Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) Read online

  Angel grinned to himself, the grin pasted on him like a skull mask. ‘Wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t for the pension,’ he told himself, repeating an old Civil Service joke. He slept fitfully, thinking of his comfortable rooms in Washington. He dreamed he was swimming in the Potomac, the water soft and balmy on one of those hot, muggy days you sometimes got back home in June. He woke before dawn, shivering still, moving around, flailing his arms about to get warm. By daybreak he was already on the move again.

  The sun started its climb up the side of the sky, and he looked ahead to the mountains, which seemed no nearer now than they had been when he started. He knew he must find water soon, and yet he lurched on through the wilderness, something driving him forward. It was nearly noon when Kate Perry found him, and by that time he was almost out of his head with thirst.

  Chapter Eight

  Kate Perry was twenty-four. She was not beautiful by the standards of the East, which liked its women to have ‘flawless’ white skin and a languid manner. Kate was a healthy girl; her cheeks were smooth, and the sun’s caress had tanned them to a golden brown. Nor did she have the hourglass figure so beloved of the advertisements. Hers was a supple, natural body; she neither pandered to fashion nor cared for artifice. Kate Perry was a western girl born and bred, and no amount of schooling in the East could ever knock it out of her. And thus it was that when she saw the stumbling, sun-crazed figure lurching through the broken landscape, Kate Perry did not faint or scream or run away. She touched her heels to the pony’s sides and jogged towards Angel. He saw her come and stood watching her with a wary look, the look of a man at the end of his rope who cannot take the disappointment of discovering that his last hope is some bitter joke played by light and sun on the desert. But when she called out to him, Angel knew that Kate Perry was no mirage, and then he let go, his body slumping to the ground. She slid out of the saddle, her canteen in her hand. Cradling Angel’s head, she let some of the water trickle between his lips, snatching the bottle away when he tried to grab weakly for it.

  ‘No you don’t,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ll have to take it easy, my friend. Who are you?’

  He told her his name, his voice cracked with fatigue and pain. Then she saw the stiffened blood at his waist and the dark bruises on his blistered body. Laying his head back gently on the sand, Kate Perry went across to her horse and pulled a Winchester carbine from the saddle holster. Levering the action she fired the gun into the air once, twice, three times, in quick succession, sounding the prairie SOS which she knew would soon bring riders from the Perry ranch to her side. It was a system they had practiced many times, for she had come across dead men in this country before. The enmity between the valley ranchers and those on the high chaparral was perhaps dormant, but her father had drilled into her the necessity of always being within gunshot sound of help. She sat on her heels, gently bathing Angel’s lips and head, until the riders from the home ranch reached her.

  ‘I guess I owe you my life,’ Angel said, trying to sit up in the bed. The feel of cool cotton sheets on his skin was like balm.

  His blistered body had been treated with a soft salve that had taken away the agony. His wound had been dressed and bandaged. His horse had been found and tended to. And they had told him where he was: on the Perry ranch, about thirty miles due west of Fort Daranga.

  ‘You don’t owe us nothin’,’ George Perry told him. He was not a young man, and the years he had spent in this hostile land had left their marks on his face, which was lined deeply and saddle brown beneath a crown of crisp white hair cut short as any West Pointer’s.

  ‘Any man runs afoul of them varmints is lucky to come out alive,” he added. ‘Folks say them two have been behind quite a few killin's in these parts.’

  ‘Not to their faces, they don’t,’ said Kate Perry. ‘The cowards.’

  ‘Now, honey, it ain’t cowardice to face the fact that a man’d as soon gut shoot you as take a drink,’ Perry said mildly. ‘Meetin’ that Mill on a dark night’d like to turn any man’s stomach. Say. honey, did you tell Mr. Angel he warn’t the first man you’d found out on the desert?’

  Kate Perry shuddered, and the old man grinned a little.

  ‘Don’t like to talk about it much, she don’t,’ he said. ‘She run across a feller out there a few months back. Someone done a real job on him.’

  ‘It was awful,’ the girl said. ‘Whoever did it must have been insane.’

  ‘Freeman, his name was,’ Perry said, undaunted. ‘First we thought mebbe some young buck’d been full o’ rotgut an’ taken it out on this feller. But he turned out to be some kind o’ Gov’ment man. Surveyor or somethin’. Deader’n a doornail, anyway.’

  Angel let nothing show on his face. Kate Perry bustled about, smoothing down the rumpled bed-clothes. Her patient was showing signs of restlessness, and she chided him with a wagging linger.

  ‘No you don’t, Mr. Angel,’ she said. ‘You are going to stay put for another twenty-four hours at least.’

  ‘Aw, ma’am, I feel fine,’ Angel argued. ‘Besides, this much bed is about as much as I can take, meaning no offense. You’ve been mighty kind, but I got to get up and about.’

  ‘You never did say what brung you into these parts, boy,’ Perry said. ‘Not that I’m pryin’,’ he added, conscious of the fact that it was sometimes best not to ask too many questions of drifters who might have the law on their back trail and prefer not to talk about it.

  ‘No, I’m not on the run,’ Angel grinned. ‘But I figure I’d like to do a little rising from the dead in Daranga just to see what those two do when I walk in.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise it, boy,’ Perry said softly. ‘They’re meaner’n pizen an’ twice as fast. You take it easy a couple more days. Get the strength back into you. Besides, Walt Clare is comin’ over here tonight Sparkin’ young Missy there,’ he said, bringing a flush of color to Kate Perry’s cheeks.’ ’Spect we’ll have to feed that big ox again. He can eat more’n a starvin’ wildcat. Love that does it, I reckon.’ He stumped out of the room, grinning, and Angel found the scenery engrossing for long enough to give Kate a chance to compose her features.

  After a moment he asked a question.

  ‘Walt is our neighbor,’ she explained. ‘He runs a spread south of where I found you - the Lazy C. He and I are ... sort of... engaged.’ The blush was back, mantling her cheeks.

  ‘He’s a lucky man,’ Angel said - and meant it. Kate Perry was a pretty girl.

  ‘Oh, fiddlesticks,’ she said. ‘You’re just sweet talkin’ me so I’ll let you get up out of that bed.’

  ‘It did cross my mind,’ Angel admitted.

  ‘You can get up at suppertime,’ she said with mock severity. ‘Not a minute before.’

  ‘Then stay awhile,’ he said. You can tell me a few things.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ she said with a mischievous grin. “You get some sleep. Tonight you and Walt and Daddy can talk your fool heads off. Do you like steak?’

  ‘If there’s nothing else,’ Angel said and ducked as she threw a pillow at him. She went out of the bedroom and he lay back, hands clasped behind his head. The Perrys seemed like decent folk, the salt of the earth. Men like George Perry had tamed as much of this land as was tamable, scraping a living from the hostile earth, defending themselves against the ever recurring Apache outbreaks. They would have been embarrassed if he had called them pioneers to their faces; but that was what they were. When the history of this country was written, their names and the names of thousands like them would never appear. Yet they were making this history - they and people with the same firm belief that one day this would be a fine country for people to live in. But it was the wild bunch, men like Boot and Mill and the men who supported their killing ways, who would be remembered. History had a funny way of enshrining the badmen. Go to Missouri and they’d tell you what a fine man Charley Quantrill had really been. The ordinary men and women he had slaughtered at Lawrence would not get into the history books, but Quantr
ill was sure of his place.

  He dozed lightly, his mind still working on the factional problems he had already encountered in the Rio Blanco country.

  When Walt Clare came into the ranch-house, it was as if someone had let in a big friendly bear. He gave Kate Perry a hug, whirling her off her feet as if she weighed no more than a child. He pumped George Perry’s hand, slapped the old man on the back, told them he’d left half of a deer he’d killed and skinned out on the porch. He weighed Angel up carefully when Perry introduced them; wary of strangers, Angel thought, and probably rightly so. He made no attempt to ingratiate himself, concluding correctly as it turned out later that any such attempt would have deepened Clare’s suspicions.

  They sat down to a fine meal cooked by Kate, and afterwards, while she hummed gaily to herself over the dishes, the three men lit cigars and sat on the porch. Angel knew Clare had been waiting for this moment, and grinned to himself in the darkness when the question came.

  ‘Where you hail from, Frank?’ Clare asked.

  ‘I was born in Savannah, Georgia,’ Angel told him. ‘Been kicking around most of my life. Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Kansas. Looking for that greener grass. Never have found it, but I keep on hunting.’

  ‘You know cows?’

  ‘Some,’ Angel said. ‘But I’m not looking for a job, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘You don’t talk much like a cowman,’ Clare persisted.

  ‘I’m not, though I’ve worked some spreads,’ Angel said. ‘I work for the Government.’

  ‘Territorial?’ Perry asked.

  Angel nodded. It wasn’t strictly true, but it would do. He wasn’t ready to reveal his real purpose here yet.

  ‘Mebbe you can tell me what the hell they’re up to back there in Tucson, then,’ Perry growled, ejecting a finely aimed wad of chewed tobacco in the general direction of town. ‘They shore as hell got me beat.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Lookit, son,’ Perry said, leaning forward. ‘We been losin’ cattle on and off this past three or four years. Nothin’ much -just ten head here, twenty there. Same for Walt, right?’

  Clare nodded. ‘They pick ’em off neat as flies,’ he said. ‘We let ’em. Take an army to chase a couple of men didn’t want to get caught in this country.’

  ‘Easier to let ‘em steal, yeah,’ Perry added bitterly. ‘Exceptin’ that them steers is financin’ Al Birch an’ Jacey Reynolds and that miracle herd o’ theirs over t’other side o’ the mountains.’

  ‘Savin’ it’s one thing, George,’ Clare said. ‘Provin’ it is some-thin’ else.’

  ‘Exactly what I’m sayin’ to Frank here,’ Perry burst out ‘We complained to the law in Tucson - tried to get the US marshal to send a man out here. N’ary a sign did we see he even got our letter.’

  ‘We sent a petition to the State senator, askin’ him to look into things up here. Same result,’ Clare added.

  ‘Damn, we even wrote to Washin’ton,’ Perry said angrily.

  ‘Not as you’d expect them fat-assed clerks to know the hind end of a steer from a Gila monster.’

  ‘I heard some about Birch and Reynolds at the Fort,’ Angel told them. ‘They have the contract to supply the Army with beef, I hear.’

  ‘That they do,’ Perry nodded. ‘An’ the contract for the reservation Injuns. An’ they got a monopoly on tradin’ with the Army through that store o’ theirs up at the Fort. Top of that, they got the dinero to hire a tough crew so we can’t make ‘em no trouble.’

  ‘Some of our men have been threatened,’ Clare said. ‘Nothin’ heavy, you sabe. Just a general kind of warnin’ - might be healthier if you was to take a look at some other part o’ the country. You know what I mean, Angel.’

  ‘Any of them leave?’

  ‘A few, dammit,’ Perry said. ‘Nothin’ spectac’lar. But we’re gettin’ a mite shorthanded with roundup time comin’ along.’

  ‘Where do you sell your beef?’ Angel asked.

  ‘Got to drive it clear the hellangone across to Seven Rivers in New Mexico,’ ground out Perry. ‘Sell to old Uncle John Chisum up there, an’ he’s too mean to buy a pisspot. Allus claims times are hard, prices down. A man’s lucky to break even after a year’s work.’

  ‘Supposin’ Reynolds and Birch are trying to sort of ease you out,’ Angel asked. ‘Why would they? What’s in it for them?’

  ‘Dammit, boy, that’s what we can’t figger,’ Perry exploded. ‘Takes a man all his time to make a livin’ off this land. Ain’t no use for farmin’. They got all the land they need to run cattle -more’n enough, God knows, between ‘em. You got to figger it’s just plain cussedness. They want it all just because it’s there.’

  ‘Still doesn’t seem like a good reason to go in for extortion and murder, cattle rustling, all that stuff,’ Angel offered.

  ‘Hah!’ said the old man. ‘Then you explain it to me, boy, because shore as God made little green apples, that’s what they’re doin’.’

  Clare stood up, stretching. ‘George, we’ve chawed this over a hundred times before,’ he said. ‘Never gets us nowheres. We just got to dig in our heels an’ not be shifted. One o’ these days them two’ll give up on us and let us be.’

  ‘When I grow horns,’ Perry told him sarcastically. ‘G’wan, go talk to your gal an’ leave the real talkin’ to the grownups.’

  Clare made an impolite gesture and went back into the house, and Angel turned to the old man. ‘Seems like a decent man,’ he said.

  ‘Fine boy,’ Perry agreed, ‘I’m tickled he hit it off with my Katy. Ain’t no life for a pretty girl, takin’ care of an ol’ grouch like me.’

  ‘I didn’t hear her complainin’.’

  ‘No, nor you never would,’ Perry smiled. ‘But I’d like to see her settled. I ain’t gonna last forever, son. One day this place an’ Walt’s will be one big ranch. He’ll have the muscle to give Jacey Reynolds and his sidekick Birch a run for their money, God willin’.’

  They fell into a companionable silence, the cigars wreathing them in the good tobacco smell. After a while, Walt Clare come out on to the porch with his arm around Kate Perry. Angel stood up, and the old rancher peered at the two young people with a mischievous grin.

  You two done with your kissin’?’ he growled. ‘Took you long enough.’

  ‘Oh, Daddy,’ Kate smiled. ‘Walt is just leaving.’

  ‘Shore you won’t stay over, boy?’ Perry asked. ‘You’re more than welcome.’

  ‘I know it, George,’ Clare said. ‘But I got some stuff to do early tomorrow. I better get back. Mr. Angel, glad to meet you. If you stay around these parts, come on over an’ visit my place. Be glad to have you.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ Angel said. ‘Thanks.’

  Clare nodded, and went down the steps to the corral, with Kate tagging along.

  ‘He likes you,’ Perry observed. ‘Don’t often take to strangers. Mebbe thinks they’ll give him some competition for Katy.’ He chuckled to himself at the thought and went into the house. After a moment, Kate Perry came back into the pool of light, turning to where they could hear the sound of Clare’s horse moving off across the packed earth of the yard. Kate waved at the darkness and they heard Clare call something which the wind snatched away.

  ‘He’s got a long way to ride,’ Angel said.

  ‘He likes to ride at night,’ Kate told him. ‘Says he feels closer to the stars.’ Then she shook her head impatiently. ‘That sounds silly, I guess.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Neither do you, I’d imagine.’

  Her smile was radiant. ‘I’m glad you liked him. He said you seemed like a decent man. Worth saving, his words were.’

  He was about to reply when they heard the boom of a rifle somewhere in the darkness. The flatter reply of a six-gun sounded. Then the rifle boomed again with a terrible finality that was followed by an immense silence. The cicadas had stopped their ceaseless racket and Kate Perry’s face was chalk white in the lampli
ght spilling from the open door. George Perry stumbled out of the house, his hair tousled.

  ‘What in the name of Christ was that?’ he barked.

  Then he saw his daughter’s face and without another word he ran across the yard towards the corral. Shouting for his men to follow him, he was in the saddle and galloping off into the darkness before the tears that had been brimming behind Kate Perry’s eyes finally spilled down her face.

  Chapter Nine

  Al Birch sat in his customary chair in the Alhambra Saloon in Daranga and chomped on his cigar. He was a big man, strongly built, his shock of hair iron grey, his eyes hidden beneath heavy brows and bushy eyebrows. Opposite Birch sat his neighbor and partner Jacey Reynolds. A thin-faced man, his nose long and drooping, Reynolds had the air of an unsuccessful undertaker. Both men had come to Arizona with the California Column during the War between the States, and stayed on. There wasn’t an officer above the rank of lieutenant in the Territory of Arizona that one or both of them didn’t know personally. They had used those friendships ruthlessly to carve themselves a monopoly in the Rio Blanco country. The saloon they were sitting in, their ranches, the trading post on the Fort, stores and hotel in town, all belonged to either Reynolds or Birch or both. They drank only good liquor, smoked only the best tobacco, rode fine horses. And they knew their power.

  ‘This Angel feller,’ Birch ground out.

  ‘The boys have taken care of that by now,’ Reynolds observed, pulling a gold watch from his fob pocket. His thin lips puffed at the briar pipe he rarely had far from his mouth.

  ‘Thompson thought he might be another o’ them Gov’ment snoopers,’ Birch went on. ‘Said he had that kind of look.’

  ‘Thompson,’ Reynolds said, and there was a world of meaning in the word.

  “You think he was wrong, then?’

  ‘I don’t think I’d put any money on his judgment,’ Reynolds said, ‘but just supposin’ he was right, so what?’