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Send Angel
The town was locked up tight. Hired killers made it unhealthy to ask questions and most people rode clear of Daranga. But three Justice Department men had died violently in the Rio Blanco country and the attorney general wanted the men responsible.
He had a sure-fire way of cleaning out cesspools like Daranga – send Frank Angel. Here was a gun artist who was swift, deadly and merciless. If anyone could bring law and order to the town, it was Angel.
SEND ANGEL!
By Frederick H. Christian
Copyright © 1972, 2006 by Frederick Nolan
Cover image © 2012 by Westworld Designs
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: December 2012
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
When they come at you out of the darkness, there is perhaps one second to make the choice: kill them or run. Maclntyre was a good man, trained to think fast, but he wasn’t expecting trouble and so he made the wrong decision. The two men were professionals and good at their job and they had the advantage of surprise. They left him huddled dead in an alleyway on the north side of town and moved away silently into the night without arousing a flicker of interest from the passers-by on the brightly lit street a few yards away.
Two days later Mike Stevens was efficiently knifed outside a cantina in San Patricio. Two miners going in for a drink saw the scuffle and ran into the street as they saw Stevens fall. His throat was slit and the blood was still pumping in a red arc from his jugular vein long after the sound of hoof beats faded into the night. Somebody said later that there had been two men, one of them tall and dark haired.
Inside the same week someone discovered what was left of Oliver Freeman. He was staked out in a patch of prickly pear, his eyelids cut off the way the desert Apaches used to do it, and smeared with molasses to attract the ravenous red ants. He had been out there a while, and they had to bury him on the spot because nobody would bring his body into town.
Chapter Two
The Attorney General’s office was a high-ceilinged, spacious room on the first floor of the huge building which housed the Department of Justice. Outside it stood two armed Marines flanking the big, brass-studded, leather-covered doors. One of them opened the doors now for the Attorney General’s private personal secretary, Miss Rowe. A tall girl, with honey-colored hair falling loosely about an oval face, her blue eyes were impish as she said to the visitor:
‘He’s expecting you.’
‘Ma’am,’ said the man.
Amabel Rowe regarded him speculatively. Tall, rangy, his broad shoulders straining the seams of the dark grey suit, Frank Angel had the look of far horizons in his eyes. Amabel Rowe knew that he was a Special Investigator for the Department; this was by no means his first visit to this office. From time to time she had seen letters and reports from him mailed in godforsaken spots out West: Texas, Indian Territory, once even Oregon. She had also seen his terse reports at the end of his assignments and knew that the man smiling as he went past her into the big sunlit office was a killer.
The Attorney General rose and came around the desk to meet his visitor, his hand outstretched.
‘Frank, I’m glad to see you!’ he exclaimed. ‘How’s that arm?’
‘Good as new now,’ Angel said. ‘Little stiffness for a while, but it wore off. I got plenty of exercise down at the range.’
The Attorney General nodded. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, motioning to a chair, and proffered a box which contained some very long dark cigars. Angel grinned and shook his head.
‘I’ll stick to tobacco if you don’t mind, sir,’ he said. ‘The last time I smoked one of those things it took three days for my voice to get back to normal.’
The Attorney General sniffed, and selected one of the evil-looking cigars from the box, lighting it and puffing on it, inhaling the noxious smoke with every evidence of huge enjoyment. He let the smoke drift from his nostrils in a long, slow, luxurious exhalation.
‘Aaaah,’ said the Attorney General. ‘Wife won’t let me smoke these in the house - damned interferin’ woman. Still, that’s neither here nor there. Now, Frank
Angel leaned forward infinitesimally in his chair.
‘You’ve been briefed?’
‘Prosser down in Records was very thorough,’ Angel told him. ‘Showed me the reports on Maclntyre and Freeman. Wasn’t much on Stevens.’
‘And your conclusions?’
‘Hard to say,’ Angel replied. ‘Freeman, now. That could’ve been some drunken buck off the Reservation. It isn’t likely, but it’s possible. Whoever did kill Freeman had the soul of a Chiricahua, if not the blood.’
The Attorney General nodded. ‘And so?’
‘So - no coincidence.’
Again the man behind the desk nodded. Angel waited until the cigar was relit and then the Attorney General leaned forward, hands clasped.
‘I sent them all out there, Frank. All looking for different bits of the same puzzle.’
‘You think they were on to anything?’
‘No, I think they were killed to make sure they didn’t get on to anything.’
Angel leaned back in the armchair. ‘Better fill me in,’ he said.
‘OK,’ the Attorney General said. ‘We had a few scattered reports of thieving at first. Nothing much -just a line in the US marshal’s reports that ranchers in the Daranga area were complaining about rustling. Then another report, this time from the Indian agent at San Simon. He told us he was being offered cattle well below market price, as many as he wanted. He had to buy them; on the allocations he gets for his Apaches, every dollar counts. But he mentioned it, and I added that information to the fact that two men named Birch and Reynolds were buying every piece of land in the Rio Blanco country that they could lay hands on, and every piece of property they could get into. They purchased the franchise for the post tradership at Fort Daranga, and we got one or two complaints that they were charging monopoly prices for goods. When people tried to go someplace else, they found the market controlled for a hundred miles around by these same two men. They pretty well bought up Daranga - the hotel, the general store, built a fancy saloon, started living it up like feudal barons. None of which was in itself illegal, but it made me curious. I sent Maclntyre to Baranquilla to check on the land office records there. Stevens was checking up on some men we’d heard were supplying stolen beef to Birch and Reynolds. Freeman was scouting the country, asking questions.’
‘And they all turned up dead,’ Angel mused. ‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting is hardly the word,’ was the harsh reply. ‘Frank, I’m worried. I have the uneasy feeling that something big is brewing down there, and whoever is behind it has access to knowledge about this Department. I can’t put a finger on it, but I smell something and I want to know what it is.’
‘Three of our men dead is enough,’ Angel said gently.
‘Damned right it is!’ snapped the Attorney General, slapping his desk with the flat of his hand. �
��I want you to get out there and snoop around. Find out what’s going on. It stinks of politics, and I want to know who and I want to know why, Frank.’
‘All right,’ Angel said. ‘I’ll get started tomorrow.’
‘Draw two hundred dollars as expenses,’ the Attorney General said. ‘You can account for it when you get back.’
‘If I don’t come back do I get to keep the money?’ grinned Angel. His remark brought a grim smile to the face of the man opposite him.
‘That’s not such a hell of a joke, boy,’ he said. ‘There’s someone out in that country who’s quite willing to kill without warning or mercy to protect whatever scheme he’s concocted.
‘Tread softy, play it carefully.’
Angel nodded, his face sober.
‘How will you travel?’
‘I’d say Missouri Pacific to Trinidad,’ Angel said. ‘I can head down the Rio Grande to Las Cruces and across into Arizona from there. Be in Daranga about a week from now.’
‘Good,’ the Attorney General said, rising abruptly. ‘Take good care of yourself.’ His face was set and unsmiling.
‘Always do,’ Angel replied. He didn’t smile either.
Chapter Three
‘Well, hoss, Satan sure made a fine job of it,’ Angel observed to the indifferent animal as he hauled on the reins. The dun tossed its head impatiently, wanting to get on down off the crest of the ridge where the midday heat blasted down like a tangible force.
‘Know we’re near water, that it?’ Angel grinned. ‘Probably you can smell those Army hosses, too. Well, you can hold on five minutes longer.’
He hooked a leg around the pommel of the saddle and surveyed the country rolling out below the ridge, checking its physical proportions against the knowledge acquired by long study of every map the Topographical Department had been able to show him.
Below and stretching away as far as the eye could see lay a sun blasted wilderness in which nothing moved but the shimmering heat haze, a wilderness of rock and sand and slow-rising sandstone mountains and dry flats of searing white alkali. Across it ran a thin trail that looked like a whitened vein; away to the southeast lay Daranga City. Swinging his body to the right, Angel let his eyes follow the trail to where it forked. There lay the Army post, Fort Daranga, from which the town some forty miles away had taken its name. It looked like all Army posts: galleried officers’ quarters, the long low line of bunkhouses, stables, quartermasters, saddlers and other buildings all set four-square around a graveled parade ground that blazed chalk white in the sun, a flagpole smack in its center. Angel figured that the Army had a model somewhere that they copied, regardless of the location. Thus they were able to make certain that the officers and men froze in the winter and fried in the summer no matter whether the fort itself was in the high Rockies or out in Apache desert. He shrugged; only fools and failures needed uniforms, anyway.
He spurred the horse into motion, and the dun snorted gratefully, picking its way carefully down the faint trace. Angel had cut across the corner of Dobbs Butte, coming into the country the way a careful man would come - wary of main roads, wary of settled places, keeping just that few miles off the beaten path that meant safety for the rider of the long trails. Angel himself was dressed in ordinary range clothes. He was glad to be out of the city, and already the sun had burned back the saddle leather brownness of his skin. He no longer realized that his eyes were restless, always watching the country he was riding through, the habit of a decade that he was no longer even aware he had. His life had been a mixture of this one and of good living in the East, and he looked upon those periods now realistically as rewards for performing the tasks the Attorney General set for him. The money was good and he enjoyed what it could buy in Manhattan or Washington or New Orleans. The dangers he faced were a fair price to pay: he wished neither to be rich nor old. He had no desire to end his days a drooling old nuisance in a wheelchair. And he had seen the rich in the almost innumerable empty forms they came in. The only thing you could do with money was spend it. To keep it was a sickness, and to want it for its own sake worse than cancer. He moved on down the trace now, a big, wide-shouldered man, a bandolier of ammunition around his shoulders, the high sun picking cruel highlights off the metal cartridges and the weapon at his hip.
He dismounted outside the sutler’s store, a big building with a Dutch barn roof that stood catty-cornered on the north-eastern side of the fort. On its timber face was painted the legend Reynolds & Birch, Merchants. He pushed in through the screen door and went inside, his spurs clinking on the rough board floor, pausing a moment to let his eyes adjust to the cool dark interior. It was a big L-shaped room. Merchandise of every kind was on display, on the counters, in boxes on the floor, hanging from the walls: whiskey and beer bottles glinted on shelves, the dull gleam of leather: saddles, belts, bridles, glowed richly. Flat brown boxes of cartridges, nails, screws. Cans of biscuits, dried fruit, cans and boxes in profusion. It was a well-stocked store and he figured that the owners must have a good business to be able to carry such a wide range of goods. At the far end of the building a rough zinc bar was backed by shelves on which stood an assortment of bottles and kegs. A few soldiers were sitting around a table, deep in conversation that ceased as they looked up to eye Angel speculatively as he walked across to the bar. They measured him carefully, accurately judging his origins and probable occupation, eyes pausing momentarily on the low-slung gun and the bandolier of cartridges; then they returned to their muted conversation. An elderly man in buckskins slouched against the bar. Further down, two men, half hidden in the cool shadows, gazed blankly at the wall, drinks cradled in their hands. Angel nodded at the bartender, a short, sweating, baldheaded man with a pronounced limp.
‘I’ll take the longest, coldest beer you’ve got,’ he said.
‘Beer,’ nodded the bartender. ‘Comin’ up.’
The glass was full and frothy, the beer sweet and cool. Angel pushed the glass forward.
‘And again,’ he said.
‘OK,’ said the bartender. He swabbed down the bar, looking for some way of opening a conversation. Angel made it easy on him.
‘Good beer,’ he said.
‘The best.’
‘You ship it in from the East?’
‘Nope. Got our own brewery up in the hills, ‘bout two miles from here.’
‘That so? That’s unusual, isn’t it?’
‘These sojer boys’d drink us out on paydays,’ the bartender explained. ‘If n we didn’t have our own supply, we’d be out o’ beer six days from seven.’
‘Yeah, I see what you mean. This is sure some store you got here.’
‘We do all right,’ the man said. ‘Where you headin’?’
‘Daranga,’ Angel told him. ‘How far is that from here?’
‘Forty mile, give or take.’ A pause, with more swabbing of the bar that was as dry as it would ever be. ‘Passin’ through?’
‘Depends,’ Angel said, not reacting to the prying tone. ‘If I can find me something to do, I might stick around. Any of the local spreads lookin’ for men?’
‘Well ... I couldn’t rightly say, mister—uh... ?’
Angel ignored the invitation to provide his name.
‘What you’re sayin’ is, it depends on what kind of men, right?’
The bartender ducked his head and scowled, swabbing furiously at his scarred bar counter.
‘I never said that,’ he mumbled. ‘I ain’t no information bureau.’ He started to move away.
‘Hold it,’ Angel said softly. There was nothing in his voice which made the words remotely threatening but the bartender stopped in his tracks, his eyes wide.
‘Now lissen, mister . ..’ he began.
‘You couldn’t mebbe give me one or two names so I could ask in Daranga, could you?’ Angel said. ‘Not wantin’ to give you any unnecessary trouble, I mean.’
One of the soldiers got to his feet. He was more than half drunk and it took him a moment to focus his eyes
properly on Angel. He walked unsteadily across the room, ignoring the muttered objections of his companions. He put his hand on the bar and faced Angel owlishly.
‘Cowboy,’ he said, carefully enunciating the words, ‘take the advice of an old soldier and keep right on past Daranga.’
Angel smiled, and motioned to the bartender to fill his glass again.
‘I see you’re a soldier,’ he said easily. The boy might not take offense but he had no desire to antagonize him by an unfortunate phrase, ‘but I’d hardly say you were old. Will you take a drink?’
‘I am, nevertheless, old,’ said the boy, nodding sagely, ‘and I most definitely will. Take a drink. Yes.’
‘You were sayin’ about Daranga. . . ?’ Angel prompted.
‘Your health, sir. Daranga. Yes. Give it a miss, cowboy. The town is owned, as we are owned, by Mr. Birch. Rich Mr. Birch. Powerful Mr. Birch. Nobody works in Daranga unless he says so. Nobody can buy a drink unless it’s his liquor. Nobody can broil a steak unless he bought it from Birch. An’ Reynolds, o’ course. Good ol’ Jacey Reynolds.’ He put the glass down on the bar with a bang. ‘I’d buy you a drink, sir, but I regret to say that I am already in debt to this establishment to the tune of two months’ pay.’
Angel grinned, and motioned to the bartender to fill up the glasses. The man was sweating very badly and kept darting glances at the two men down at the far end of the bar. They were still looking straight ahead, as if the room were quite empty. The man in buckskins had slipped out of the place as quietly as a mouse. Angel felt the tension and did not for the moment identify its source.
‘Thank you, kind barkeeper,’ said the soldier. ‘I drink to your health, sir.’ He lurched slightly. ‘Steady, Blackstone. I drink to the health of my fellow-officers and, ah, gentlemen. I drink to the health of Mr. Birch. And his sidekick Mr. Reynolds. And to their iron fists and thieving habits ...’
Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) Page 1