Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘Won’t do you ... no good, Angel,’ Boot said. His voice slurred a little. ‘She’s well broke. The boys ... had their fun with hen’ His laughter was touched with a final madness. ‘All of us ... bitch.’

  Angel showed the man a target He raised his head and shoulders up above the rim of the arroyo and then ducked down again in one smooth movement and Boot’s six-gun boomed, the slug splashing the sandy earth a few feet away from Angel.

  ‘One left, Johnny,’ he called. ‘How you liking it down there?’

  Boot let fly with a stream of curses, calling his assailant every filthy thing he could lay tongue to.

  ‘Sure, sure,’ Angel called. ‘You and Willy fall out, Johnny?’

  ‘Damn you ...’ Boot’s cough interrupted whatever he had been going to say. It sounded like the sick cough of a wounded man, but Angel was taking no chances. He moved now like a cat, stealthily through the darkness, swiftly across the open spaces between the looming cactus, heading up the lip of the arroyo fifty, sixty, seventy feet away from where he had been lying. Then he edged over the rim of the arroyo and slid carefully down to the base of the declivity. He crouched, six-gun ready, on the sandy floor of the dried river bed. Moving like a shadow, easing from one piece of sparse shelter to the next, Angel made his way up behind Boot. The thinnest streak of grey was touching the blackness of the sky. He could see the dark blob that was Boot slumped behind the rock.

  ‘Let go of the gun, Johnny,’ he said softly.

  Boot did not move.

  ‘Last warning, Johnny. Toss the gun out away from yourself.’

  Still not a flicker of movement, not a sound. Was Boot playing possum? Angel drew a breath and moved out into the open, six-gun at full cock and trained on the slumped form of the gunman. Boot lay with his arm outstretched, the gun lying just beyond his splayed fingers. Angel stepped forward and kicked the gun away, and in that moment Boot came up off the floor, his other hand full of sand which he tossed into Angel’s face. In the same desperate movement Boot rolled towards the six-gun Angel had kicked aside, his hand fastening on it, easing the hammer back. The barrel lifted towards Angel and Johnny Boot died with the evil delight on his face of a man who has pulled off something very smart, very difficult, sure that he had won. Angel’s bullet smashed Johnny Boot flat dead on the sand. He looked down at the crumpled body, the anger still searing through his body.

  ‘You died too easy,’ he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Their grisly duty done, the troopers returned to Fort Daranga. Thompson led them in, stepping down from the saddle and beating the dust from his uniform, then stamping up the steps into his office. Lieutenant Ellis came to attention behind the desk.

  ‘Get me a drink, Mr. Ellis,’ the colonel said, slumping into his chair. Ellis hastened to pour a generous measure of whisky and placed the tin cup on the desk before the grey-faced soldier.

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ Thompson said, as though to himself. ‘Not in peacetime. Never.’

  ‘It was bad, then?’ Ellis prompted. He had stayed behind in command during the absence of the patrol.

  ‘Bad, bad?’ Thompson snarled, ‘It was ... it was ... aaah!’ He hurled the tin cup at the wall and pushed his chair back from the desk. ‘I’m going to get a wash and shave,’ he said. ‘Get Sergeant Battle to give you a full report. I’ll add my observations.’

  ‘Before you go, sir...’ Ellis said hesitantly.

  ‘What is it, mister? I’m dog tired.’

  ‘Jacey Reynolds is here, sir. He asked specially to see you.’ The young soldier put definite emphasis on each word. Thompson looked up, his eyes wary.

  ‘He say what he wanted, Peter?’

  ‘No, sir, but I can guess.’ Ellis jerked his head towards the window, through which they could clearly see the guardhouse across the parade ground.

  ‘Tell him I’m in my quarters,’ Thompson said.

  ‘You want me to come as well?’ Ellis put in, Thompson squeezed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. ‘What? Oh, I don’t know. Yes. No. perhaps you’d better not. Let me talk to him first.’

  Ellis simply stood and looked at Thompson whose gaze fell, then came up again defiantly. ‘Leave it to me. It’s all right: leave it to me.’

  Yes, sir,’ Ellis said. There was absolutely no emphasis on either word.

  Thompson went out of the office and across to his quarters, returning the salutes of enlisted men he passed on his way. He went into the building, relishing the cool shaded interior after the furnace heat of the high country. There was a pitcher of water on the bureau, a damp cloth across the top to keep it cool. He poured a glass full, drank it, then another. Stripping off his field jacket, he let his suspenders down over his shoulders and pulled the woolen shirt over his head. His body was streaked with muddy marks where sweat and dirt had mixed. He emptied the rest of the water in the pitcher into an earthenware bowl, splashing it on his face and then using the end of a rough towel to scrub the dirt off his body. He was drying himself when there was a discreet knock on the doorframe. He turned to see Jacey Reynolds standing in the open doorway, smiling like a cat, the familiar briar pipe clenched between his teeth. Reynolds took the pipe out of his mouth with his right hand and waved it as a sort of greeting. He came into the room and sat down without ceremony.

  ‘Colonel,’ he said. ‘Hear there’s been trouble at the high country ranches.’ Thompson just looked at him, his gaze flat and unbending. Reynolds gave a crooked grin.

  ‘These are hard times,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t give me that shit, Jace,’ Thompson said. ‘You weren’t up there. It was ... diabolical!’

  ‘It was necessary,’ Reynolds said abruptly, ‘and you know it, so don’t give me that shit, Brian!’

  ‘I never knew...’ began Thompson, all the force gone from his voice.

  ‘... it would be like this?’ jeered Reynolds. ‘You want to play at the top table, soldier, you got to accept the stakes. If this deal goes through we’ll all be in clover. And the Man got word from Washington: time is running out.’

  ‘You mean they’re going to ...’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ hissed Reynolds. ‘Sometimes that loose mouth of yours worries me,’ he went on, his voice resuming its normal sliding cadences. ‘Rule one: we don’t ever mention what we know, right?’

  Thompson nodded dumbly.

  ‘We have to control that land. There was no other way,’ Reynolds said. He spread his hands. ‘Regrettable, but. ..’ he let the words drift away. ‘Now we have another problem.’

  Thompson sighed. He went to the bureau and pulled out a clean shirt, pulling it over his head.

  ‘Larkin,’ Reynolds said. Thompson froze, his arms in the air, standing like a fond father trying to frighten a child by playing bugaboo. He poked his face through the collar opening.

  ‘Larkin?’ he squeaked.

  ‘The Man said he knows too much,’ Reynolds said. His voice was very mild. He puffed on the pipe contentedly.

  ‘Then maybe he ought to come up here and take care of it himself,’ railed Thompson. ‘He ...’

  ‘... he’d take it badly if he knew you felt that way, Brian,’ Reynolds interrupted, his voice as mild as ever. ‘You’ve done very nicely out of all this.’ He waved his arm to encompass the environs of the fort. ‘A nice rake-off on the trading at the store. Plenty of cheap liquor. And don’t forget those IOUs of yours...’

  ‘I’ll pay them off, damn you,’ ground out Thompson. ‘A man’d go crazy up here unless he could do something.’

  Reynolds held up a thin hand. ‘I’m not sayin’ you shouldn’t play cards, Brian,’ he remonstrated gently. ‘Just reminding you that you owe us the best part of a thousand dollars. Now if that was to be brought to the attention of some people in Washington that the Man knows . . .’

  ‘All right, damn you!’ growled Thompson, shaking his head angrily like a roped steer. ‘All right!’

  ‘That’s better,’ Reynolds said.
‘Now look. It’s as easy as stealing candy from kids. Larkin is going to make a break for it.’

  ‘He can’t...’ began Thompson.

  ‘Listen to me!’ snapped Reynolds, his indolence falling away. ‘You just do like I say and everything will be sweet and easy. I already found out that you gave orders Larkin was to be shot on sight if he tried to escape. Well...’ he grinned evilly. ‘Doesn’t that suggest anything to you?’

  ‘You mean.. . ?’

  ‘Ley del fuego,’ nodded Reynolds. ‘You got it in one. That tame boy-soldier of yours ... what’s his name?’

  ‘Ellis,’ Thompson replied.

  ‘He’s been in on this, hasn’t he?’

  ‘You know he has. He’s bled me white.’

  Reynolds smiled. ‘I know. You’ve been very foolish, Brian.’

  He steepled his Fingers, leaning back in the armchair and smiling.

  ‘All he has to do is get a gun to Larkin,’ he said. ‘He can do that, can’t he?’

  ‘I suppose so ...’ said Thompson reluctantly.

  ‘Well, then,’ Reynolds said, spreading his hands again. ‘That’s all there is to it.’ He got up from the chair and walked towards the door. ‘Don’t botch it, Colonel,’ he said, warningly. ‘That could be ... fatal.’

  Thompson glared at his retreating back, and when Reynolds was gone, he slammed the drawer of the bureau shut with a savage gesture. He let his eyes roam restlessly around the cramped room, counting up mentally the pitifully few things in it which were his personal belongings.

  ‘Forty years,’ he muttered. ‘For what?’

  His eyes fell on the framed portrait which stood on the small table at the side of his bed. It showed a group of cadets in West Point uniforms, all smiling bravely at the camera, their youthful faces full of the future. The Class of ‘39. He picked the photograph up and laid it face down. Then he went to the door and sent his orderly to fetch Lieutenant Ellis.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Angel cut Willy Mill’s trail as the dawn broke brightly across the desert. Mill was traveling faster, as if he had decided he was clear and there was no need of concealment. One horse, one mule. So Mill probably still had the girl with him. Angel did not dare let his thoughts dwell upon her treatment at the hands of the raiders: every time the idea touched the edge of his mind a white anger welled in him. He knew he had to keep it under control. He wanted Mill alive.

  Another thought struck him as he moved on at a steady pace along the faint trace his quarry had left. Mill’s interest in the girl had puzzled him. He was not the type. Mill would have killed her out of hand when the others were done with her. The man was totally devoid of normality and now the thought came to Angel that Mill would probably look upon her as a possession, something he could use to trade. In Tucson there was a market for women, particularly Anglo women, especially blonde Anglo women. Shipped across the border at Nogales, they were the symbols of wealth and status to the Mexican bandits who bought them for their pleasure, used them until they tired of them, and then put them into brothels for the miners and the gun runners and the black-hearted breed who infested the border. The thought made it harder for Angel to keep the horse at a steady pace, but he knew that if he pressed the animal now, it would founder. He had already mistreated it badly, but the dun was a sturdy beast Too much more, and he would be afoot in the desert. He had to plan his strategy. He could not ride boldly into Tucson looking for Mill. There were too many places in a town a man could hole up, and he had no way of knowing what allies the man had there. Angel was a man not afraid of long odds, but he liked to know what they were. There was a proverb: a cautious man is one to cross bridges with. But the rage still seethed below his calm exterior. He still wanted a chance to kill Willy Mill. Very slowly, he told himself. He reached the outskirts of Tucson late in the afternoon. The old walled town still looked pretty much the way it had been when the Spaniards had first passed this way. From a distance, they would hardly know it had changed, he thought. But along River Road the place was a straggle of honkytonks, cheap saloons, one or two lace-curtained, dark-windowed sporting houses with gingerbread woodwork on the verandas. Angel scanned the street He saw no face he knew. He led the horse up to a barn-like building with a sign swinging over the door that said livery stable with no capital letters. It had bullet holes all around and over and under the letter V. Inside, he found a lanky man sitting on a barrel, a bottle of beer in his hand.

  ‘Like to bed the horse down for the night,’ Angel said. ‘He’s been hard used.’ The man cast an experienced eye over the animal and nodded.

  ‘Ahuh,’ the man said.

  ‘Like to get him rubbed down, watered and grain fed,’ Angel said. ‘Can you handle that?’

  ‘Ain’t too busy,’ the man said. ‘Got but two or three hosses in. An’ a mule.’

  Angel’s head came up. Could he have been that lucky?

  ‘Been here long?’ he asked idly.

  This time the man’s eyes came up to meet Angel’s. They were cunning and bright and a leer edged its way towards the hostler’s thin lips.

  ‘I forget,’ he said, craftily. Angel nodded, and pulled a ten-dollar gold piece from his watch pocket. He tossed it idly in the air. The foxy eyes followed it like a rat watching a day-old chick.

  ‘How’s your memory coming along?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Improvin’ by the second,’ the man said. He caught the gold coin deftly.

  ‘Fat feller,’ he said. ‘Had some trollop with him.’

  ‘Go on,’ Angel said.

  ‘Damned if I ain’t gettin’ a forgetful ol’ fool,’ the hostler said. The bright eyes were awash with greed.

  ‘Damned if I don’t agree,’ said Angel. He reached forward and pulled the man to his feet, bunching the thin cotton shirt in his fist. He lifted the hostler until the man’s feet were almost off the ground. The shifty eyes were a foot from his own, and the man squirmed like an eel.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘hey, there.’

  ‘Ten bucks,’ Angel reminded him. ‘You want to have me take the small change out of your face?’

  ‘Let go o’ me, mister,’ squealed the man. ‘Ain’t no call to git all riled up.’

  Angel let him down with a thump. ‘Talk!’ he said. His eyes were that pale shade of grey and the man looked into them and gulped, his prominent Adam’s apple jumping in his scrawny throat.

  ‘Fat feller, like I said,’ he managed. He spoke backing away from Angel until a safe distance separated them. ‘Figgered he was a flesh peddler. With the girl an’ all. We get lots of ‘em,’ he said, ingratiatingly. ‘You need a piece?’

  ‘You know a good place, I’m betting,’ Angel said, disgust rising in his mouth.

  ‘You’re damn right I do. Same place that feller went,’ the hostler said anxiously. ‘I’ll show it to you if you like.’

  ‘Just tell me,’ Angel said. ‘They see you, I mightn’t get in.’

  The hostler frowned and then decided against letting his face reveal any reaction to the slur. This one was not for fooling around with, he told himself.

  ‘Angela’s, they call it,’ he said. ‘Account of it’s run by this . .. lady.’

  ‘She’s Anglo,’ he added, as if that made a subtle difference. “Your friend was headed there.’

  ‘Skip the testimonials,’ Angel said sharply. ‘Where is it?’

  The man went to the doorway and pointed down the street.

  ‘See thar where the road curves off to the right?’ he said. ‘It’s a big ol’ place, looks like it’s some society lady owns it. Got red shingles on the roof.’

  ‘How long ago did ... my friend leave?’

  ‘Hell, stranger, I don’t rightly recall... .’ He jumped as Angel turned and held up a placating hand. ‘No, Jesus, mister, I was ... it’s just a way o’ talkin’. Lemme see, he was here about, oh, an hour, hour an’ a half ago. Not more.’

  “You take real good care of that horse,’ Angel said. ‘Sate?’

  ‘I’ll tre
at him like he was my own brother,’ the man said fervently.

  ‘God help him,’ Angel said, setting off down River Road. The bend was no more than a hundred yards away. He came around it, crossing the street to utilize the shelter of a lumbering team being cursed through the hock deep sand towards the Tanque Verde road. On this side of the street, he saw, there were stores, small, rundown, catering only for the drifters who congregated in River Road’s sleazy saloons. The big house opposite was incongruously well kept. The windows were cleaned and bright, the shutters painted and their hinges oiled. There was a fine brass knocker on the black oak door. The house had three stories. Angel paced on down the street, and found a barber shop. He went inside. He could see the entrance to the house quite easily from the barber’s chair. He longed for a bath, but it would have to wait. He told the barber to shave him. On request, the barber sent out for a pitcher of beer and a hunk of bread and cheese. Angel wolfed down the food. The cheese was old but the bread was reasonably fresh. He sank half of the pitcher of beer in a long and delicious series of swallows. It tasted like cool, clear honey.

  ‘Is there a doctor around here?’ he asked the barber.

  ‘Up on Elm,’ the man said. ‘If you want the fancy sort o’ doctorin’.’

  ‘If not?’

  ‘If it ain’t something needs cuttin’ or stitchin’ I could prob’ly do her,’ the barber said. ‘Old barber-shop custom, you know. That’s why we got them red an’ white poles: bandages an’ blood, they represent. In the olden days, they

  His voice faded away as Angel stripped off the filthy shirt and revealed the sorry mess of bandages around his middle.

  ‘Let’s take a look at that there,’ the barber said. He unwound the bandage with surprisingly gentle fingers, whistling when he saw what lay beneath.

  ‘That looks right nasty,’ he ventured. ‘But it just needs cleanin’ up, I reckon. Ain’t gone gangrene, far as I can tell.’

  ‘Well, thanks a bundle,’ Angel said.

  The barber swabbed the puckered bullet wound with alcohol and painted iodine stripes all over the gravel scratches on Angel’s chest and forearms. Then he stood back to admire his handiwork.