening.
“Well,” Regenvogel said. “Anything to say, either of you ?”
“Nothing you’d understand,” Angel told him.
“Make the most of your chances for cheap humor, my friend,” Regenvogel said silkily. “You’ll not have many more chances to insult this court.”
“Court?” Dick Webb scoffed. “Court? I’d rather be tried by drunken Apaches!”
Rawley laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his fingers near the base of Dick Webb’s neck. He appeared to use no strength, but Angel saw the boy’s jaw muscles tense and face whiten as the lawman’s steely fingers bit into the nerves, saw the youngster’s mouth distort with pain. He started to move involuntarily, but once again the poking shotgun-barrels dissuaded him.
“Just ... be quiet,” Rawley said softly to the boy. “Sabe?”
“Rawley,” Angel said. His voice was low, as soft as the lawman’s. But something in the tone made the man look up as if he had been stung, his eyes narrowed and wary.
“Leave the boy alone,” Angel said. It was doubtful if anyone other than Rawley knew he had spoken. But the marshal’s face paled, and he lifted his hand away from Dick Webb’s shoulder involuntarily. The moment he did it, his brain told him that there was nothing Angel could possibly do, and he looked at his hand angrily, as though it had deliberately disobeyed him.
Hang Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #4) Page 4