Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2)

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.

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.

‘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 ...’

One of the other soldiers got
up and came across to Blackstone, putting an arm around his
shoulders.
‘Come on, Blackie,’ he said, ‘knock that off. Excuse him,
mister,’ he said with a pleading glance at Angel and then at the
two men along the bar, who were still ignoring the proceedings,
‘he’s just plain drunk. He’ll be all right when he’s had a
slee—’

Blackstone threw off the
friendly arm. He looked indignant,
but it was the indignation of the drunk
who knows he is wrong and does not care.

‘
Drunk, is it,’ he said. ‘Well, maybe. Ain’t so drunk as I
can’t tell a man the truth. Any man!’ he said defiantly, glaring at
the indifferent duo along the bar. ‘Take my advice, stranger. Steer
clear of Daranga.’

‘
Blackie—’ remonstrated the other soldier. ‘He don’t need
your advice. And we don’t need no trouble with Al Birch,
neither.’

Blackie again shook off the restraining
hands.

‘
No.
Lemme alone,’ he said deliberately. ‘S’about time someone said it.
Tol’ truth. Owns this place. Owns the whole goddam place. Not a man
here isn’t up to his ears in debt to them for liquor or women or
cards or some damn thing. When he says shit everybody better squat,
and you can tie to that.’

‘
I’ll
keep it in mind,’ Angel said. ‘You’d better—’

Without warning he was thrust aside by a
burly arm, and the two men who had been studiously ignoring the
conversation went on past him and confronted the young soldier.

“
You’re doin’ a lot o’ jawin’, Blackie,’ one of them
rasped.

‘
Huh?
Oh, h’lo, Johnny.’

‘
Don’t
hello me, you little bastard,’ snapped the one called Johnny. ‘I’ve
warned you before about the way you shoot your mouth
off.’

‘
That’s right,’ whispered the second man. Angel really
looked at him for the first time. Short, squat, the man had in his
eyes a look which was identical to that of a rattler eyeing an
especially juicy prairie dog. His tongue flickered out and touched
wet, full lips. His right hand, covered in a fine black kid glove,
clenched and unclenched. Angel had never seen a man in this country
with such white skin. The man’s fat face showed no sign that the
sun had ever touched it. He was dressed in brown: brown shirt,
brown leather pants that stretched skin tight across his enormous
back and buttocks. He lisped slightly on the letter ‘s’ when he
spoke.

‘
That’s right,’ he repeated. You know Al doesn’t like it,
Blackie. And that means we don’t like it, either.’

‘
Birch
is a first-class sonofabitch, Mill. You know it and I know it and
everyone else knows it. Stopping people sayin’ it won’t change the
facts.’

Blackie was erect and his eyes flashed with
anger, but those watching knew that the alcohol was doing a lot of
the talking. There was a great silence in the room.

‘
You
keep callin’ Birch names, you’re liable to wind up in the desert,
face-up with the buzzards pickin’ on you,’ grated the one called
Johnny. He was a man of medium height; his hair was long and
streaked with grey, and he wore the vest and pants of a blue serge
suit. His shirt was almost white and had figured patterns stitched
into it. He wore no tie or kerchief around his neck, and his hat
was a wide brimmed derby, slanted to one side of his square head.
His eyes were set deep in his head, and huge dark pouches were
etched beneath them. His face was high-cheekboned and drawn, and
Angel recalled seeing such faces in hospitals back East. It was the
face of a man dying of a pulmonary disease. The thin shoulders and
bony physique reinforced the similarity.