Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  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.

  Angel eased his weight onto the balls of his feet as the boy stepped back slightly from Johnny, his eyes widening at the venom in the man’s words.

  ‘Now just hold on there a minute, Boot. This is an Army post, not some one-horse cowtown saloon. I’ll say what I please.’ Just for a moment the boy’s eyes flickered towards his friends, who sat frozen at their table.

  ‘You’ll say you’re sorry,’ whispered Mill, ‘or you’ll bite on a bullet.’ The two men moved apart slightly, both of them keeping their eyes on the soldier. The other soldier, the one who had tried to calm Blackstone down, moved away, his jaw dropping slightly and his eyes wide with fearful anticipation.

  ‘Now see here, Johnny,’ he began.

  ‘Quiet,’ whispered Mill. ‘You’re ruining my concentration.’

  One of the men at the table shoved back his chair and leaped towards the door, determination on his face. ‘Corporal of the guard!’ he yelled, ‘Corp—’ With a lithe bound amazing for one of his bulk, Miller was across the room and beside the striding soldier, his gun moving in a blur from holster to hand and up and down, falling with vicious certainty. The soldier fell as if hit with an ax, his leg twitching momentarily. A trickle of blood oozed from his right ear.

  Blackstone gazed at the fallen man in horror. The drunkenness had fallen from him like a cloak, and he realized in his cold sobriety that the two men before him were in a killing mood, a flat and unemotional mental state which would be all the more ferocious for its cold-bloodedness. His eyes moved wildly to right and left, his thoughts as plain as if they had been printed on his forehead. High noon, officers asleep, enlisted men dozing, the nominal guard playing cards in the orderly room, no one likely to stir for another hour or even two. He had to face it alone. His chin came up.

  ‘It’ll take the two of you,’ he said calmly.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Mill. The two men advanced on the boy, who retreated backwards until he was brought up short by the bar behind him. At that moment, Boot slapped the boy across the face. The sound had the shocking suddenness of a pistol shot in the silent room and for a moment, Blackstone stood frozen with disbelief, the red welts of the older man’s fingers imprinted clearly on his beardless face. Then a strangled scream of fury burst from his lips and he threw himself forward, clawed hands reaching for Boot’s neck. Boot grinned like a cat and dropped his shoulder slightly, moving it upwards to meet the oncoming face. The soldier ran into the shoulder, rock hard, braced expertly to meet his charge. It stopped him dead in his tracks and he reeled off to the side, blood bursting from his lips and nose, down on his knees and mewling through the smashed mouth. As he scrabbled to regain his feet, Mill, lips wet with anticipation, drew back his spurred and booted foot, ready to deliver a rib-breaking kick to the unprotected body of the boy. There was an angelic smile on his face. He and Johnny had done this many times. He always enjoyed it.

  ‘Ah, no,’ said Angel, who was moving even as the boy sprawled to the scarred board floor. With a smooth and powerful movement he caught Mill’s foot from behind, fingers curling around the instep. He jerked upwards and back, stepping away easily as Mill went face forward into the floor, smashing himself hard, blood and dust and dirt smearing together on his broken face, half unconscious from the impact, his head almost touching the feet of Johnny Boot, who whirled around, his hand flashing for the six-gun holstered at his right thigh.

  ‘Now that’d sure be stupid,’ Angel said mildly, freezing Boot to the spot.

  The muzzle of Angel’s gun was steady, and pointed directly at his middle. From a range of three feet, no man could miss, and Johnny Boot knew better than most what a .45 bullet in the stomach could do. His lips went back from his teeth and he let his weight settle on his heels. Mill got up from the floor, spitting, furiously pawing sawdust and blood from his face.

  ‘By God,’ he hissed. ‘You’ll pay for this.’

  ‘Don’t ruin your day waiting for it,’ Angel said coldly. ‘Put your hands on the bar where I can see them. Move.’

  He lifted Mill’s gun out of the holster, followed suit with Boot’s, and handed them to the gaping bartender.

  ‘Stay neutral, friend,’ he said to the man. ‘Put these somewhere out of reach — theirs and yours.’

  The bartender nodded hastily, almost eagerly. He hurried to do Angel’s bidding, then stood away from the trio and watched them, hypnotized by the events.

  Boot had now regained control of himself. He turned warily from the bar, hands well in view, and hooked a heel on t
he rail.

  ‘Mister,’ he said conversationally, ‘I wonder if you know what you’ve got yourself into?’

  ‘Looked like as nasty a whipsawing as I ever saw,’ Angel said. ‘I just naturally felt I had to butt in.’

  ‘Teachin’ a young pup manners,’ snapped Boot. ‘None o’ your business.’

  ‘You’re a stranger here,’ whispered Mill. His face was puffing badly and his piggy eyes looked even more evil. ‘You’re starting out purty bad.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Angel smiled. The gun muzzle remained level and unwavering.

  Tut your gun away, stranger,’ Boot said. ‘Fight’s finished.’

  ‘Really?’ said Angel, letting the six-gun slide easily into the holster.

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Boot flatly. ‘You’re small beer, mister. We ain’t got no need to beat up on drifters, no matter how mistook they are.’ His voice took on a tone that was almost wheedling. ‘Al Birch is the top man around these parts. It’s no boast: he is. He is because we keep him that way. We’re what you might call his major suppliers. Now you could buck us, an’ you might even get away with it. But you can’t buck Birch, stranger. Don’t even think about it. Get on your horse, point him back the way you come, an’ never come back. Sabe?’

  ‘I reckon,’ Angel nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Boot’s smile was the smile of a wolf seeing a calf leave the herd.

  ‘I’ll tell you what me and Willie are goin’ to do. We’re goin’ to step outside for a couple of minutes. That’ll give you time to have a beer and be on your way. Don’t be here when we get back.’

  Angel nodded. ‘One last thing,’ he said mildly.

  Boot turned to face Angel again, his face resigned and his bearing that of a man reasoning with a stubborn child. ‘What now?’ he barked.

  ‘This,’ Angel said. His arm was moving even as he spoke and all his weight was behind the perfectly timed punch that came up from somewhere around his hip and took Boot clean on the point of his jaw, lifting him perhaps an inch off the ground and sending him cartwheeling backwards against the wall. Boot smashed into the solid adobe with a crash that shook the building, and everyone heard the dull clunk of sound when his head hit the brickwork. He went down on the floor like a dropped sack.

  Angel turned to Mill. His tone was still conversational.

  ‘Why don’t you give your friend a hand? I don’t think he’s going to make it home on his own.’

  Mill looked at Angel for a long moment. There was something furtive and sick in his piggy eyes. He said something beneath his breath.

  ‘Physiologically impossible,’ Angel said cheerfully, ‘although it’s sure imaginative. Maybe I should break enough of your bones to see if it can be done.’ The bantering tone dropped from his voice and he took a step towards Mill, who cringed backwards, fear - and something else - showing in his eyes. Angel shook his head.

  ‘Get out of here, Mill,’ he said. ‘You’re contaminating the air. Take that’ - he pointed at Boot’s still form - ‘with you.’ He took another step forward and Mill scuttled back, heaving at Johnny Boot’s body. One of the soldiers stepped forward to help and Mill rebuked the man with a vicious curse. He wrestled the unconscious body towards the door, sweat streaming through the bloody dust on his face. Never once did he look again at Angel.

  Chapter Four

  The news of the fracas spread like wildfire around the Fort. It was not long before the sutler’s store was crowded with people, with all ranks of men from the Fort, all eager to see the man who had finally given Boot and Mill the bad time every man there wished them. A bearded old Irishman who chewed tobacco and spat with engaging ferocity and alarming accuracy, came into the store with a battered medical bag and proceeded to clean up the young officer’s face, managing through the entire time not to breathe one question about the cause of his injuries. Finally, he could contain himself no further.

  ‘Dadblast it, Blackie,’ he exploded. ‘Must I die of curiosity before ye’ll speak?’ His voice had a rich green brogue.

  Blackstone managed to look surprised. ‘I thought everyone knew by now, Doc,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, lad, I daresay they do,’ grinned the old doctor, rattling a spittoon some twenty feet away with a jet of tobacco juice. ‘But ‘tis the details we’re longing for. The lovely, juicy details.’

  The onlookers crowded around again as Blackstone proceeded to tell in ever-exaggerated detail, exactly what had happened to him and then what had happened to Mill and Boot. When he finished, there was a shout of delight, and everyone looked around for the man who had effected this small miracle. He was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Hold on, now, hold on,’ Blackstone told them. ‘I’ll go and see where he is.’ He went out into the sunshine, and after he had asked two or three men around the parade ground, came upon a sergeant who had seen someone answering Angel’s description heading for the stables. Blackstone went into the pungent-smelling, muggy building. He found Angel grooming the ragged coat of the line back dun he had ridden in on.

  ‘You ran out on us,’ Blackstone said, breathlessly. ‘I figured to at least buy you a drink.’

  ‘Another time, maybe,’ Angel said. ‘I’m not much on cheering crowds.’

  ‘Me neither,’ agreed the youngster. ‘Mister, I owe you. An’ I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Angel, Frank Angel.’

  ‘Frank. My name’s Richard Blackstone.’

  ‘How long you been out here, Richard?’

  ‘Goin’ on two years. Why?’

  ‘Nothin’ special,’ Angel said. ‘Just like to hear you tell about the conditions in these parts.’

  ‘Well ... gladly,’ Blackstone told him. ‘But look: won’t you at least let me try to repay you in some way? Would you - would you be my guest for dinner? It’s bachelor grub, I’m afraid, but you’d be very welcome. An’ I think I have a bottle of wine we could split between us.’ The boy blurted out the words as if afraid that by stopping he would give Angel an opportunity to refuse. A slow grin crossed the older man’s face.

  ‘Why, that would be very pleasant, Richard,’ he said. ‘I’d be happy to do that.’ Blackstone’s face broadened into a boyish - if lopsided - grin.

  ‘Why, you can stay overnight if you’ve a mind,’ he said. ‘My friend Jamie Kitson is away on leave in Kansas City, so I have our quarters to myself.’

  ‘He the same rank as you?’

  Blackstone nodded proudly. ‘We joined the service the same day.’

  ‘Lieutenants,’ Angel said shaking his head. ‘They get younger every year.’

  Blackstone grinned at the old joke. He turned and headed for the doorway, stopping to face Angel before going out.

  ‘Seven o’clock, right after retreat suit you?’

  ‘Down to the ground,’ Angel assured him. ‘I’ll be there.’

  When he finished caring for the horse, Angel walked around the Fort. He noted the thick outer walls of the perimeter buildings, the sloping roofs and the forest of chimneys on each. The officers’ quarters ran across the best side of the Fort; that was to say the side which would receive the least of the sun - northeast to southwest. He noted the positions of the commissary and the dispensary, the CO’s house, the adjutant’s office, the guardroom and the jail. There were five rows of enlisted men’s barracks on the opposite side of the square to officers’ row. The flag hung limp on the tall sapling pole in the center of the parade ground. He saw one or two tame Apaches, not many. Right now, the Army and the Apache were at peace. The Fort wore an indolent air. Discipline slack? He had read the record of its commanding officer, Brevet Lt. Colonel Brian Stuart Thompson. He knew, in general, the man’s background and the campaigns in which he had fought. It had been an unspectacular career, and marred by indiscretions. Drinking had brought about one specific black mark which had ensured that Thompson would never rise above his present rank: there had been a General Court Martial and allegations of adultery with the wife of another officer at Fort Griffin. The charges had b
een unproved, but the black mark had remained. Thompson had friends in Washington but even they were not powerful enough to have the records whitewashed. He would stay on frontier posts like this one until his retirement.

  He found the row of adobe huts that housed the laundry-women, wives of enlisted men or their common law women, and paid one of them a dollar to heat him a tub of water. After the bath in a big old washing tub, he changed into a clean shirt and Levis and found a cool spot beneath a ramada to watch the ageless ceremony of retreat, savoring the sweet sad sounds of the bugle. Then he ground out his cigarette and walked across to Blackstone’s quarters.

  Blackstone met him with a warm smile and showed him proudly around the cramped rooms which were his home. The furniture was sparse and makeshift: a wooden chest of drawers, two armchairs and a stuffed sofa that had somehow found its way to the Fort. The floor was of packed dirt and the walls limed adobe. Indian blankets had been hung on them to add a splash of color, and Blackstone’s dress sword hung crossed on its scabbard above the fireplace. The table was neatly laid for two. An orderly served them a decent meal of boiled meat and boiled potatoes, canned fruit and fresh bread from the post bakery. The wine was pleasant and light, although far from cold. Afterwards Blackstone produced some cigars and a bottle of whiskey. He poured a generous measure and watched expectantly as Angel sampled it.

  ‘Jesus!’ Angel said. ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘A patrol took it off some traders. Probably on their way to sell it to the Indians,’ the boy said.

  Angel shook his head, blinking the tears from his eyes. ‘That’s the real stuff,’ he coughed. ‘All often minutes old.’

  They went out on to the cool porch behind the house and put their feet up on the porch rail. Angel led the conversation towards Mill and Boot.

  ‘They play rough,’ he observed. ‘What’s their racket?’

  ‘Cattle,’ Blackstone told him. ‘They steal them.’

  ‘You know that for a fact?’