Shoot Angel!

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘It seems silly, but take care,’ she said, smiling up at him,

  Angel tied the sack of food behind his saddle.

  ‘I will, Jess, and thanks. Now just point me in the right direction.’

  ‘They rode north,’ Jess told him.

  Raising a swift hand Angel turned his horse about and rode away from Liberty. He knew that in a few hours it would be light. Once daylight came Birdy was going to find difficulty concealing himself from Cranford’s bunch. They were going to be on the lookout for any kind of pursuit. If they saw Birdy, and recognized him, Angel knew very well that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

  He tried to work out where Cranford might be making for. The man had a lot of money with him—Angel hadn’t missed seeing the open safe in the wreck of the jail—and it would help him to go far. Cranford might carry on to the far north, up into Canada. Then again he could cut west towards California, taking the lonely trails across the High Sierras. He could just as easily make for one of the railroads, buy himself a ticket and go in any one of half a dozen directions. There was a lot of country available for Cranford to choose from. Nor was he even restricted to the United States. San Francisco, for instance, offered the opportunity for someone with money to book passage on any number of passenger ships bound for foreign ports. Likewise the eastern seaboard provided similar facilities. There was even South America. A man with Amos Cranford’s talent for nefarious activities could easily carve himself a comfortable niche in one of those steamy, isolated, tropical little republics down at the far end of the Latin American continent. With his knowledge of law and his money, Cranford had the means of rising to great heights, no matter how dubious his motivations and his methods.

  With Liberty dropping further and further behind him Angel pushed his horse deeper into the bleak, dark slopes of the hills above the town. He rode as fast as he could while still managing to follow the faint trail left by Cranford’s bunch, and the single line of tracks Birdy was producing. The silent hours drifted by in a blur. And slowly, imperceptibly at first, the deep-night hue of the sky began to fade. Pale streaks of light began to break the monotony of the darkness. There was little change in the temperature. Angel found himself shivering slightly against the keen chill of the high country. In a few hours he would be longing for its return. With the eventual rising of the sun would come the endless hours of savage heat. The air thick, cloying. The vaulted canyons and rocky escarpments would become vast, unrelenting ovens, reflecting the trapped heat with magnified intensity.

  Angel crested a high ridge, reining in his panting horse. He slipped from the saddle and gave the animal a few minutes’ rest. He took his canteen and swallowed a mouthful of cold water. While his horse took the opportunity to chew at some clumps of tough grass, Angel made use of the halt to study the landscape. Early-morning light was flooding the land, washing the earth and rocks with its sheer brilliance. At this height the altitude created a clearness in the air that added to the natural capabilities of man’s eyesight. Angel found he was able to pick out far-distant objects with startling clarity.

  Like the riderless horse wandering aimlessly across the face of the long slope far above him, Angel watched the horse for a while, aware of a growing sensation of unease settling over him. Abruptly he went to his horse and mounted up. He kicked the animal into motion, yanking impatiently at the reins when the horse showed signs of reluctance at being disturbed. Once he was moving Angel pushed his horse hard.

  Even so it took him almost an hour to reach the spot where he’d first seen the riderless horse. He followed the tracks it had left. He found the animal a few minutes later, grazing in the shade of some rooks. It was the same horse Birdy had used on the ride into Liberty. Angel gathered the reins and led the horse as he rode back the way it had come, following the line of erratic hoof prints it had left.

  He found Birdy face down at the base of a granite rock face. Even before he climbed from his saddle Angel was able to see the ugly, crisscross weals and tears in Birdy’s body. The man’s clothing was in bloody shreds. Angel knew what had caused them. He’d seen the results of brutal whippings before. A man skilled in the use of those ugly weapons could tear flesh from bone. And Angel didn’t doubt Trench’s capabilities one little bit.

  ‘Oh … oh … God it hurts!’

  Birdy’s thin body began to shudder violently as Angel turned him over. The skinny man’s chest and face were torn and bloody. Deep gashes left white bone exposed in a number of places. Birdy stared up at Angel as if he was a stranger, then recognition shone in his dull eyes and he clutched at Angel’s arm with a bloody hand.

  ‘I knew you’d come, Angel. Didn’t figure on getting caught, mind. But one of Cranford’s boys must have spotted me. Hell, I ain’t no damn Apache. Anyhow they snuck up on me ’fore I knew what was happening. They wanted to know if anybody else was following. I told ’em there wasn’t. Funny thing is they didn’t believe me an’ it was the truth. So that son of a bitch Trench laid into me with that whip.’ Birdy paused for a while, biting back the pain rising in his body.

  ‘Jesus, Angel, I never knew a man could hurt so much and not be dead. That bastard Trench, he really let go at me. Hell, I figured I’d done pretty good while they had me in that camp. All that time and I never once felt that whip. Minute I get out who do I walk right into! I told you I wasn’t safe on my own, Angel.’

  ‘I wish you’d have told me what you were up to,’ Angel said. ‘It was a dumb thing to do, Birdy, taking off after Cranford on your own.’

  ‘Yeah, I found that out,’ Birdy whispered. ‘I just figured you needed a little help, Angel.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, Birdy. I just wish it hadn’t cost you so much.’

  Birdy nodded. ‘What the hell, Angel. I had nowhere else to go. But I did all right for you? Didn’t I, Angel?’

  Angel nodded. ‘Sure, Birdy, you did fine. They won’t get away now.’

  Angel made no mention of the fact that he would have been able to pick up Cranford’s trail without Birdy’s help. Whatever Birdy’s motivation for wanting to help Angel it had only brought him pain and suffering. To reveal that his efforts had been unnecessary would have been as harsh as allowing further punishment from Trench’s whip.

  ‘Birdy, how many of them are there?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Cranford, Trench. That pair who used to be Sherman’s deputies … Duggan and Koch. And a couple of the guards from the camp. I figure Cranford must have paid off the rest of them.’ Birdy managed a faint grin. ‘That too many for you, Angel?’

  ‘Kind of odds I usually take care of before breakfast.’

  ‘Yeah. Hell, Angel, I wish I could see you … !’

  Birdy’s voice trailed off. When Angel glanced down at him, the man was dead.

  Angel slid the body into a shallow depression in the ground and covered it with rocks. He unsaddled Birdy’s horse and turned it loose. He placed Birdy’s handgun in his saddlebags, hung the canteen from his saddle horn. Then he mounted up and put his horse on the trail. He did not look back at Birdy’s lonely grave, simply stared ahead, his whole being focused on what lay before him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  There was a saying to the effect that you never heard the bullet with your name on it. If the saying was true, Angel decided, then somebody had misspelt his name, because he very definitely heard the bullet—and felt its passing. Angel left his saddle without hesitation, snatching for the rifle in the scabbard at his side. He hit the ground on his left shoulder, hugging the Winchester to his body as he rolled towards the scant cover of a flat boulder. Almost separately, a section of his mind was registering the flat crackle of further shots. Bullets whacked the rocky ground, howling off into the air. As far as Angel could judge there were at least two rifles.

  Angel hit the base of the boulder. Putting more strain on his battered muscles than his condition warranted, Angel thrust his body over the top of the boulder. He was already rolling towards the far side when yet a
nother shot sounded. Angel gave a soft grunt of pain as the bullet ripped a bloody gouge across his left shoulder. He felt hot blood coursing down his back as he tumbled behind the boulder. Fighting off the surge of pain and nausea, Angel twisted round, bringing the Winchester to his shoulder.

  He scanned the rocky slopes above his position. Nothing showed at first. Angel waited patiently, just hoping that whoever was up in those rocks lacked that quality. Sunlight flickered along the exposed barrel of a rifle. Angel shifted his position slightly. The rifleman, above him and to his left, seemed also to be on the move. Angel gave him a few more seconds. Then he caught a glimpse of the man’s dark bulk, could even make out the pale oval of the face.

  ‘All right, you son of a bitch,’ Angel breathed. He angled the Winchester, held his target and allowed for the rise of the slope before he touched the trigger. The Winchester cracked, muzzle lifting in recoil. His bullet struck within a half-inch of Angel’s intended mark, throwing the rifleman back off his feet.

  Angel levered a fresh round into the breech, gasping as the sudden movement caused an ugly shaft of pain to burn across his shoulder. He sagged against the boulder, swearing softly. It did little to ease the pain but it still made Angel feel a whole lot better.

  Somewhere above him hoofs clattered on hard rock. A shower of loose stone shot down the dusty slope, pin-pointing the whereabouts of the second rifleman. It appeared that he’d had enough and was leaving.

  Angel came to his feet, bursting out from behind the boulder, searching the sun bright slope above him. He was angry enough to allow his caution to slip. A surge of recklessness took control. He ran across the open ground, stumbling in his haste.

  The rider broke into view, coming down the treacherous slope at breakneck speed. His face, a white blur, was turned towards Angel. As he realized Angel’s potential threat, the rider made a desperate shot with the rifle held in his right hand. He yanked the weapon across his body, wasting precious seconds before he pulled the trigger.

  Angel was already diving towards the ground, his own rifle lifting as he hit the hard earth. He heard the other rifle explode, the shot passing over his prone body. Angel returned fire, came to his feet, and fired again. He saw his bullets hit, ripping bloody holes in the rider’s body. The man went limp and rolled loosely from his saddle. He hit the slope face down, slithering in a floppy sprawl and coming to rest at the bottom.

  Angel came to a dead stop. He remained motionless for a time, watching and listening, his wild anger subsiding gradually. Movement off to one side brought the Winchester up, but it was only one of the horses. Angel eyed the wandering animal as he let the rifle sag. He crossed to where his own horse was standing. He sheathed his rifle and reached for his canteen, noticing the fresh blood running across his left hand. He became aware now of the sharp sting of pain across his shoulder. Blood had soaked the back of his shirt and sleeve. With the wound in the place it was there wasn’t much he could do about it. So Angel ignored it.

  He mounted up a few minutes later and rode on. It didn’t take him long to pick up the trail again, just beyond the rise of low hills before him.

  Cranford had chosen his spot well, Angel had to admit. The man had wanted to make certain that if anyone was following they would maybe have second thoughts if a few of them were killed. If it hadn’t been for that poor opening shot the matter might have had a totally different outcome. As it was Cranford had lost two men, and Angel had lessened the odds from six to four.

  Angel pushed his horse as hard as he dare. The day was living up to the promise shown in the early hours. The cloudless sky poured down endless waves of brutal sunlight. The heat was almost overpowering. It became trapped in the rocks, glaring up off the bleached earth. It hung in shimmering curtains before his aching eyes, causing the very landscape to tremble and waver.

  Somewhere close by he heard a faint sound. Angel reined in and listened. He unsheathed his rifle. The sound came again, a soft rattle. Angel climbed down from his horse and moved toward the mass of boulders and choked brush from where the sound was emanating.

  He found a horse, down on the ground, one of its forelegs badly broken. Splintered bone gleamed white where it had pierced the flesh. Angel put a quick shot through the horse’s head, ending its misery. Now they were four with only three horses. One mount would have to carry double. Angel gazed down at the dead horse. Cranford was going to find his progress slowed down considerably.

  Angel returned to his horse and put it back on the trail. The tracks he was following began to angle off towards the east. Coming down off a high slope Angel caught a flash of greenery and a short while later he was riding through tall stands of aspen and spruce. The ground underfoot here was soft, thick with leaf mould and the trail was clearer than it had been for any time since he had first picked it up. Angel could easily see the deeper marks made by the horse carrying double.

  Shortly after noon Angel broke out of the trees and drew rein. Just below him, on the bank of a wide, meandering creek, stood a low, rambling log building. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney. Chickens moved back and forth across the trampled yard. Horses stamped restlessly around the small corral. Angel studied the place for a time. It looked peaceful enough. But he knew of old that it was this sort of place that generally gave the most trouble. He rode in with caution, his rifle across his thighs. As he drew nearer the place he saw the weathered sign over the door: ANDERSON’S POST. Angel wondered idly how long the place had existed. Thirty? Maybe forty years? Possibly even longer. There were hundreds of these places dotted around the country. In the early days, long before any towns had been established, these isolated trading posts had been the only contact with other white men that had existed for the early explorers. A place for them to buy supplies. To sell their furs. To come in out of the wilderness simply to see and speak to others of their kind. The posts had been places of contact between the Indians and the whites. They were generally considered safe places by the Indians, and were left alone even during times of hostility. Not always—but for the most part the posts survived.

  Angel crossed the yard and took a quick look in the corral. He easily spotted the single horse, standing motionless amongst the other restless animals. Angel dismounted, led his horse over to the corral and tied it to one of the posts. He slipped through the bars and crossed the corral to the horse he’d spotted. The animal didn’t even back off when he approached. Angel gave it a quick look over. Its lower legs were dust-stained. Its coat was still lathered and damp. Angel made his way out of the corral, certain that he had found two of his men.

  He left his rifle in its sheath, checking his Colt before he made for the post. At the door he paused, giving his eyes time to adjust to the interior light. Then he stepped inside quickly.

  The main room was large, low ceilinged. The section nearer to the door held all the trading goods, foodstuffs. Down at the far end was a section that had been turned into a small saloon-cum-dining-room. A row of shelves held an assortment of bottles. A couple of casks were supported on wood blocks. Fronting this was the bar, consisting of three thick, rough-hewn planks laid across large barrels. Behind the bar was a lean, hawk-faced man in his late forties. He had thick, red hair, the kind that stuck out from his head in unruly tangles, defying any attempt at keeping it tidy. He was dressed in dark pants and a rose-colored shirt. He was deeply absorbed in rolling himself a cigarette, so he didn’t notice Angel’s appearance.

  Nor did his only customers: two travel-stained men at the bar, hunched over their drinks in sullen silence. Duggan and Koch. The two ex-deputies from Liberty.

  ‘Just stay where you are, boys, and we can do this without anybody getting hurt,’ Angel said. He spoke evenly, making certain there was no threat in his tone.

  The man behind the bar glanced in Angel’s direction. He took one look at the tall, unshaven, battered figure standing there, and decided not to interfere.

  ‘You hear me?’ Angel asked.

  ‘That you, Ange
l?’ Koch asked over his shoulder.

  ‘Yeah!’

  Koch laughed. ‘We should of killed you when we had the chance. I reckon if we had we wouldn’t be in this damn mess right now!’

  ‘Judge gone and run out on you?’

  Koch emptied his glass with an angry gesture.

  ‘Too true, Angel. He just upped and paid us off. Said it was time to go our own ways.’

  ‘Weren’t my fault the goddamn horse broke a leg!’ Duggan’s voice was high with self-pity.

  ‘For Christ’ sake, shut your mouth about that horse! Nobody said it was your fault.’

  Duggan grunted something. ‘It sure as hell is what you’re thinkin’,’ he threw out.

  ‘Balls!’ Koch muttered. He turned slowly from the bar to face Angel. ‘One thing we better get straight, Angel, from here on in. I ain’t about to turn in my gun and go with you! No way, mister.’

  ‘Koch, it’s up to you,’ Angel told him. ‘Makes no difference to me. I can deliver you either way. Dead or alive!’

  ‘Go to hell, Angel!’ Koch yelled. ‘I don’t figure on ending up behind bars! Or dancing on the end of a rope! No chance, Angel, so I’ll just have to kill you myself!’

  And as he spoke Koch went for his holstered gun and started shooting.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fast as Koch was, Angel turned out to be faster. He barely seemed to move, yet the big Colt was suddenly in his hand. It was level and it was aimed at Koch’s chest. Koch had already fired off two shots. One smashed into the edge of the bar near Angel’s right elbow. The other tore through the log roof overhead, because Koch’s gun had tilted in that direction as Angel’s bullet took him just over the heart. Koch went over backwards, letting go with a loud scream of pain that trailed off to a soft whimper. His limp body slumped against one of the barrels supporting the bar. Koch lay with his head flopping forward, seeming to stare at the blood pumping out of the hole in his chest.