Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) (15 page)

The last muted sounds of the bugle blowing
retreat had faded, and the flag had been furled and put in its
canvas sack. Lights were coming on here and there in the buildings
around the Fort. The sky was streaked with purple and black. In the
bunk-houses the men who had been at the raided ranches told
ever-gorier anecdotes of what they had found and what they had seen
to their open-mouthed comrades who had remained on the post.

In the guardhouse, the two
soldiers on duty brought Larkin his food. One of them unlocked the
padlock and stood back, rifle canted casually while the other came
into the cell with the tray of food for the prisoner. At the
beginning they had done this warily, watching Larkin like hawks,
but he had totally ignored them, sitting slouched on his cot as he
was doing now, his head turned away. Neither man was expecting
tonight to be any different; they were thinking of the game they
had broken
off to bring Larkin his grub.

Larkin came off the cot like a tiger, his
long arm wrapping around the neck of the guard bending to put down
the tray, cutting off his wind and preventing any outcry. He bent
the man backwards like a bow, even as the other guard opened his
mouth, the rifle coming level, unsure whether to shout out or to
fire the rifle and in his moment of hesitation, Larkin let the
guard see the gun.

‘
Freeze!’ he hissed. The soldier froze. ‘Drop the rifle ...
easy!’ The Spencer clattered to the floor and as it did, Larkin
released the guard he had been throttling, letting the man slump to
his knees. Larkin smashed him to the floor with a sweeping blow
from the gun barrel. The man went down flat without a whimper.
Larkin stepped over the guard’s body and jammed the gun into the
belly of the gaping boy in the corridor.

‘
Move,’ he snapped, herding the guard into the outer room,
picking up the Spencer as he did. Through the window Larkin could
see the parade ground: it lay silent and empty. He told the young
guard to turn around and the boy half turned away, his fear
evident, trying to see Larkin out of the corner of his eye, trying
to summon the courage to shout. Larkin hit him very hard just above
the ear with the barrel of the gun, and again as the boy fell to
his knees. The soldier measured his length on the packed dirt
floor, his legs kicking slightly. Blood dribbled from the open
mouth. Then Larkin went to the door, opening it a few inches, a
foot wide. Nothing. He grabbed a handful of shells for the Spencer
from an ammunition pouch hanging on a wall peg, and stuffed them in
his pocket. His mouth was drawn wide in a snarling grin as he eased
through the open door, hugging the wall of the guardhouse like a
shadow, sliding along its face and into the dark of the alley
between the guardhouse and a long low building which stood
opposite.

The alley was as black as the cellars of
hell and Larkin moved carefully, testing the ground with each foot
before putting his weight on it. Behind the guardhouse was an open
yard, with a low adobe wall about ten yards away. Beyond it was the
open plain.

Larkin rounded the corner of
the building and stood stock still in the shadow. There was no sign
of a horse behind the guardhouse. He swore
silently. That puffed-up idiot of a
boy lieutenant! He slid around the corner, in case the horse was at
the far side. Nothing. A touch of coolness, something in the air, a
feeling coming from the far side of nowhere touched the nape of his
neck, insidious and chilling. As the thought formed in his mind he
saw a figure rise behind the adobe wall, pistol in hand.

‘
Corporal of the Guard!’ the man yelled. ‘Corporal of the
Guard - prisoner escaping!’ Ellis! Larkin threw himself backwards
into the sand as the lieutenant fired a shot which whacked a hunk
of adobe out of the wall of the guardhouse. Larkin swarmed to his
feet, finding the wall on the far side of the alley, hearing Ellis
fire the gun again, probably into the air, no bullet came, Larkin
swift-footing behind the long building, crouched down so that his
body did not show black against the white frames of the windows set
at shoulder height in the wall. He heard hoarse shouts as men
turned out in response to the shouts and the firing, running feet
crunching on the gravel of the parade ground.

He saw figures coming into the
open from the darkness of the alley he had just vacated and went
down on one knee, aiming the Spencer, letting the flat hard sound
of the rifle drive them diving for cover like prairie dogs touched
by the shadow of a hawk, and levered another shell into the breech,
looking for a target, looking for escape simultaneously, running,
crouched, another twenty yards, out away from the building as
someone by the guardhouse turned loose with a
six-gun. Hoarse commands, and
the firing stopped. He heard someone shout

‘
Can
you see him, sir?’ It was the big sergeant.

Larkin pulled the Army Colt
from his belt and fired three shots at the windows of the long
building - a bunkhouse, enlisted men
’s quarters? The shattering glass brought
oaths and the sound of running feet, and he could vaguely see bulky
shapes on the ground crawling rapidly towards the spot at which he
had fired. He was already running, but this time across the path of
his pursuers like a banderillero quartering across the path of the
bull, heading for the wall behind the guardhouse. More men were
pouring into the yard now and he saw Ellis running long-legged
across the guardhouse yard and he smiled. If he died for it. . . .
The six-gun, laid across Larkin’s forearm for steadiness, spoke
abruptly and Ellis faltered in mid-stride, as if he had tripped on
something. He went on running but he was going sideways and down
and he reeled into the dirt face first, legs kicking high in
agony.

Larkin scuttled to the far end
of the wall, and heard Sergeant Battle shout an order which brought
all the men to their feet, running hard at the wall where he had
been, and as they moved, Larkin moved in the opposite direction,
close to the ground, shielded by the purple night, back to the wall
of the guardhouse and out into the open without thought when he saw
a soldier come flailing up the alley on horseback, bearing down on
the knotted men ahead. Larkin fired the Spencer from the hip as the
soldier came into the yard and the man
cart wheeled out of the saddle, and
then Larkin was in the saddle. He threw the rifle at a man who
reached up for him, rode another man down. He fired the rest of the
bullets in the Army Colt into the stricken faces ahead and then he
was past them and around the end of the adobe wall, hearing the
shouts behind him and the flat boom of rifles. Slugs zipped angrily
in the air, lost in the rushing wind as Larkin rode flat out into
the darkness, fading into the night, four dead and two wounded on
the ground in the yard of the guard-house.

Mill got his horse from the
livery stable and rode out of town. A mile or two along the old
Spanish Trail he stopped at a hacienda. It was a rambling, colonial
style of house, with a
pillared portico and one of those iron jockeys
with a ring in his hand next to a mounting stone such as were
popular back east in the big Virginia mansions. From the shelter of
a stand of scrub oak, Angel watched the man tie his horse to the
iron ring and after a moment, go in. Angel tethered the dun to one
of the trees and using such cover as he could find, worked his way
close to the house. There was a white board fence, warped a little
by the sun, and grass had been planted in front of the house. He
eased over the fence, taking up a position behind a big cottonwood
which shaded the house.

The man who came behind him
must have been specially trained, for he was a big man. The grass
muffled his approach, and Angel was much too late to act when he
heard the last movement. The sound of a hammer being eased back
froze him, and he held his hands away from the gun at his
side.
‘That’s good, suh,’ the voice said. Angel turned to see a
huge black man standing in the sunlight, a brand new Winchester
carbine leveled at him. The man jerked the barrel of the gun,
indicating that Angel should walk towards the house. When he
reached the porch the Negro stayed at the foot of the steps.
Another much older Negro opened the door, and inside Angel saw
Willy Mill smiling at him flatly. Standing next to Mill was a
well-built man with a shock of white hair crowning a leonine head.
His smile of welcome was warm and friendly, the keen blue eyes
bright in a maze of laughter wrinkles. The shock of recognition
must have showed on Angel’s face, for the man laughed out
loud.

‘
I see
you know me, Mr. Angel,’ he said. ‘Come in, come in.’

‘
Senator,’ Angel acknowledged.

The man shook his head.
‘You are a foolish
man, Mr. Angel,’ he said, a trace of sadness in his voice. ‘I had
hoped this would not happen.’

‘
I can
imagine,’ Angel said drily. ‘Senator Ludlow Burnstine of Arizona:
employing a psychopathic killer isn’t quite the image you’ve been
trying to give people in Washington.’

Burnstine shook his head again,
as though at the folly of mankind. His clothes were unobtrusive but
obviously expensive, well cut. He wore them like a man who needs to
give no thought to his appearance. His calf boots glowed with the
sheen that only long and diligent polishing can impart to leather.
The politician
’s face was tanned, handsome. A real actor, thought Angel.
Burnstine was a popular figure in Washington, his Georgetown house
an oasis of good food, good wine, and the top-drawer of Washington
society. His reputation as a
bon-vivant
was complemented by the healthy respect accorded
him by his political enemies. Ludlow Burnstine was a powerful man
and the revelation of his involvement in the affairs of Daranga was
shocking in a way. The man certainly didn’t need money, Angel
thought. The high-ceilinged hallway in which they stood was tiled
with intricately patterned Moorish tiles. Plants flourished in the
greenhouse atmosphere created by tinted windows let into the
ceiling. Somewhere Angel could hear the soft sound of a fountain
playing.

‘
Shall
we go inside?’ Burnstine said, gesturing to the doorway on the
left, every bit the gracious host with the unexpected caller. They
went into a fine, masculine room, warm with oak paneling, the big
desk topped with gold-tooled leather that looked Florentine. There
were shelves packed with richly bound books on one side of the
room. The floor was carpeted, heavy drapes shaded the windows.
Angel whistled through his teeth.

‘
You
sure do have it nice, Senator,’ he observed. ‘What you’re doing
doesn’t make sense.’

‘
Oh,
come now, Mr. Angel,’ Burnstine said. ‘Let us not argue before we
know each other. William, a chair for Mr. Angel.’ Mill growled an
oath, but Burnstine just looked at him, and the fat man grudgingly
pushed a fat winged-arm chair an inch towards Angel.

‘
Let
me offer you a drink,’ Burnstine said, waving an arm towards a
trolley on which was arrayed a glittering selection of cut glass
decanters and glasses.

‘
Whiskey, perhaps? Or bourbon? Name it, I’m sure we can take
care of you.’ He smiled, docking his head at his own words. ‘That’s
rather good, I must say.’

‘
Lovely,’ Angel said. ‘Whiskey is fine.’

Burnsdine nodded, the nod of a man approving
the judgment of an inferior, and poured a healthy measure into one
of the crystal glasses.

‘
Eight
years old,’ he said proudly, handing the glass over. ‘I have it
freighted here from San Francisco. Twenty dollars a bottle and
worth every cent of it’

Angel sipped the drink. It was a pleasant
change from Arizona rotgut and he said so. Burnstine flinched at
this lapse of taste.

‘
When
you get to my time of life, you appreciate the finer things,’ he
said.

‘
None
of us is getting any younger,’ he added, his smile as mellow as
brandy.

‘
I’m
impressed, I’m impressed,’ Angel said. ‘Now, do you want to tell me
what this’ - he jerked a thumb at the fat man slumped in his chair
pouring the fine brandy he had poured for himself down his gullet-
‘is doing here?’

‘
Let
us not mince words with each other, Mr. Angel,’ Burnstine said. ‘Do
not attempt to act the innocent with me. At least pay me the
compliment of speaking truthfully.’

Angel nodded, and took another sip of the
whiskey.

‘
OK,’
he said. ‘The murders at the high country ranches in Daranga were
ordered by you, carried out by Boot and this one and a gang of
mercenaries from — where, Grant County?’

‘
Very
good, very good,’ Burnsdine said, smiling like a fond parent with a
clever child.

‘
And
Larkin?’

Burnstine smiled.
‘Of course. Larkin,
too.’

‘
Why?’

‘
It
seemed better to present a mystery to the good people of Daranga.
They could obviously not connect the killings to Boot and Mill, and
so they would not by definition connect them to others ... others
which had happened.’

‘
Stupid,’ Angel said flatly.

‘
Not
stupid,’ Burnstine said softly. ‘I do not mind telling you, Mr.
Angel, since I am sure you are aware that you will not live to
repeat what I say. There was a time factor.’

‘
Go
on.’

‘
All
in good time. First you must tell me what your Department knows of
events in Daranga.’

‘
Everything,’ Angel said.

‘
I
think not, my dear fellow. I am not without my own sources of
information on Capitol Hill.’

‘
So
I’ve heard.’

‘
It
perturbs me only slightly that the Justice people have seen fit to
meddle in my affairs. In Washington, your friend the Attorney
General may wield a certain limited power. No more, perhaps, than a
dozen others including myself. Here in Arizona, however, I am the
law, all-powerful, all-seeing. Shall I tell you how powerful I
am?’

‘
Could
I stop you?’

Burnstine ignored the
jibe.
‘The
barber who shaved you and shared your beer, the Mexican boy who ran
your errands, the hostler whom you treated so cavalierly - all of
them sent word, via various means, to me. I knew every step you
took here in Tucson as I do every step that any man
takes.’

‘
What
about your flesh-peddler?’

Burnsdine’s
lip curled with
distaste.

‘
That
is none of your concern, although William and I may have words
about it later,’ the old man said. Willy Mill shifted uneasily in
the chair, reaching for the brandy again. ‘But in the ultimate
analysis, I am satisfied that what happened to the girl was for the
best.’

‘
For
you, or for her?’

‘
You
are impertinent, Mr. Angel, but you have a certain rough wit which
I rather regret I shall not be able to cultivate. Let me remind you
that you still live only because I permitted it.’

‘
You
may be a little tin God down here in Tucson, Senator,’ Angel said.
‘But whatever you’re up to, you won’t get away with it. There are
too many weak links.’

Burnstine reached behind him
for a teak humidor, and
offered Angel a cigar. When Angel shook his head,
the old man shrugged and took a silver cigar cutter from his vest
pocket, trimming the end of the cigar, making a ceremony of
lighting it.

‘
Pure
Havana,’ he said, inhaling the blue smoke. ‘What weak links?’ The
old eyes were shrewd in their pouched, wrinkled lashless
sockets.

‘
Larkin, for one,’ Angel said. ‘He’s under arrest in Fort
Daranga. When he goes for trial, he’ll talk. He won’t do twenty
years in Yuma for you, Senator.’

‘
Larkin,’ smiled Burnstine softly, ‘Ah, yes.’ He took a
watch from a fob pocket.

‘
I
would say Mr. Larkin is probably being buried at Fort Daranga right
now.’

‘
Buried?’

‘
Ley
del fuego,
I
imagine they’ll say,’ Burnstine smiled. ‘Killed while trying to
escape.’

‘
Then
I was right about that, too,’ Angel said, his lips tight. ‘Thompson
is—’

‘
Of
course,’ Burnstine waved a hand. A diamond winked in the
sunlight.

‘
Another weak link,’ Angel pointed out.

‘
Bah,’
snorted the old man. ‘Thompson? The man’s a wreck. Cards, liquor,
women - when word of his personal proclivities reaches the right
ears he’ll be drummed out of the Army. Who’d believe the ravings of
a court-martialed drunkard?’

Angel stuck grimly to his guns.
You
’ve been
pushed into the open, man,’ he said. ‘If I disappear, if any more
killings happen in the Rio Blanco country, the Department will move
in on you in force. You’ll be finished.’

Burnstine leaned forward. He
jabbed with the cigar to emphasize his points as he spoke.
‘Listen, Mr. Angel’
-jab -’there will be no more trouble in the Rio Blanco country.’
Jab. ‘The Circle C and the Perry ranch will be sold to pay the
mortgages, and I’ -jab - ‘I will own them.’

‘
I
thought Birch and Reynolds owned all that land up
there?’

‘
Nominally they do,’ Burnstine said. ‘But they have no
resources of their own. Everything of theirs is mortgaged to the
hilt - to me. They are merely - what is the phrase - men of straw,
front men for me. That land is mine.’

‘
You
ever going to tell me why it was worth killing so many people
for?’

‘
But
of course, my dear fellow,’ Burnstine said, leaning back
expansively.

‘
It
would be most unfair to ask that you face your death without at
least the satisfaction of knowing why you are dying.’ He gestured
again with the cigar, jabbing to emphasize his remarks. ‘In two
months’ time, the Rio Blanco will be dammed at Twin Peaks. The high
country will be partially flooded to make a huge irrigation
reservoir, and the lower valley will become one of the most fertile
pieces of land in the West. Imagine it! Orange trees, peach
orchards! Huge tracts of farming land worth millions. The desert
will bloom, Angel. Our bountiful Government is going to spend ten
million dollars to make it bloom - for me!’ His eyes glowed with an
almost religious light. ‘There are over two hundred thousand acres
on the Reynolds place, nearly as much again on the Birch ranch.
When the project is completed, land in the Rio Blanco valley will
sell for fifty, a hundred dollars an acre. Think of it, man! Forty
million dollars! Do you think I would let one man, ten men, a
hundred stand in the way of that? I will be the richest man in the
United States. In Washington, I will use that wealth to its
greatest effect. I will sway the President, the Cabinet. This
country will be mine to play with like a puppet!’ He paused,
letting the lambent light dim slightly in his eyes, regaining his
self-control. Sweat was beading his brow. He let his breath out
slowly.

‘
So,
Mr. Angel. I have told you this to show you my power. I doubt that
your civil servant’s mentality can grasp the immensity of what I
have done, but you must now realize how futile your efforts to
prevent my realizing my ambitions really were.’

‘
You
know, of course, that you are insane,’ Angel told him.

Burnstine lurched to his feet,
and with a swift movement
came around the desk. He towered over the seated
man, and drew back his hand. Angel awaited the blow impassively but
it never came. Burnstine’s hand dropped, and a smile touched his
spittle-flecked lips.