‘A little over seven years,’ she said. ‘Hal and I came out here in the spring of ‘70.’
‘Hal?’
‘My husband. He died four years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to be,’ she said. She gathered up her shoulders slightly, the movement not so much indicating that she didn’t care about the subject as that she preferred not to dig up old bones, backtrack to the past.
‘He wasn’t . . . Hal never really liked this country,’ she said quietly.
‘But you do?’
‘I love it,’ she said passionately. ‘I love the space of it, the wildness. Or rather, I used to.’
‘Until?’ He worked busily with the razor, keeping his eyes averted, not looking at her in the mirror over the washstand.
‘Until lately,’ she said flatly. ‘Believe it or not this town used to be a pretty nice place to live. Kids playing in the street. Farmers coming in on weekends to do their shopping, gossip around. We had a produce market on Saturdays. Lots of people. Lots of laughter. Now . . . well, you’ve seen it.’
‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘Larry Hugess happened is what happened,’ she said. ‘His hired thugs drove all the smaller farmers and ranchers out. One by one, they pulled stakes and moved on. Usually with a Flying H escort.’
‘Didn’t anybody put up a fight?’
‘Oh, one or two. But it was no use. They couldn’t face down hired guns - they weren’t that sort of people. Hugess claimed they fenced off water his cattle needed. Eminent domain, he called it. First come, first served.’
‘What about the Law?’
‘The US Marshal is in Winslow,’ she said. ‘That’s around fifty-four miles away. Even if he was there on tap, waiting for us to call on him, which of course he isn’t. He’s got a pretty big bailiwick, Angel.’
‘Frank,’ he corrected her, thinking, yes, she was right. The US Marshal patrolled an area that was about the size of Delaware. To do it he had the help of two deputies. That wasn’t exactly what you’d call a deterrent to crime.
‘How many men has Hugess got on his payroll?’ he asked.
‘Thirty, thirty-five,’ she replied.’ It’s hard to say - there are always some new faces coming in, others moving on.’
‘Yeah,’ Angel said. ‘I met some of the boys. That Willie Johns. He’s a mean one.’
‘He is!’ she said vehemently.
‘Personal experience?’
She gave a theatrical shudder. ‘Uhhhhh,’ she went. ‘He comes in here sometimes. Once he - he put his hands on me.’ She tossed her bright hair as if getting rid of a dark thought. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘How about some breakfast?’
‘I could use some,’ he said. ‘Will you join me?’
‘Pooh,’ Sherry Hardin laughed. ‘I had breakfast hours ago. But I’ll sit and have some coffee with you.’
She turned and held the door open and he bowed to her with a smile and did one of those ‘after you, Alphonse gestures. She was very close and he could smell a faint, clean perfume. Her eyes were smiling as he looked down at her. He was standing near enough to feel the warm glow of her body and he stifled the sudden impulse to touch her. A quick light in her eyes told him that she had sensed his impulse and there was a quick lift of the corners of her mouth. Her lips were slightly parted, soft, warm. He pushed her shoulder.
‘G’wan,’ he said, mock growling. ‘I smell coffee.’
She ducked her head and went out into the corridor ahead of him. He couldn’t see her face but he bet himself she was smiling, with perhaps a faint touch of triumph in the expression. She had a good walk and Angel watched the sensuous movement of her hips with pleasure. One of life’s sheerest enjoyments was watching a healthy, beautiful woman walk. As if she sensed his gaze she turned her head and smiled impishly over her shoulder as she went down the stairs and into the dining room to the right at the foot of the staircase.
It was a bright, airy room with six or eight tables spread far enough apart so nobody would ever feel he was sharing his breakfast conversation with his neighbor. The tables were all circular, and each had a small glass jug with desert flowers in it. There was a big window with a square table up against it looking out on to the bustle of Front Street. They sat there and a tiny old Chinaman shuffled in with a platter of ham and eggs, bread, coffee, cream, sugar and cups. He laid them all out without a word, working in neat precise movements. Then he bowed just enough for it to be seen and went out without a word.
‘Smells good,’ Angel said, leaning over the food.
‘It should,’ she replied. ‘I cooked it myself.’
Angel could see Dan Sheridan leaning against the hitch rail outside the jail down the street. The marshal looked relaxed, comfortable. Angel got started on the food, asking the girl a question as he did.
‘Two years come fall,’ she told him.
‘Tell me about him,’ he pursued.
‘Nothing much to tell,’ she said. ‘Dan had been kicking around since the end of the war, scouting for the Army, I think, hunting buffalo. I think he rode shotgun for Butterfields for a while, but I’m not sure if he told me that or I heard it someplace else. He just happened along at a time when the Flying H boys were getting a little too much for the town to handle. Jock Mahoney, Johnny Gardner, Jack Coltrane who runs the livery stable, some of the others, hired him as town marshal. You know the sort of thing: keep the town in line but don’t stop the boys from spending their money.’
‘I know the sort of thing.’
‘I think the Flying H boys didn’t mind. They kind of respected Dan. He never pushed them around. Just kept them from going too far.’
‘Until the Burt Hugess thing.’
‘Yes. Until then.’
‘You think he made a mistake?’
‘It could be,’ she said, tonelessly. ‘How’s the food?’
‘First class,’ he said. ‘You’re a good cook.’
‘I know. I make good coffee, too.’
‘Then pour me some.’
She poured more coffee and they sat in a comfortable, companionable silence while he finished his food. When he pushed the plate away and leaned back, she looked at him for a moment, as though uncertain what to say.
‘Go ahead and ask,’ he said, smiling.
‘You’re not supposed to be able to do that, Angel,’ she said, softly. ‘Not quite so soon.’ There was a breathlessness in her voice.
‘Frank Angel,’ he said. ‘Twenty-seven years old. Born in Georgia, but I got most of my growth not far from here. Fort Dodge way. I work for the government - I guess Dan told you that. And I’m on my way to Fort Griffin. That’s about it.’
‘The Justice Department,’ she said. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Like I told Dan Sheridan,’ he said. ‘It’s the government department that’s responsible for all law enforcement in the United States. My being here, however, is a pure accident.’
‘You live in Washington?’ she probed.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘With your parents?’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘My parents died a long time ago.’ There was a far-off glint of old anger deep in his eyes that made her regret her question. She filled the silence with another.
‘Nope,’ he grinned, his face boyish again. ‘No wife. But I’ve got a beaut of a landlady. Her name’s Mrs. Rissick.’
‘Oh,’ Sherry Hardin said. ‘She’s pretty.’
‘Well,’ Angel allowed, ‘for a woman of sixty-eight, she’s not bad. If you go for sixty-eight-year-old women.’
‘And do you?’ she asked with a straight face.
‘Pour some more coffee,’ he told her. They were smiling at each other like fools and they both realized it at the same moment, both knowing why. As the simultaneous thought occurred to them they laughed out loud.
‘Aren’t I the forward hussy, now,’ Sherry Hardin said, almost to herself.
Just pour the coffee in the cup this time,’ Angel said, ‘a
nd tell me about Larry Hugess.’
She lifted the pot but didn’t tilt it, and he looked at her, puzzled for a moment by the stiff shocked look on her face. She had gone pale beneath the warm tan and her eyes were fixed on the street outside. Angel turned quickly. A phalanx of horsemen was coming down the street past the flat hulk of the warehouse behind the depot. In its van was a solidly built man in a dust-coated dark suit. At his right side rode Willie Johns and on the other Danny Johnston.
‘No need,’ Sherry Hardin said. ‘No need now.’
And Larry Hugess led his men through the town like a king, along Front Street to the jail where Dan Sheridan stood waiting.
Chapter Eight
Larry Hugess came down Front Street as if he owned it.
Frank Angel came out onto the porch of the hotel to watch him go by and had to admit that Hugess was something to watch. He was a big man, broad across the shoulders, tall in the beautifully tooled Denver saddle, head erect, and eyes disdainful. Hugess was clad in a dark blue suit which, although dust-coated, was plainly tailor-made, as were the fine smooth leather boots he was wearing, glowing the way leather only glows from much and diligent polishing. If it hadn’t been for the rig Hugess was using, Angel would have said he was a fine figure: despite the fact that the gray Hugess was riding was a superb animal with the arched neck and graceful lines of an Arab, Angel noted that the man used a wicked-looking chileno, or ring bit. Any man who knew horses also knew that this kind of hardware was liable to break a horse’s jaw if used too severely: It was the cruelest bit ever put into an animal’s mouth. If Hugess had been a working cowman, nobody would have ridden alongside him. Angel noted too that Hugess spurned the lighter Texas or California-style saddle, burdening the animal with forty pounds and more of ornately tooled and silver-decorated leather and a three-quarter rig, topped off by the extra weight of an engraved Winchester carbine which Hugess patently didn’t need to carry, since he had Willie Johns to guard one flank, Danny Johnston to take the other side, and four men to bring up the rear.
He rode easily, Larry Hugess, a man quite sure of himself and his dominion over this town. He had straight, heavy features, the face just beginning to jowl, the neck thick and obdurate. His eyes were shrewd and cool, assessing the mood of the street, the calculating intelligence behind them considering, weighing, accepting, rejecting.
It had pleased him to lift his blockade of the town, to remove his guards from the streets. In a way his action had been symbolic: he was telling Sheridan in so many words that it didn’t matter whether he sent for the US Marshal or not. It would take several days for any Federal law to get to Madison in enough force to set Larry Hugess back on his heels. By that time it wouldn’t make any difference.
He weighed Sheridan’s abilities contemplatively as he approached the jail. A good man, but slowed down to a walking pace by the injury to his gun hand. Still dangerous though, as last night’s events had shown. That had been a badly botched business, but since no one but a few of his men had known the hired gun and the man had died without talking, no beans had been spilled. He had been very careful to make sure that the set-up was pulled by a stranger. But it had backfired; Sheridan and his deputy had run Danny Johnston and the boys out of town twice, which was a loss of face that must be redressed. The mood of the town was cowed, though, he noted: which meant that the lesson of Ridlow’s death had not been lost on them. Sheridan would find no support among the townspeople. All he had was the drunk, Cade. Cade might have held together for the business last night. Hugess couldn’t see him hanging on when the going got really hard. And he had decided, finally, that he was about to see that it did.
They were level with the Palace when Howie Cade stepped into the street. He had Sheridan’s shotgun ported across his arm and he pointed it quite negligently at the oncoming riders. Hugess pulled his horse to a halt. Angel saw the animal throw its head as the wicked ring bit jarred its sensitive mouth.
‘New by-law in operation as of this ayem,’ Howie said conversationally. ‘You check your guns when you come into town.’
Hugess nodded, smiling. It came as no surprise to him at all that Sheridan had decided to defend by attacking. He had anticipated just such a demand, and his men were already under strict orders not to even consider using their guns except in extreme circumstances. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help wondering about Cade. He surveyed the deputy contemptuously.
‘You look like hell, Cade,’ he said dispassionately.
Howie didn’t rise. ‘The guns,’ he said again, gesturing with the shotgun.
‘Suppose I say no?’ Hugess said. ‘You think you could get all of us with that?’ He curled his lip as he referred to the weapon Howie was holding.
‘Be interestin’ to see,’ Howie said, settling slightly on his heels, his lips clamping into a thin line. He didn’t look the slightest bit edgy, and his readiness to start in any time Larry Hugess opened the ball was so apparent that Hugess blinked, startled in spite of himself at the change in the man.
‘Well, well,’ he said softly. He turned to his men. ‘All right,’ he said.
Howie gestured with his chin toward the hitching rail outside the Palace. ‘Hang your belts on there,’ he said. ‘Pick ‘em up when you leave.’
Hugess smiled at the deputy’s confidence: a patronizing smile that didn’t fail to have exactly the effect he intended. Howie Cade swung his eyes away from the big man, just that little spooked by Hugess. Hugess wasn’t just some forty-and-found puncher on a lallyhoot, or even some paid gun. He was The Man, just about as powerful as they came. You messed with Larry Hugess at your peril, and here the sonofabitch was smiling at him like a cat who’s contemplating some particularly juicy mouse he aims to eat up when he’s good and ready. For some reason, it made him angry. He jerked the shotgun at Hugess who, despite his composure, reacted. Now it was Howie’s turn to grin.
‘I’ll take that Winchester, too, Hugess,’ he said.
Larry Hugess slid the weapon out of the saddle holster and handed it down. It was a pretty gun, the 1873 .44-40 center-fire model. Its receiver and breech were custom-engraved to Hugess’s own specification, an ornate pattern of leaves and flowers decorating the flat surfaces. Howie would have given a year’s pay for a gun like it, and it showed in his eyes.
Hugess smiled to himself: he had always believed that any man - and therefore every man - could be bought. Not necessarily with money, of course. Some men you bought with gold; others women; still others power. He had just established Howie’s price and he filed the information away, not knowing how totally wrong he was.
‘Marshal,’ he said cordially, moving his horse across Texas Street to the rail outside the jailhouse. ‘Good morning.’
Sheridan nodded. He’d taken in the whole procession, watching to make sure that Larry Hugess wasn’t planning a strike at the jail, with some of his guns hidden away in an alley to cut down the marshal and his deputy and spring Burt Hugess. In some ways he was surprised Hugess hadn’t done just that, and he couldn’t figure why. Maybe he’d find out now.
‘Been expecting you,’ he said.
‘Like to talk,’ Hugess said. ‘Maybe see Burt.’
‘Fine with me,’ Sheridan said. If he noticed that Angel was on the porch of the Oriental Saloon, directly across the street, he didn’t show it by either word or movement.
Hugess swung down from the saddle, and his riders started to follow suit. Sheridan stopped them with a word. They looked at Hugess, and Hugess looked at Sheridan.
‘You visiting your brother’s fine,’ Sheridan said. ‘He’s not their brother.’
Willie Johns kneed his horse forward, crowding Sheridan back on the porch. He looked so tense, so anxious to start something that Howie Cade started to move from his post across the street where he was keeping the Greener pointed in the general direction of Hugess’s men.
‘How about I teach yore marshal some manners, Mr. Hugess?’Johns hissed.
Hugess ignored the threatening pose
, the ugly words.
‘Go across and wait for me in the Palace,’ he said to Johnston. ‘Keep out of trouble.’
Willie Johns looked at Hugess, only just succeeding in keeping the sneer off his lips. He reined his horse around angrily, almost knocking Howie Cade over. Johns had blood in his eye and everyone there knew he was liable to go off like a stick of dynamite if anyone sparked him, so Howie said nothing, just stood and watched as the Flying H boys trooped into the cool depths of the Palace. He stayed on the porch of the jail as Hugess went into the office with Dan Sheridan. Angel stayed where he was, too. He looked toward the hotel longingly. Maybe he could get a cup of coffee later. Sherry Hardin, he thought, remembering the color of her hair and the look in her eyes.
Inside the jail, Dan Sheridan was opening up the cell and Larry Hugess was covertly checking over the strength of the building. Solid and squat, it would be a bastard to take against determined men who were well armed and had plenty of ammunition and water. A frontal attack was out, then, unless there was no other way. It might come to that yet.
‘Hey, Larry,’ Burt Hugess was saying, grinning hugely. ‘I figured it was about time you come to bail me out. This place’s beginning to stink.’
It was clear that any thought other than that his release was immediately imminent had not crossed his mind. Larry had always bailed him out. Larry would do it now. Larry could always fix everything. He’d think of something -he always did.
Larry Hugess looked at his younger brother, not understanding why he gave a damn about him and knowing all the same that he loved him, and needed to protect and care for him even though Burt was a wastrel, a womanizer, and worse - a killer whose actions had several times endangered Larry’s own ambitions and come perilously close to dragging the Hugess name into the dirt. He loved his brother as he loved no other human being, and he did not know why, but it was a love tempered by an anger that made him want now to shake Burt the way a terrier shakes a rat, to slap him like a wayward child, to chastise him for the stupidity that had led him to kill - of all people - the harmless Clell Black, a man who had never willingly hurt a soul in all of his thirty-odd years of life. He wanted to tell Burt that he, Larry, had broken his back working for the power and the wealth that he now had, while Burt had never done a thing. He wanted to make Burt understand that his deliverance would only be effected at the cost of stopping all work at the ranch, of hiring expensive - and unreliable - gunmen, of running up against a man who, to be truthful, Larry Hugess respected - Dan Sheridan - and the very law he presented. And all because in a stupid, drunken killing rage, Burt had lost control. This was the worst thing of all to Larry Hugess. A strong man never lost control of himself. He was proud that he had never done so. Never.
Hunt Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #5) Page 6
