Read Find Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #1) Online
Authors: Frederick H. Christian
Tags: #texas, #old west, #western fiction, #zane grey, #louis lamour, #william w johnstone, #ben bridges, #mike stotter, #piccadilly publishing, #max brand, #neil hunter, #hank j kirby, #james w marvin, #frederick h christian, #the wild west, #frank angel
Jerry
Bigg was drunk.
He
got drunk regularly once a month in the Red Onion, part of the
reward he paid himself for groveling in the dirt like a gopher, for
thirty days placering up in the Burro Mountains. He had a set
routine. A bath and a shave, a room at the Star Hotel, where Del
Truesdell would look after Jerry’s dust while he had what he called
his ‘whoopdang-dingle’; a couple of drinks with the steak and egg
and canned tomatoes he would eat before spending some time at
Morrill’s Opera House, watching the show, giving the girls the eye;
and then some serious drinking at the saloon. Jerry was a ‘quiet’
drinker, never gave anybody any trouble. Harvey Whitehill, the
sheriff, knew him and let him alone, even when Jerry started
singing songs about his mother in a terrible off-key
tenor.
So
here it was getting towards midnight and Jerry was well and truly
smashed. He had his arm around one of the Red Onion’s bar-girls, a
pert little redhead called Jenny who was stringing the miner along
for all the drinks she could get out of him. The girls in the place
had a rota system with Jerry, which was the only fair way to play
it. He was openhanded to the point of stupidity when he was having
his sprees, and he had never laid a hurtful hand on anyone of them,
which was no small blessing if you worked in the Red
Onion.
‘’
s
oft in the cool of the eeeeeeeeevenin,’ Jerry was roaring softly,
his voice full of maudlin passion, ‘whe’ the shadders shink in th’
west … ’
‘
Come
on, honey,’ Jenny told him. ‘Knock off on that yowlin’, will
ya?`
‘
Yowlin’?’ Jerry said owlishly. ‘Shin — singin’, that is. “I
think o’ the twi-hi-ligh’ song you shang, an’ the boy you loved the
best … ” ’
‘
Aw,
c’mon, honey,’ the girl said, wriggling herself around against him.
‘Don’t ya wanna come back to my place?’
He
looked at her, drawing his head back and focusing on the painted
pouting little face. ‘Wharra pretty gal,’ he remarked.
‘
We
could get a bottle an’ go back to my place, Jerry,’ the girl said.
‘Wouldn’tcha like that?’
‘
Madam,’ Bigg said, staggering to his feet and almost spilling
the girl to the floor, ‘your servant. Wharra pretty girl,’ he said
to a smiling crowd of miners at the next table.
One
of them neighed like a horse and there was a burst of laughter.
Jerry Bigg glared at them for a moment, then his natural good humor
reasserted itself.
‘
Bring a bottle,’ he told the girl and headed for the door.
She caught him as he veered off towards the right, his balance
centers totally out of kilter, grimacing at one of the other girls
by the bar.
‘
Good
luck, honey,’ the other girl minced.
‘
Up
yours,’ said Jenny elegantly, and lurched out into the crowded
street with Jerry Bigg leaning heavily on her. People made room for
them on the sidewalk, grinning hugely as Jerry burst brokenly into
song as . they reeled along. She piloted him up the street and
turned left into the alleyway towards her shack on Sandy Lane. She
figured Jerry still had twenty or thirty dollars left and saw no
earthly reason why he should waste it on the Red Onion’s rotgut,
good money that she could nicely use. She had a sock inside her
mattress with a hundred and twenty dollars saved already and when
she had enough she was going to open a place of her own and then,
by God! let any horny-handed bastard try to lay a finger on her!
She staggered down the alley with Jerry still singing happily,
waving the bottle he was clutching firmly by the neck. If she could
get him into bed, he’d go out like a light and wouldn’t remember
tomorrow whether he’d spent the money on drink or her or both.
Perspiration streaked her heavy makeup and she cursed silently as
she helped the drunken miner down the side of a shallow gully that
ran behind the Orpheum. Her place was on the far side. Jerry
stumbled and slid down into the wash on his backside. She let him
go and then went down into the brush-choked gully where Bigg was
pawing around like a drowning swimmer, laughing uproariously at
this new pastime. As she hitched up her skirts and eased down the
slope, Jenny saw a white thing lying off behind the bushes. She
thought at first it was an old mattress, or some discarded pottery,
for the light was poor.
Frowning she took a step towards it and then saw it was the
body of a naked man and as the moon soared clear of the cloud for a
moment she saw what had been done to it and started screaming.
Jerry Bigg froze as the scream rent the air and then tried to get
to his feet, falling over in his haste and panic.
Jenny
kept on screaming until the sheriff came pounding down into the
gully and followed her pointing finger to the naked body of Frank
Angel. The girl stopped screaming then and started sobbing as they
shepherded her away. She had no idea at all that she had saved a
man’s life.
Angus
Wells heard about Angel in Mesilla.
The
two teamsters who had been at Torelli`s road ranch when Angel had
come there had brought the story of what happened with them, and it
was still very much gossip fodder. The bartender in the cantina
opposite the Wells Fargo office was only too happy to tell the
story again for the benefit of a stranger in town, and as he
listened, Wells decided to play a hunch. Years of working for the
Department of Justice had taught him the wisdom of following the
‘feel’ that you got from such a story rather than its bald facts,
and there was a feel to this one which he could almost touch with
his hands. Angell He recalled his conversation with the
Attorney-General in the high-ceilinged room in Washington. There
was no question in his mind now that the boy who had been a hired
hand on the Gibbons ranch had somehow, miraculously, traced the
raiders and tracked them all the way from Kansas, wreaking bloody
vengeance in Torelli’s place. Nor was there any question in his
mind that the boy would go on after Torelli, oblivious of or
unheeding of the fact that now the hunted would become the hunter.
Angel had played lucky, for his quarry had not known he was their
pursuer. But now the tables would be turned and they would be
waiting for him. In his mind, as the bartender droned on, repeating
with relish details which got bloodier at every recounting, Wells
unrolled the map of New Mexico in his head. Down the valley of the
Rio Grande, as far as Animas Peak, so would a fleeing man ride,
turning up into the mountains and towards Silver City, then down
through the pine-clad fastness of the Burro Mountains towards
Lordsburg — for now the information Wells had gathered in Lincoln
came together with the trace that Angel must have blazed across the
west. The tangents would meet at Lordsburg, Wells knew. But the
proof would be in Silver City. If there was a man there called
Angel — dead, or alive — then Wells would know where Cravetts and
his raiders were, too. Angel alive - they were coming. Angel dead –
they would be in Lordsburg.
The
bartender was sorry to see him go: it wasn’t often he had such an
attentive and appreciative audience, and he heaved a sigh and went
back to polishing the row of glasses behind his bar.
Wells
got the whole story from the sheriff in Silver City.
Harvey Whitehill’s office was on the south side of Main, a
one-storey building next to a Chinese laundry.
Inside there was a large room running the depth of the
building, divided by a low wooden railing such as you sometimes saw
in eastern police stations. Behind it there were two desks, some
cupboards, a chained and padlocked rifle rack containing several
riot guns, and behind them a solid adobe wall into which were set
heavy barred doors.
The
sheriff was a softly—spoken man with a drooping walrus moustache
and a deliberate, gentle air. His bushy eyebrows climbed a fraction
when Wells produced his credentials and asked his
questions.
‘
Department of Justice? he said, tapping his teeth with a
pencil. ‘That’s high-powered stuff to be interested in an
alley-fight.’
‘
You
had one, then?’
Whitehill nodded. ‘Kid by the name of Angel, would you believe
it? He was found in a gully by one of the girls from the Red Onion
— that’s a saloon down the street — takin’ a miner home with her.
He was in bad shape.’
‘
Was?’
Whitehill nodded. ‘Looks like he’ll pull through,’ he said.
‘No thanks to the men who fixed his wagon, though.’
‘
Any
indication what happened?
‘
I
spoke to the boy when he came round,’ Whitehill told him. ‘He was
pretty tightlipped about the whole thing. Wouldn’t give me too much
detail, but I did some scouting around, pieced it all
together.’
Wells
started to roll a cigarette, offered the cotton sack of Bull Durham
to the sheriff. Whitehill shook his head.
‘
Tryin’ to give it up,’ he said. ‘Don’t know as I’ll do her,
though. Well, sir, what I figure happened was three or four fellers
took that bitty kid out behind a pile o’ lumber there an’ beat him
within an inch of his life. Then someone who knew exactly what he
was doin’ started in on kickin’ what was left o’ the life out of
him. Then he was stripped naked an’ tossed into the gully where he
was found. Whoever done it probably figgered the kid was dead
already but just to make sure he put a few bullets into him. One
through the belly and one through each leg.’
Despite himself, Wells shuddered. He told Whitehill about the
raid on the Gibbons farm, the robbery of the Army payroll, Angel’s
pursuit of the seven men, the fight at Torelli’s, all of
it.
‘
Shoot,’ Whitehill said. ‘Hardly seems possible. That boy
can’t be more than twenty.’
‘
He
did it,’ Wells told him. ‘Believe me.’
‘
No
wonder they done that to him, then,’ Whitehill said, tapping his
teeth again with the pencil. ‘It’d be by way of warnin’ anyone else
who had a mind to follow them that it was a poor idea.’ He let his
eyes rest squarely on Wells.
‘
Can
I see the boy?’ Wells asked.
‘
Sure, I can fix that,’ Whitehill said. ‘You goin’ after them
fellers?’
Wells
nodded grimly. ‘I know where they’ll be heading,’ he said. ‘But
maybe you can help me some. Ask around. Someone must have seen them
here. I’ll give you a list of the names. I need descriptions: what
they were wearing, whether they had beards or not, what kind of
horses they were riding, whether — ’
‘
I
think I can guess the kind of thing you’ll want,’ Whitehill said
drily. ‘I’ll take you over to the Southern, an’ then do some askin’
round. You want to look in here later?’
They
got up and walked together down the street to the two-storey brick
building with the big wooden sign nailed to the railed gallery on
the first floor. Whitehill nodded to the desk clerk and led the way
to a room at the back of the hotel, and went in. Wells followed,
getting his first look at Frank Angel.
The
boy’s face was puffed and swollen, huge black bruises marking the
area from his eyebrows to his jawbone. His right hand was swathed
in bandages, and Wells could see more bandages crisscrossing the
lower part of the chest. Angel watched them come in with eyes both
expressionless and wary.
‘
Son,
this here is Mr. Wells, wants to ask you a few questions,’ the
sheriff said. ‘You feel like talkin’ any?’
Angel
said nothing. Wells looked at Whitehill who shrugged, and then
turned and went out of the room.
Wells
looked around and found a chair, which he pulled alongside the
bed.
‘
So
you’re Frank Angel,’ he said.
Angel
lowered his eyelids in acknowledgement.
‘
My
name is Angus Wells, son,’ Wells said. ‘I’m a lawman. Want to show
you something.’
He
reached into his pocket and brought out a badge.
It
was circular and at its centre was the screaming eagle of the
United States. Around the border were the words ‘Department of
Justice, United States of America’. Wells held it where Angel could
see it.
‘
I’m
what the Department of Justice calls a Special Investigator,
Frank,’ he said. He smiled humorlessly. ‘Senior Special
Investigator, actually. I’m acting under direct orders from the
Attorney-General of the USA. You understand?’ Again the slow
movement of the eyelids. Nothing more.
‘
Now
you and I seem to be looking for the same people, son, even if we
have different reasons,’ Wells went on. ‘I want Cravetts and his
raiders because they robbed an Army payroll, as well as for what
they did at the Gibbons place. If we can arrest them, they’ll hang,
every man jack of them. But I need all the help I can get tracking
them down. How about telling me what you know?’
‘
Arrest?’ The word came from the split, swollen lips as if it
had been pulled out with pliers.
‘
It
says Department of Justice on the badge, son,’ Wells said gently.
‘Not Department of Revenge.’
‘
My
way better,’ Angel said.
Wells
shook his head. ‘No it isn’t, boy, and I’ll tell you why. You may
think you have the best reasons in the world for tracking down
Cravetts and his bunch and killing them like the animals they
undoubtedly are, but you’re forgetting something. By killing them
you are placing yourself in grave danger of becoming as much a
murderer as any of them. Even if what happened to you’ — he nodded
at the bandages — ‘wasn`t warning enough that you’re not equipped
to handle men like these.’
‘
Doin’ all right,’ mumbled Angel.
‘
When
you had surprise on your side, boy,’ snapped Wells. ‘When they
didn’t know you were after them! But now they know your face. You
come within twenty yards of them again and you’ll be dead.
Goddammit! You’re lucky to be alive as it is!’
‘
Tough on them,’ the boy in the bed said. ‘Mistake they’ll
regret.’
Wells
looked at him as if he had gone completely mad.
‘
Are
you telling me you’re going to go after them again?’ he
said.
Angel
gave the assent sign with his eyelids.
Wells
let his breath out in an exasperated rush.
‘
Have
you got any idea how bad hurt you were?’ he said, regretting his
words the moment he had said them and saw the flurry of pain and
panic come into the younger man’s eyes.
‘
Son,’ Wells said gently, ‘you won’t be able to ride for a
month or more. Maybe not even then. By that time Cravetts and his
men will be long gone. You can’t start out on a cold trail again.
Leave off now. You’ve done more than anyone could have expected of
you. Juba’s dead, so that's one less for me to worry about. And —
’
‘
Two
more,’ Angel said. ‘Sharp and Kamins.’
‘
Wha
— what about Sharp and Kamins?’ Wells said, sharply.
‘
Dead,’ Angel said. ‘Killed them. Las Vegas.’
‘
You
killed Milt Sharp and Howie Kamins?’ Wells said in astonished
voice. ‘How? Did you bushwhack them?’
Angel
moved his head slightly from side to side.
‘
You
took on two of the best guns in the Territory and came out alive?
Listen, son — ’
‘
It’s
true.’ There was such finality in Angel’s voice that Wells stilled
his own outburst. It could be possible. It was unbelievable but it
could be possible. The element of surprise ...
‘
You
used a gun much?’ he said, artlessly, changing the subject. Angel
made the head-shaking movement again.
‘
Know
anything about gunfighting? Snap-shooting? Fast draw?’
Again
the headshake.
‘
Blind luck!’ Wells said, flatly. ‘You ran in blind luck. You
took on casehardened gunmen and came out of it alive because you
were a fool for luck, Angel! The minute you were out there on your
own and they knew you for who you were, your luck ran out. And they
cut you up like a side of beef!’ He stood up, gesturing
contemptuously at the figure in the bed. ‘Look at yourself!’ he
said. ‘You think you’re in any kind of shape to take on these men?
Christ, boy, they’d eat you for breakfast and look around for
seconds!’
Angel
had turned his head away. Wells stopped, suddenly embarrassed at
his own vehemence. He thought he could see the glint of tears in
the boy’s eyes.
‘
Well, haarrumph! Well, now,’ he said, sitting down again.
‘Didn’t mean to be hard on you, son. But catching men like these is
for pros. You tell me about them. Anything you can. What they look
like. How they talk. Dress, anything. I’ll track them on down to
Lordsburg. That’s where they’ll be. Then I’ll take them. Listen:
with your help or without it, I’m going after them: You help me,
it’ll be that much easier. But I’m going anyway, son. That’s my
job.’
Angel
had turned over in the bed and Wells saw he had been listening
carefully. He didn’t say anything more, just sat
waiting.
There
were a long couple of minutes of silence, and then Angel started to
talk. He told Wells about the Gibbons ranch, and what had happened
and then he told him the rest. He talked as long as he could, his
throat working sometimes to keep back the tears of anger at his own
stupidity, described what he could remember about the night he had
gone running up the alley after Torelli. Towards the end, his voice
started to drift a little, and when he had finished, he was asleep
in an instant, exhausted. Wells stood up, looking down at the
battered face. He let himself quietly out of the room and went back
across the street to Whitehill’s office.
The
sheriff looked up, his curiosity plain on his face.
‘
That’s quite a boy,’ he said. ‘Quite a boy.’
Whitehill nodded. ‘Must have the constitution of an ox to
still be alive,’ he confirmed. ‘What they did to him would’ve
killed many a grown man.’
Wells
sat down in the chair opposite the sheriff s desk. He told him
briefly most — but not all — of what Angel had said, and then asked
Whitehill if he had learned anything. Whitehill nodded.
‘
Four
o’ them, there was,’ he said. ‘Someone remembered them in the
Orpheum drinking. Once I had the names it wasn’t hard. They was
three at first: they took rooms with Katy Antrim down the end of
the street. Her boy Henry remembered them — smart youngster. Gave
me some useful stuff. What they were wearing, like that.
The
fourth one came the day after them. They left town the night the
Angel kid was beaten up. Took the Lordsburg road.’ He picked up the
pencil, tapping his teeth with it. ‘You going after them?’ he
asked.
‘
I
could use some help,’ Wells said quietly.
‘
Like
to give it,’ Whitehill said, his face serious, ‘but Lordsburg ain’t
my bailiwick, Wells. I got no authority outside of Grant
County.’
‘
The
United States Marshal is at Santa Fe,’ Wells reminded him
quietly.
‘
I
know it,’ Whitehill said. ‘I could come down there with you —
unofficial-like, if you’ve a mind.’
Wells
shook his head. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m beholden to you for
offering. It wouldn’t look good for you if we caught up with them
and you were involved — unofficial—like.’ He smiled to take any
offence from the words.
‘
What
you want me to do?’Whitehill asked.
‘
You
could get a telegraph message through for me to Washington,’ Wells
told him. ‘If any of our people are in this part of the world,
maybe they can get word to them. Have them send a reply to
Lordsburg.’
‘
Easy
done,’ Whitehill said. ‘Anything else?’
‘
The
kid,’ Wells said. ‘What’ll happen to him?’
Whitehill shrugged. ‘He’ll have to work some to pay off his
doctor bills — when he can,’ he said.
‘
Send
him back home,’ Wells said. ‘Don’t let him come after
me.’
He
opened his money-belt and pulled out some notes.
‘
A
hundred and fifty,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything over, give it to
the kid for clothes. Then put him on a train and send him back to
Kansas. OK?’
‘
OK
with me,’ Whitehill said heavily. ‘You checked with
him?’