Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2)

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘There, you see,’ cried Austin triumphantly. ‘You cain’t put him in here.’

  ‘Get some cuffs and leg-irons then,’ Angel told him coldly. ‘We’ll hand him over to the military at Fort Daranga. I reckon they’ll be able to keep him quiet long enough.’

  ‘I ain’t got the time to ...’

  ‘You’d better make time, Austin,’ Angel said coldly. ‘You and I are taking friend Larkin over to the Fort, and we’re doing it now. So get your fat butt into gear and do what I tell you or this town’s going to be shy one misfit sheriff.’ The lambent fire in Angel’s eyes made the sheriff quail. He hastened to do Angel’s bidding, and by the time Larkin began to come around, groaning slightly as he opened his eyes, he was firmly manacled, and Metter had carefully searched him for hidden weapons, bringing a deadly little snub-nosed Derringer from the man’s pants pocket and a sharp knife from its hiding place between his shoulder blades where it had hung on a rawhide thong.

  ‘A real sweetheart, this one,’ he remarked. ‘But his fangs are drawn.’

  Larkin spat on the floor. There was a trapped hatred in his eyes as he looked from Metter to Angel and back again.

  ‘You’re dead men,’ he told them, a venomous satisfaction in his voice. ‘No matter what happens, you’re as good as dead.’

  ‘Everybody dies,’ Metter told him. ‘I’d as soon be standin’ up as bowin’ down when it happens.’

  Larkin ignored the words. He did not look at them again. It was as if they were not worth his attention.

  ‘I’ll get the hosses,’ Metter said. Angel nodded his thanks, and jerked Larkin to his feet. The gunman snarled angrily at being manhandled.

  ‘Keep your paws off of me, mister!’ he snapped. ‘I can walk.’

  ‘Thank your lucky stars,’ Angel told him levelly. ‘I could have blown your gizzard out just as easy as buffaloed you.’

  “You’ll wish you had before much longer,’ Larkin snapped.

  ‘Talk, talk, talk,’ Angel said, and pushed the gunman towards the door.

  There was a small crowd out in the street, and they watched silently as Angel helped Larkin mount, tying him firmly to the pommel of the saddle. Austin bustled around, giving instructions which nobody heeded. He locked the door of his office with a great clattering of keys and considerable puffing and panting, then came down to the street and got aboard his horse. Angel watched the performance with grim amusement. Austin had told about twenty people where he was going, and why, and with whom. There was no doubt that someone even now was burning leather towards the Birch and Reynolds ranches: doubtless their espionage system was good. He wondered what effect the news of Larkin’s arrest would have on them. It was for this reason that he had not prevented Austin from making so much fuss at their departure. If the two ranchers were behind Larkin’s arrival in Daranga, then they would act. By their action he would know their complicity. If nothing intervened between their departure from Daranga and getting to the Fort, then.... As he turned his horse towards the northern end of town, Metter came jogging around the corner of a building. He was in range clothes, and wearing a gun. He looked like a totally different man.

  ‘Hold up there, Angel,’ he said. ‘I’ll ride along with you.’

  ‘I’m thanking you,’ Angel told him. ‘You sure you want to?’

  ‘No call for you to take sides in this, Sunny,’ Austin said, pompously. ‘It might cause you trouble later.’

  ‘About time I declared my interests, anyway,’ Metter said mildly. ‘Whatever this is all about, I’m fightin’ on the side that’s against it. Which looks to me like you, Angel. I’m ridin’ with you, and that’s final.’

  ‘Glad to have you,’ Angel told him. Indeed, he was. In a tight spot, there would be no use looking for help from the cowardly Austin. The sheriff would either run or find a hole and hide in it until the trouble was over. Metter wearing a gun looked like a man you could depend on.

  Larkin sneered. ‘All of a sudden, ever’body’s a hero,’ he said sarcastically.

  Metter looked at the man for a moment, and then spurred his horse until he was alongside the gunman.

  ‘You know what, Larkin?’ he said, softly. ‘I hope someone tries to spring you. I hope they make a try. Because I’m tellin’ you: the minute they look like breakin’ you loose I’m goin’ to put a slug right in your navel. An’ Larkin ... all my slugs got crosses cut in them. You know what I mean?’

  Case-hardened as he was, Larkin’s visage paled at Metter’s words. Cutting a notch in the soft lead of a .45 made it a most terrible missile. Any man hit by such a slug would be torn to pieces inside as the tumbling bullet smashed through him. No one hit directly with such a slug could hope to live. And if the wound were in the belly.. . Larkin shuddered. Metter’s mean gaze was direct and convincing. Larkin recalled that they called the man ‘the Indian.’ He didn’t look like a man who’d be too perturbed by doing just what he had promised. Larkin fell silent, turning away. Metter looked at Angel and grinned.

  ‘Shore quiet, ain’t it?’ he said cheerfully, and pushed ahead of them, his horse leading the way up Fort Street and out of the silent town.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The sun was a red glow behind the far sierras and the dark fingers of night were streaking the sky before they reached the Fort. There was no perimeter guard; the Indians were currently quiescent, and so only a nominal sentry watch was kept. In its position on the fork of the trails, the Fort was by necessity a stopping place for travelers and traders moving between Tucson and Baranquilla, or on to Daranga and the New Mexico border. The party rode diagonally across the parade ground, pulling to a halt outside the Commanding Officer’s quarters. The sentry outside snapped to attention and called out, ‘Lieutenant Ellis, at the double!’

  The young adjutant came tumbling out of the doorway of the orderly room - stopping mouth agape when his eyes fell upon Angel.

  ‘You!’ he said, disbelief in his voice. ‘How the - what the hell are you doing here? You were—’ He snapped his mouth shut like a purse and rounded on the young sentry.

  ‘Over to the guardhouse and fetch Sergeant Battle and two men. On the double!’

  The young soldier dashed away and Ellis wheeled to face the party.

  ‘Now,’ he said with grim satisfaction in his voice. ‘Angel, who are these men?’

  ‘The sheriff of Daranga, a prisoner and escort,’ Angel said softly. ‘Maybe we’d better see the colonel.’

  ‘It’s the inside of the guardhouse you’ll be seeing, mister,’ Ellis said.

  ‘Thompson first,’ Angel insisted gently. ‘Fun later.’

  ‘See here, sojer boy,’ Austin said pettishly. ‘We been ridin’ all day an’ we’re tuckered out. Ain’t you got no respect for the law o’ this County?’

  ‘Not much,’ Ellis said, ‘if what I’ve heard about it is true. Who’s your prisoner?’

  ‘Feller called Larkin,’ Metter said. ‘Killed George Perry in Daranga.’

  ‘Why are you bringing him here?’ Ellis asked. ‘He’s not our problem.’

  ‘If explaining it to you would do, we wouldn’t be asking for the colonel,’ Angel said. He swung down from the horse, and as he did so the clatter of footsteps announced the arrival of the guard detail. They came to a halt on the sharp command of the big sergeant with them, who regarded Angel with surprise and a sort of pleasure.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘Sergeant, place this man under arrest!’ snapped Ellis.

  ‘What is all this?’ shouted the bewildered Austin. ‘I demand to see the colonel.’

  ‘Aye, that you will, boy, just as soon as we’ve taken care of this one,’ grinned the sergeant, flexing his ham like hands.

  ‘Sarge, I hate to do this to you when you’re having so much fun,’ Angel said. He stepped in front of Lieutenant Ellis.

  ‘In the name of the President of the United States,’ he said quietly.

  Ellis took a step backwards. His was n
ot the only open mouth: the others gaped at Angel, who had produced from a pocket inside his belt a leather wallet which held a gleaming badge. The flaring light of the lanterns on the porch picked out clearly the screaming eagle, the circular seal, the words Department of Justice, United States of America.

  ‘What - what’s this?’ managed Ellis.

  ‘It’s called clout, soldier,’ Angel said coldly. ‘It means if you don’t get out of my way you’re going to be the sorriest lieutenant in the history of the US Army.’

  ‘Department of Justice?’ muttered Metter behind Angel. ‘I’ll be damned.’

  ‘Didn’t want to show you my hand till I had to,’ Angel said without turning. ‘This seemed like as good a time as any.’

  He saw Larkin looking at him with a new expression and could almost read the thoughts which must be going through the gunman’s mind. To be put under citizen’s arrest was one thing. To be in the hands of the top government law enforcement agency was entirely another. Larkin was weighing chances and not liking the results. Angel smiled grimly.

  ‘Bastard,’ Larkin muttered. ‘You bastard.’

  ‘Not true, actually,’ Angel grinned easily. ‘But I know how you feel.’ He turned again to face Ellis, who stood rooted on the spot as if paralyzed.

  ‘Now, Lieutenant: do we do it easy ... or the other way?’

  Ellis nodded dumbly. He turned to go inside, then remembered himself. ‘At ease, Sergeant,’ he said. Then he almost ran into the colonel’s office. Within moments Thompson’s bulky frame loomed in the lamplit doorway. He peered at Angel as though he had seen a ghost.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he snapped.

  ‘I think we better talk inside,’ Angel said. Thompson nodded wordlessly and led the way in. He took his seat behind the desk.

  ‘You’re with the Department of Justice?’ he asked weakly. ‘You . . . you should have told me that. It’s unforgivable. I—’

  ‘Colonel,’ said Angel. ‘We’ve had a hard day. All I want you to do is place this man’ - he gestured at Larkin - ‘under close arrest. I believe he is responsible for at least two murders in this area, possibly others. I know he gunned down George Perry in Daranga. If you want me to swear charges to that effect so that you have something in writing, we can do that.’

  ‘Yes - ah - well, I’m sure there is no need for that, Mr. Angel,’ Thompson said, his voice still wavering. Angel caught the whiff of cheap whiskey on the man’s breath. The revelation of Angel’s identity had taken all the wind out of the soldier.

  Thompson looked up at Ellis. His eyes held an almost pleading look. Ellis stared at the wall.

  ‘Now see here, Colonel,’ Austin said, wheedlingly, ‘this yere ain’t none o’ my doin’s. This feller just plain took over. I never knowed who he was nor nothin’.’

  Thompson waved him silent. ‘Perhaps you can give me some account of yourself, Mr. Angel,’ he said. ‘How can I assist you?’

  ‘All in good time,’ Angel said. ‘Right now, I want this’ - he gestured at Larkin, who answered the movement with a sneer - ‘in your guardhouse. I want a twenty-four hour guard put on him until I give you instructions to the contrary.’

  ‘Instructions, sir?’ snapped Thompson indignantly. ‘On this post, I give the instructions.’

  ‘We could telegraph Washington, if you prefer,’ Angel suggested. Thompson let out his breath in a long sigh. He seemed to actually deflate before their eyes.

  ‘No need of that,’ he said, windily. ‘As long as you can prove you’re who you say you are.’

  Angel produced an oilskin pouch and from it unfolded a document which he spread out on the soldier’s desk.

  ‘That tells you I am acting on direct instructions from the Attorney General of the United States,’ he said. ‘I can take any action to maintain law and order, civil or military, that I see fit. That means I can hold special sessions of court, empanel juries, subpoena witnesses, and even hold a General Court Martial. If I have to,’ he finished quietly. ‘It is your sworn duty to assist and protect me in so doing.’

  Thompson sighed again, as though a forlorn hope had just flown. He had not missed Angel’s reference to a Court Martial, as Angel had intended that he should not Thompson nodded.

  ‘What else do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want your permission to talk to some of the men here,’ Angel told him, ‘in particular, Sergeant Battle. There are some questions I’d like to ask him.’

  Ellis’s head came up. ‘What sort of questions?’ he asked.

  ‘Personal ones,’ Angel replied uncommunicatively. ‘Do I have your permission?’ He said it like a man who knows what the answer will be. The colonel hesitated only a second, and then nodded wearily.

  ‘I can hardly prevent you,’ he said.

  Angel stood up, addressing himself to Metter.

  ‘Can you see that our little friend is tucked away safe?’ he asked.

  Metter nodded, grinning. ‘Bet your ass,’ he said.

  ‘What is this man’s name?’ Thompson asked, pointing at Larkin. Angel told him.

  Thompson got to his feet and walked across the room to face the gunman.

  ‘Where are you from, Larkin?’ he said.

  ‘Any place but here,’ replied Larkin sullenly.

  “You will answer my question,’ snapped Thompson.

  ‘Go to hell, you puffed-up bluebelly!’ grated Larkin. ‘I don’t have to tell you one solitary damned thing!’

  For a moment, the watchers thought that Thompson might strike the man. His face went purple with suppressed rage, and Lieutenant Ellis took a step forward, laying a hand on Thompson’s arm. Thompson shook it off, spit forming at the corners of his mouth. He struggled with himself for a moment, then frowned as though remembering where he was.

  ‘Take him away,’ he said, disgust in his voice. ‘Lock him up, Mr. Ellis.’

  ‘Sir,’ Ellis acknowledged.

  ‘Twenty-four hour guard. Day and night, watch him,’ snarled Thompson. ‘If he tries to escape, you will instruct the guard to shoot to kill!’

  Larkin looked up quickly at the words, but said nothing. His eyes met Angel’s.

  ‘You wouldn’t have set this up, would you?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No chance,’ Angel told him, shaking his head. ‘I want you to sing, not croak.’

  ‘Don’t hang by your toes waitin’,’ Larkin said with a lopsided grin.

  Ellis hustled the gunfighter out of the room, and they heard him summoning the guard outside. The tramp of feet died away across the parade ground. Thompson went back to his chair, slumping in it like a man exhausted. He gazed emptily at the wall for a moment, and then pulled himself together.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he said hastily. ‘A long day. May I offer you a drink?’

  Angel and Metter shook their heads, but Austin agreed noisily and Thompson poured two hefty measures of whiskey into two tin cups. He drank his greedily, then refilled the cup, setting it to the side of his desk. His eyes kept wandering towards it as he spoke.

  ‘Perhaps you can explain all this to me, Mr. Angel,’ he said, struggling for some remnants of his dignity. His voice became pompous. He put on a ragged air of command which was almost pathetic.

  ‘It’s simple enough,’ Angel began. ‘The Department had several men looking into allegations of misuse of Government property and funds, on the Indian reservation and - elsewhere. There were also indications that a political group were creating a monopoly by coercion and price fixing. Nothing specific: but we were looking into it.’

  ‘What happened?’ Thompson asked. He looked very pale. He licked his lips and reached out for the cup, withdrawing his hand without picking it up.

  ‘Somebody got wind of the investigation,’ Angel continued. ‘Three men we had out here were assassinated. One was knifed in an alley in Tucson. A second one was killed in what appeared to be a street brawl. A third was found dead in the desert; looked like some drunk ‘Pache buck had killed him. Could have been pure c
oincidence, but we didn’t think so. And whoever arranged the killings made a serious mistake, because they drew attention to what had previously been unsubstantiated reports.’

  ‘Then how does Larkin fit in to all this - you sayin’ he’s the one killed those men?’ Metter asked.

  ‘Could be,’ Angel agreed. ‘He’s a killer-for-hire, and those men were pros. They wouldn’t have been taken by amateurs.’

  ‘It sounds somewhat far-fetched, if you care for my opinion,’ Thompson said pompously. He reached for the tin cup and this time gulped greedily. ‘What on earth could be the basis for a conspiracy on that scale?’

  ‘Money,’ replied Angel succinctly. ‘The high country ranchers have been systematically forced to subsistence level by having their cattle stolen, by having local markets closed to them, by paying monopoly prices for goods and services. Their men have been strong-armed - some have even been run off. Smaller ranchers have been closed out. And every time, Birch and Reynolds have bought up the land.’

  ‘But why?’ persisted Metter. ‘Ever’body knowed Al Birch and Jacey Reynolds was land-hungry, but nobody could figger why. They had plenty o’ land for the number o’ cattle they was runnin’. They owned the store, the sutler’s post, the hotel, the saloon. Why would they want the high country ranchland?’

  Angel shook his head. ‘I don’t know for sure. I’ve got a hunch, but all I know for sure is that there’s some mighty powerful politicking been going on up on Capitol Hill, and whoever is behind all the trouble out here has got people in high places under his thumb.’

  ‘Do you - uh - do you know who any of these people are?’ Thompson managed, his voice strangled.

  ‘More or less,’ Angel said, without emphasis. ‘You only have to figure out what would be needed: then you can guess who they’d try to use. If we can get Larkin into court, my guess is we’ll learn it all.’

  ‘He don’t strike me as the talkative type,’ Metter argued.

  ‘Let him think about spending the rest of his life in Yuma Penitentiary,’ Angel said grimly. ‘He might get real chatty.’