Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  The bartender was short and swarthy, with a pointed black beard and opaque, expressionless eyes.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ he asked. His voice was hostile.

  ‘A beer would be fine.’

  While the man pulled the beer, Angel looked around. The saloon was primitive enough. A long plank bar, a few tables and chairs, a faro layout at the far end of the room. Apart from one or two early morning drinkers the place was empty. The bartender pushed the beer across the bar.

  ‘New in town?’ he asked.

  Angel nodded. ‘Just got in.’

  ‘Most people go to the Alhambra,’ the bartender said. ‘It’s sort of required.’

  ‘I’ll get around to it,’ Angel said.

  The bartender’s eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to the smooth-butted six-gun at Angel’s hip, then up to meet Angel’s eyes. He nodded, as if something had been said.

  Angel lowered the level of the beer in the glass and sighed appreciatively.

  ‘Good beer,’ he said.

  ‘Oughta be,’ he was told, ‘we pay enough for it.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Local monopoly,’ was the reply. The bartender did not amplify it. Before Angel could speak again the door at the rear of the saloon opened and a small, dark haired girl came in. She was wearing a flimsy dress and her eyes were shadowed. She came up to the bar and her eyes flicked quickly up to meet Angel’s. They were liquid, almost black in color.

  ‘Let me have a jug of beer, Sunny,’ she said, ‘my friend’s got a sore head.’

  ‘Cash or tab?’

  ‘What do you think?’ she grinned. ‘I’ll take a beer myself.’

  The man called Sunny served the beer for her and Angel turned as she raised her glass and said Salud.’

  ‘ Ypesetas y amory el liempo,’ he replied. The girl put on an automatic smile and moved a step closer to him, a calculated warmth coming into her voice.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘You’re a big one. Buy me a drink, stranger?’

  ‘I thought you had a sick friend,’ Angel remarked.

  ‘Oh, that one,’ she spat. ‘He snores like a pig. He will sleep until noon if I do not waken him.’ Her smile became ingratiating. ‘We could go to the house of my girl-friend ... if you like?’

  ‘Maybe sometime,’ Angel said, smiling to remove any sting from his words. ‘But I’ll buy you a drink, if you will allow me the honor.’

  The girl looked at the bartender. ‘See? A gentleman, for a change.’ She slipped an arm through Angel’s, and tugged gently.

  ‘What’s your hurry?’ she said softly. ‘Stay and talk to Carmen.’

  She was quite pretty. Small, black hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon, the body where his arm touched her breast warm and rounded. She smelled of soap and water, which in itself was unusual.

  ‘It’s a thought,’ he admitted. ‘But some other time, Carmen. I got to see a man.’

  ‘Oh, let him wait,’ she pouted.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Angel said. ‘He’s expectin’ me.’ There was a faint irony in his voice that made the girl raise her eyebrows quizzically but the words meant nothing to her and she shrugged.

  ‘You are just playing hard to get, «?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘No, ma’am, I’m easy as pie. But not right now. Some other time, OK?’

  ‘I’ll be looking for you,’ she said softly, and walked away, carrying the jug of beer on her shoulder and deliberately switching the hips only nominally covered by the thin dress.

  ‘Quite a girl,’ Angel remarked to the bartender.

  ‘So they tell me,’ was the monosyllabic reply.

  ‘Friendly, too.’

  ‘Like a bear trap,’ said Sunny. ‘Who’s the man you’re lookin’ for?’

  Angel looked up quickly. The bartender’s gaze was direct and flat and his eyes showed no emotion.

  ‘Feller called Larkin,’ he said. ‘You know him?’

  ‘Know about him,’ the bartender said. ‘Killed a man here yesterday.’

  Angel nodded. ‘I know,’ he said and the way he said it evidently confirmed something in the bartender’s mind.

  ‘He ain’t no cream-puff, friend,’ Sunny said.

  ‘So I hear.’

  The bartender shook his head, his jaw muscles working. He stalked away down the bar, kicked a barrel, and cursed it fluency.

  ‘Something up?’ Angel asked, mildly.

  ‘Ain’t you got no sense, boy?’ snapped the bartender, whirling around to face Angel. ‘That gunslinger burns down old George, and next thing you come in to town with your guns oiled. Don’t you people know he’s hopin’ that’s just what you’ll do?’

  ‘Us people?’

  ‘You’re one o’ Perry’s men, I’m guessin’,’ the saloonkeeper said, ‘though I ain’t seen your face afore.’

  ‘Name’s Angel, Frank Angel.’

  ‘That’s fittin’,’ said Sunny. ‘It’ll look nice on your tombstone.’

  ‘You must be Metter,’ Angel said. ‘They told me your bark was worse than your bite.’

  ‘I’m Metter,’ the man said, ‘an’ I ain’t bit you yet.’

  ‘Have a beer,’ Angel offered.

  ‘Don’t goddam hedge,’ Metter said furiously. ‘You fixin’ to mebbe invite Larkin to Perry’s funeral?’ There was deep sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘We buried him last night,’ Angel said quietly.

  ‘Oh, damn, I’m sorry, Angel,’ Metter said. ‘I liked George Perry. He was one of the few decent men in this country. But gettin’ more men killed ain’t goin’to help.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Angel said.

  Metter put his hands on his hips and glared at the man across the bar.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘I won’t kill him,’ Angel told him.

  Astonishment flickered across the swarthy face and then Metter laughed, a barking sound of disbelief.

  ‘Well, that’s big of you,’ he said. ‘You’ve talked this over with Larkin, of course?’

  ‘Come on, Sunny,’ Angel said, ‘what’s eatin’ you? You want George Perry’s killer to walk away scot-free?’

  ‘No, damn you,’ Metter snapped. ‘I just don’t see no sense in more of you people gettin’ your fool heads shot off is all. You’re all like school kids with this eye-for-an-eye business. There ain’t no percentage in it. Goddamn it, the man’s a killer. He likes what he does, boy! You’re askin’ for it if you go lookin’ for him.’

  ‘You never answered my question,’ Angel said mildly.

  ‘What question, fachrissake?’

  ‘You think he ought to walk away from this clean?’

  ‘You need to ask me that? Then you really are stupid!’ snapped Metter.

  ‘Unfashionable viewpoint,’ Angel went on. ‘Way I see it, George Perry’s death won’t cause much mourning in Daranga.’

  ‘Birch an’ Reynolds, you mean? No, they’re prob’ly plannin’ to have a party to celebrate it,’ Metter said. ‘Don’t mean everybody in town agrees with ‘em.’

  ‘But nobody’s going to do anything about it, right?’

  ‘Only a fool’d go against them odds, mister,’ Metter said. His voice had gone surly and his eyes fell away from Angel’s direct gaze. ‘Nothin’ much we can do.’

  ‘Funny that this Larkin should turn up out of nowhere and do Birch and Reynolds such a big favor,’ Angel remarked.

  ‘What.. . ? Listen, talk like that could get you in real trouble, Angel,’ the saloonkeeper said. ‘Ain’t nothin’ to show this Larkin’s got anythin’ to do with them two ... is there?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘Not as I know of,’ he admitted. ‘Strange, all the same.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Metter said. ‘They wasn’t no admirers of Perry but it don’t figger they’d bring in somebody to kill him. Why would they need to? Why would anybody want him dead, come to that?’

  ‘Or Walt Clare either, come to that,’ mocked Angel.

  ‘Listen, you’re jumpin’ to some
mighty hairy conclusions, mister,’ Metter said.

  ‘Could be,’ Angel said. ‘Well, thanks for the beer. I’ll have another one . . . later.’

  ‘I’ll pour it on your grave in Boot Hill,’ Metter said sourly. ‘It’ll make the daisies grow.’

  ‘My God, if you aren’t mother’s cheery little helper,’ Angel grinned. ‘Now I understand why they call you “Sunny”.’ His face grew serious. ‘Listen. I need some help.’

  Metter threw up his arms in the sign of mock surrender. ‘Include me out, friend,’ he said, exaggerated fear in his voice.

  ‘Just tell the sheriff he’s goin’ to have a prisoner who won’t be a bit pleased about the fact, will you?’

  ‘Oh, that. Shore. I’ll tell the sheriff that. He’ll laugh, but I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Attaboy,’ Angel said. ‘Don’t fret, Sunny: there’ll be no killing today.’ And he was out of the door before the words had sunk in, and walking down Fort Street when Metter spoke, addressing the ceiling or some other being in that general direction.

  ‘How the hell is he so sure of that?’

  Angel had stayed in Metter’s saloon longer than necessary but he knew how it was in towns like Daranga: the word would have rapidly been passed that there was an armed stranger in town. Larkin would hardly need to be told that this might be someone looking for him; and Angel was perfectly well aware of how the gunslinger’s thoughts would run. He knew that Larkin was in some way a key to the puzzle of the deaths of Clare and Perry: not their physical deaths, but the motive. Clare ambushed, and by a professional ... Larkin? Perry whipsawed into a fight he had no way of winning: Larkin. While during these events Birch and Reynolds kept their men in full public view, completely alibied for the murders. If the murders benefited them, in what way did they? If the murders did not benefit them, why had they happened at all? Why would Larkin ride into Daranga unless he had been sent - or sent for? And why would they send for a gunman when they employed Boot and Mill? He shook his head; Larkin was the key and so the next step was to face Larkin. Angel emptied his mind as he paced down the dusty street towards the Alhambra corner. It was a trick he had learned years ago, the ability to remove from his thoughts any distraction, any apprehension, any trace of imagination: a man distracted, afraid, or thinking about the possibility of losing a gunfight could not be effective. He would hesitate; and he would be dead. As he walked he noticed that the streets were cleared; a covert glance at the windows of the boarding house revealed faces blurred behind the thick glass, and he felt the pressure of a hundred pairs of eyes as he walked towards where Larkin sat on the porch of the saloon.

  Larkin looked as if he was sleeping but Angel knew that beneath the tilted hat brim the gunman’s eyes were watching his every step. He moved without haste, and there was no threat in his stance or his approach, yet those watching could see menace in his very casualness.

  Larkin eased his feet to the floor and sat up slowly as Angel came nearer, then stood and stretched as lazily as a cat, turning to face Angel, leaning indolently against the post which a moment before had supported his feet. An infinitesimal nod was acknowledgment of Angel’s approach. Angel kept walking towards Larkin, and the gunman eased his shoulder away from the post and stood balanced easily on wide-apart feet, his weight slightly forward of center, hand poised near the dulled butt of his gun.

  Angel stepped up on to the boardwalk beneath the porch of the Alhambra on the Fort Street side, pacing steadily towards Larkin.

  ‘Near enough,’ said Larkin conversationally. He moved his fingers slightly, and Angel thought for a second that the man was going to pull the gun, but Larkin hesitated and Angel knew that he was puzzled by his inexorable approach, waiting to see what he would do. He kept on coming, and cast his whole life behind the conviction that Larkin’s vanity would make the man wait for his, Angel’s, first aggressive move. He was within ten feet of Larkin now and again the gunman spoke, his voice sibilant.

  ‘Near enough, I said.’

  Angel kept on coming.

  Three more steps and he was within arm’s length of the gunman and still Larkin waited and then Angel was facing him and the gunman cursed as he recognized Angel’s tactic and his tensed muscles reacted to the command from the galvanized brain. His hand blurred towards the butt of his gun but he was too late. Like a striking snake, Angel’s hand had moved and the barrel of his six-gun jarred into Larkin’s belly, stopping the man’s hand in mid-movement, making his gasp.

  ‘Don’t,’ Angel said.

  Larkin looked into the cold grey eyes and saw the killing machinery held in check behind them. For a long second the two men stood in a frozen tableau and then Larkin sighed and opened his fingers. His gun slid back into the holster.

  ‘What is this?’ he said. There was no tension in his face at all. He looked suddenly relaxed and at ease. Behind his eyes was an amused reaction at having been tricked, and the supreme confidence of the man who knows that his aggressor has a tiger by the tail. Whoever this cold-eyed interloper was he could not stand there all day with a gun jammed in Larkin’s belly. As soon as the gun was put up, the advantage was canceled and Larkin knew without thinking about it that he could beat this man to the draw.

  ‘Citizen’s arrest, Larkin,’ Angel said evenly. His voice was loud enough to be heard by the people watching. ‘For murder.’

  Larkin threw back his head and laughed, a good big hearty laugh of pure contempt and his laugh was at a high point when Angel slammed him to the floor with the barrel of the gun. Larkin was out like a light before his body jarred the wooden porch with the weight of its fall. Angel looked down at the fallen gunman.

  ‘He who laughs last,’ he said coldly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Things were happening too damned fast for Nicky Austin. Up till recently, it had been nice and quiet around Daranga. Throwing the occasional drunk into the lockup was one thing. Bushwhackings and gunfights in the plaza were something else again. And now here was Sunny Metter taking the utmost delight in telling him that some stranger had thrown down on Larkin and was bringing him up the street to his jail. Panic flooded Austin’s brain; he wanted to call for help, but there was nobody to call to. Both Birch and Reynolds were up at their ranches in the valley. As far as he knew none of their riders were in town. Nicky Austin was on his own and he didn’t like it one little bit.

  He liked it even less when his door was kicked open and he saw on the threshold the stranger he had met the other night at Perry’s place, dragging in the unconscious form of the gunfighter Larkin.

  ‘Now look here, mister . . .’ he began.

  ‘Brung you a prisoner, sheriff,’ said Angel cheerfully. He turned to the grinning Metter. ‘You owe me a beer,’ he reminded the saloonkeeper.

  ‘Come over an’ drink all you want,’ Metter said. ‘I never thought I’d have the chance to make the offer.’

  Austin’s eyes shuttled from one to the other. His jowls trembled. In his mind he could already hear Birch’s harsh voice asking him questions for which he could have no possible reply.

  ‘Now see here ...’ he began again.

  ‘This man is a murderer, Austin,’ Angel told him coldly. ‘I know it and he knows it and now you know it. I want him in custody until the United States marshal can get across here.’

  ‘I can’t ... uh ... you can’t...’ Austin’s mind raced around like a squirrel on a treadmill. ‘You can’t arrest people in my town, mister,’ he squeaked. ‘I’m the law around here.’

  ‘You’re a poor substitute for the real thing, you tub o’ lard,’ Angel told him. ‘George Perry had as much chance with this one as you’d have with a cornered wildcat, and if that doesn’t make it murder I’d admire to hear your definition.’

  ‘Perry went for his gun first,’ blurted the Sheriff. ‘A dozen people seen it.’

  ‘Shore,’ said Metter, sardonically.

  ‘We’ll just hand him over to the Federal marshal anyway,’ Angel went on inexorably. ‘He’s got some
explaining to do. About Perry. And Walt Clare.’

  ‘Clare?’ bleated Austin. ‘What’d he have to do with that?’

  ‘I ain’t sure,’ Angel told him. ‘But I’m planning to find out.’

  ‘Now, wait a damned minute, here,’ Austin said, getting up from behind his desk. ‘This town can handle its own affairs.’ How could he manage this? He needed to talk to Birch before this thing got out of hand. He needed help. By God, he needed a drink. He licked his lips.

  ‘Murder ain’t a Federal offense, Angel,’ he said, craftily. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Hiring an assassin and bringing him into the Territory is,’ Angel said flatly. ‘I reckon when this little birdie starts singing that’s what his song is going to be about. Maybe he’ll tell us whose idea it was to bring him over here.’

  Austin shook his head. He needed time. A thought came to him.

  ‘This jail ain’t no good, then,’ he said. ‘See for yourself. You couldn’t lock up a ten-year-old boy here. He’d be out afore you could say scoot.’

  Metter looked at Angel and nodded. ‘Damn place has been fallin’ down for years.’