Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘No, of course not,’ the young soldier told him. ‘But it’s the local talk. Johnny Boot got out of Texas two jumps ahead of the Rangers a few years ago. Mill with him. They’d been thieving there, cutting cattle out of herds an’ driving them into New Mexico to sell on the Mescalero Reservation. The prices they asked, nobody had too many questions.’

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Same thing,’ Blackstone explained. ‘Birch an’ Reynolds have the beef contract for the Hot Springs Apaches. There are a few other ranchers around here: George Perry an’ Big Walt Clare over to the north-east. They say they’re losing cattle all the time. Birch an’ Reynolds never do. Folks around here say they’ve got a miracle herd. No matter how many head they sell to the Army or the Indians, they always have the same number of head left.’

  Angel nodded, encouraging the boy to continue.

  ‘Of course, the Army tends to turn a blind eye. First, rustling is a civil matter, not a military one. If a man comes along with unbranded beef an’ offers it at a price the others can’t compete with, that’s not the Army’s problem. The Army’s problem is to feed the Indians as cheap as possible.’

  ‘What about the agent at Hot Springs?’ Angel asked.

  ‘They say he’s part of the ring,’ Blackstone said. ‘Not out loud, of course.’

  ‘Boot and Mill again?’

  ‘Yeah. Johnny Boot is a killer. They say he’s very fast with the gun. And Mill - well, you saw him. I think he’s sort of half crazy ... likes to see people beaten up. If he killed a man, it’d be slowly.’ Blackstone shivered a little, though the night was still warm. ‘Gives me the creeps thinking about it. Which is why I want to thank you again, Frank—’

  ‘Richard, let’s not get into all that again,’ Angel said. ‘Anybody’d have done the same.’

  ‘Well, I owe you one, anyway,’ said Blackstone. ‘I won’t forget.’

  ‘So Birch and Reynolds just about control the business in these parts,’ Angel prompted.

  ‘Pretty much. They have a brewery up in the hills, about ten miles from here. Reynolds’ Addition, it’s called. There’s gambling up there, and women. Half of the men on this Fort owe money to them.’

  ‘And the town?’

  ‘Off limits to us,’ Blackstone said. ‘They keep things pretty clean down in Daranga. Tame sheriff. There’s only one place doesn’t belong to them, and that’s The Indian’s. Mostly Mexes an’ such go in there.’

  They talked as the stars came startlingly alive in the black-blue heaven, millions of them, seemingly close enough to touch. A cool wind came in off the chaparral, and there was the soft scent of sagebrush. When they turned in, Angel had a pretty clear idea of the layout of the whole area, and thanked his luck that he had so early found someone who could fill him in on what to expect. Birch and Reynolds had the country in their hands. Bribery, extortion, even murder seemed to be part of their catalogue, and complete financial and physical control their aim. He nodded, turning over before sleep. The pattern was emerging.

  Chapter Five

  Angel was awake and dressed before reveille. He stood beneath the ramada savoring the cool sweetness of the morning air and watched in the yellow dawn as the enlisted men stumbled from their huts beyond the parade ground, heading for the latrines, stretching and scratching, grumbling good-naturedly at each other, their voices clear in the still half light. The stretching notes of the bugle spread sweet across the valley. He knew the routine of the day which would follow, like the routine of every other day. The drills and the exercising, the caring for the horses of the cavalrymen, the long easy siesta-like middle of the day with light lunches in the officers’ mess. It was time to go.

  Blackstone came hurrying out as the bugle call soared into silence. He was stuffing his shirt into his trousers, struggling with his uniform jacket at the same time.

  ‘Damn,’ he muttered. He loped towards the assembling ranks of men, suspenders dangling. Angel smiled. Some men loved the army.

  He headed down towards the stables, saddling the dun without haste, filling his canteens at the pump, checking his rifle and pistol for dust, going carefully over the horse’s hoofs. He was busily doing this when he heard the regular tramp of feet coming into the stable, and turned to see a young officer flanked by two enlisted men heading towards him. The young officer came to attention and saluted. The enlisted men stayed rigidly behind him.

  ‘Mr. Angel, sir?’ Angel nodded. ‘Colonel’s compliments, sir, and would you step across to his office.’

  The boy was looking through Angel’s head into some far off place.

  ‘He say why?’ Angel asked mildly.

  ‘No, sir,’ the young man said.

  ‘You his adjutant?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the officer said. ‘Lieutenant Peter Ellis at your service, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant Ellis. Will you tell the colonel I’ll be over right away?’

  The young man looked embarrassed and shifted his feet a little. His face started to get red.

  ‘My orders were to accompany you, sir,’ he said, still staring away on through Angel’s head.

  Angel frowned. ‘You mean it’s not a request, it’s an order — right?’

  ‘Sir,’ Ellis said.

  Angel shrugged. ‘Let’s get at it, then.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ellis said. At his command the two enlisted men fell in behind Angel. They marched across the parade ground, focus of all eyes. Angel realized that it would look to any bystander as if he was under arrest. He saw Richard Blackstone detach himself from one group and come hurrying across to intercept the little phalanx.

  ‘Lieutenant Ellis!’ Blackstone snapped. ‘What is this?’

  ‘Colonel’s orders, sir.’

  ‘This gentleman is my guest,’ Blackstone said. ‘Is he under arrest?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Ellis, plainly uncomfortable.

  ‘Then why—’

  ‘Are you questioning my orders, Mr. Blackstone?’

  Angel looked around to see that a tall, well-built man of about fifty had come out on to the porch of the office towards which the squad had been heading, and stood now, feet apart, glowering at the group.

  ‘Sir,’ Blackstone stammered. ‘I was just—’

  ‘Kindly attend to your dudes, sir,’ snapped Thompson. ‘Mr. Ellis, be good enough to bring Mr. Angel inside.’ He turned on his heel and went into his office ignoring the sergeant who jumped to his feet behind the desk just inside the door.

  Ellis dismissed the squad and extended an arm towards the open door of the colonel’s office. ‘If you please, sir,’ he said. He came in behind Angel, and Thompson looked up from the papers he was examining.

  ‘That will be all, Mr. Ellis,’ he said. Ellis saluted and turned on his heel, closing the door behind him. Angel stood as the colonel bent his attention on the papers again, frowning in concentration. After a few minutes, Thompson looked up.

  ‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘Mr. Angel.’ He said it with a kind of satisfaction, as though he had been savoring the moment.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Angel asked.

  ‘I have a report here’ - Thompson shuffled the papers -’that you were involved in an altercation yesterday in the sutler’s store.’

  Angel said nothing. It had not been a question.

  ‘Have you anything to say, sir?’ Thompson’s voice was harsh, a cultivated harshness. It did not escape Angel’s notice that the man’s eyes were bloodshot, and his uniform already speckled with cigar ash. He had the slouch of a man who had spent many years unprofitably behind a desk, and the greedy mouth of someone who felt he deserved better things. The teeth clamped on the cheap-smelling cigar were yellow.

  ‘I tried to prevent one of your men being tromped to death, if that’s what you mean,’ Angel replied.

  ‘I see,’ Thompson said. There was a sneer in his tone, as if he had already adjudged Angel’s action and found it that of an interfering fool. ‘You do admit that there was a brawl and th
at you were involved.’

  ‘I just told you that,’ Angel said. He kept his voice level.

  ‘I am perturbed, Mr. Angel,’ Thompson said. He tapped his teeth with the stogie. ‘It is bad enough to have brawls on a military post. To have brawls which involve civilians and military personnel is even worse. It leads to bad feeling between the civilian population and ourselves, Mr. Angel. I do not care to have that happen.’

  ‘You’d like it better if they killed one of your men?’

  ‘You are impertinent, sir,’ snapped Thompson. ‘I am well able to take care of any disturbances which occur on this post.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, Colonel,’ Angel said reasonably. ‘But there wasn’t a hell of a lot of time to wait for help.’

  ‘That, sir, is none of your concern,’ ranted Thompson. ‘I will not have my officers involved in brawls. Lieutenant Blackstone will be punished severely for his part in it. As for you, sir, I have not yet made up my mind.’

  ‘Then let me make it up for you,’ Angel said, a coldness coming into his voice which stilled the soldier’s anger. ‘There’s only one thing you can do to me. You have the power to escort me to the boundaries of this post, and you have the power to bar me from entering again without your permission, and so informing your men. Now since I was just about to leave anyway, why don’t we just be reasonable about it instead of all this performance to impress your men with what a tough old bastard you really are?’

  Thompson had risen to his feet during Angel’s speech, and his face had gone brick red. Angel watched the man as he fought to control himself, and saw the anger fade, leaving behind an evil smile that worked its way to the surface of the colonel’s face.

  ‘Sergeant!’ called Thompson. The door burst open, and the grizzled old three-striper came into the room on the double.

  ‘Sah!’ he yelled.

  ‘You will take four men and escort Mr. Angel five miles beyond the perimeter. You will see that he speaks to no one. Do you understand? No one.’

  ‘Sah!’ The sergeant frowned.

  ‘Enter my judgment accordingly in the roster, Sergeant,’ Thompson said.

  ‘Sah.’ The soldier looked at Angel and jerked his head. ‘On your way, boy.’

  Angel swung on his heel and walked to the door. Thompson sat down and glared at his papers, looking up as Angel left the room.

  ‘If he is seen here again - shoot him on sight!’ he hissed.

  ‘Sah.’ The sergeant closed the door and straightened up. He shook his head.

  ‘You’re in big trouble, boy,’ he said. His eyes were like holes in the sand. ‘Wait here, and don’t do nothin’ stupid.’

  He went outside and Angel heard him summoning a squad of men. Presently he was escorted out into the sunlight, where his horse was waiting. His gunbelt was looped around the pommel of the saddle. He swung into the hurricane deck, and reined his horse around.

  ‘Don’t make the mistake of layin’ a hand on that gun, boy,’ warned the old sergeant. He nodded towards his squad. Angel saw that two of the men had Spencer rifles across their laps, and the guns were cocked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Angel said. The sergeant led the way across the parade ground and troopers averted their eyes as the procession swung into single column ahead and jogged on to the dirt packed road. They headed west with the sun hard on their backs, moving steadily down the trail. There were deep shadows on the canyon walls of Dobbs Butte. The country was flat and harsh; ocotillo, prickly pear, mesquite, barrel cactus, cholla speckled the sandy waste. The Fort fell behind and then out of sight as they moved down a slight incline, the horses making a small dust cloud which lifted and fell behind them. After about fifteen minutes, the sergeant held up his hand and brought the column to a halt. He turned in the saddle.

  ‘Bring him up front,’ he ordered.

  Angel’s horse was led forward. The sergeant pointed off to the west.

  ‘Yonder lies Tucson,’ he said. ‘About a hundred miles. North lies Baranquilla, but you wouldn’t like it there. South is Daranga, which you’d like even less. Back behind is the Fort, an’ if you turn up there we’ll shoot your ass off. Any questions?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Seems right clear to me,’ he said.

  ‘Git movin’,’ the sergeant told him.

  ‘After you,’ Angel said. The old soldier glowered at him.

  ‘Move, I said.’

  Angel shook his head. ‘They tell me it’s real hard to know whether a man’s been shot trying to escape, or just plain shot,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anyone worrying that way about me.’

  ‘You think we’d backshoot you?’ the sergeant asked. There was amazement in his voice. ‘Soldiers?’

  ‘It’s been done,’ Angel said. ‘Even if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t want to be the first.’

  The old sergeant leaned heavily forward in his saddle, pointing a gnarled finger at Angel.

  ‘You,’ he said, ‘are very close to gettin’ your brains beat out. Let me tell you something, mister. I’ve served in this man’s Army for nigh on thirty years. I’ve served with good commanding officers an’ bad ones, an’ I’ve learned one thing: no matter what I think about it, the CO is always right. Now I heerd about you an’ young Blackie, an’ personally, I’m delighted you beat the shit out of them two cow thieves. That’s my personal point of view. But as a soldier I have an order. Right or wrong, I’m carryin’ it out. No more, no less. Now git out of my sight, Mr. Angel, ‘fore I forget myself.’

  ‘Sarge, I’m sorry,’ Angel said. ‘You got to admit this isn’t what you’d call usual.’

  ‘On your way, mister,’ snapped the soldier. ‘I ain’t got all day to jaw.’

  He slapped Angel’s dun across the rump with his own reins and the startled animal jumped into a gallop, heading on down the incline towards the open malpais below. When Angel turned around, the squad was already kicking up dust on its way back to the Fort.

  He eased the horse into a walk, letting his thoughts get into order. The soldiers had done what they were told, as the sergeant had said; right or wrong, their CO was their CO. But what was the point of Thompson’s insistence on his being escorted from the post? The man knew that any self-respecting rider could turn his horse’s head and find his way to wherever he wanted to go, and Thompson must know that he would turn towards Daranga. Yet he had obviously given specific orders to head Angel towards Tucson. He took a bearing on the mountains off to his left. He was about five miles from the Fort, over the mountains, making easy time, he could be in Daranga tomorrow evening. The sun was climbing high now and he felt its heat on his shoulders. It would soon be too hot to travel. He lifted the six-gun and belt from the pommel and started to strap it on. As he did so, something caught his eye. He lifted the belt and examined it more closely. A curse escaped his lips. The shells in the belt had been removed, and empty shells substituted. A quick flip of the cartridge showed that the gun was also loaded with empties. He pulled the carbine from its saddle holster, worked the lever. An empty shell came up into the breech. He did not bother to check his saddle-bag. The extra cartridge bandolier would not be there. So he had been set up! How and for what, he had yet to learn. Another thought struck him, and he swirled the canteen looped on the saddle horn. It was empty. So that was it! Cast adrift in the desert, without ammunition or water! If he turned towards the nearest source of aid, the Fort, he would be shot on sight at the colonel’s orders. What had the old sergeant said? Tucson, a hundred miles west. Baranquilla to the north, but he wouldn’t like it there. A warning that Baranquilla was also hostile country to him? And south, Daranga. Forty miles or more. By no means an impossibility, even without water.

  Besides, there were ranches between him and there. The frown of concentration deepened between his eyes. Somewhere ... his eyes flickered across the featureless waste ahead of him . .. somewhere out there someone was waiting, ready to ambush him, as soon as he came near the trap. And all Angel could do was to ride into it. He kicked the horse into movement.<
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  Chapter Six

  Angel rode south. He moved alone through the immensity of the wilderness, a tiny speck against the towering emptiness of the desert, quartering across a line drawn due south, looking for the bed of the river he knew must be somewhere in this area, a tributary of the Rio Blanco called the Ruidoso, the Noisy River. Ahead of him, etched purple and black against the sky, the Baranquillas tumbled up towards the white sky. Angel knew that when he got further south he would be able to see the three peaks that marked the cut between the twin ranges of the mountains, the river pass through which he could head southeast for Daranga, along the valley of the Blanco. He let the horse make its own pace. And always as he rode, the grey eyes moved restlessly, missing nothing. Jackrabbits hitch-kicked out of the mesquite ahead of the plodding horse as the animal picked its way around the cholla. Once the horse brushed its nose against one of the cactus plants, tossing and snorting as the spines pricked its tender skin. They called cholla jumping cactus: it seemed sometimes to leap across the space between an animal and itself, planting those deadly numbing spines in the skin. Kangaroo rats hopped panicked from his path. Once he saw a sidewinder, flat head low and seeking, moving in ungainly loops across a sandy open patch. He watched especially for birds. Quail gobbled in the safety of sparse bushes, but he never saw them rise. Sweat ran down his forehead and into the collar of his shirt; his body was wet with it, then a moment later as dry as a bone as the sun leeched the moisture from his skin. He moved relentlessly on into the wilderness.

  The sun moved over in its zenith, sliding slowly down towards its destiny in the west. ‘Come on,’ Angel muttered once. His lips were thick and caked with alkali. The horse’s head was hanging low. Two days without water was as much as either of them could take, he thought. He pushed the tired animal up a slight rise and then from the higher ground he saw the dark line of trees about three or four miles away. The Ruidoso: that must be it! He shook the reins. The horse pricked up its ears as well.