By late afternoon they were in the malpais. The land no longer ran in long, sliding rises and falls, but was creviced and torn by meandering arroyos and strewn with boulders, scattered rocks, and sparse, stunted cactus. Ahead of them it shimmered with heat that made the land turn to water, distances disappearing into a haze that looked like a sea. Far off to the north, grey-blue on the horizon, they could see mountains. The trail they were following was hard to see now. They halted constantly, quartering across open spaces, picking up traces that men had passed this way: a broken stick of dry cholla stepped on by a horse, a pebble overturned and still slightly darker where the sun had not yet dried the cooler underside, a thread of cotton tagged to the spine of a yucca. The relentless sun reflected back by the mica sand of the desert baked them, drying sweat as it appeared on their bodies. They moved like tiny ants in some vast amphitheater of sand and wilderness, inching ever northwards, and always more west. By nightfall they were in the foothills of the Rincons, and everywhere stood the majestic saguaro, marching in irregular lines, looking like randomly erected candelabra, striking and red-tinged in the late sun, with the massive rock faces of the peaks soaring behind them. When night fell, they could go on no longer. Blackness came with the sharp unexpectedness of the desert, and they camped in a hollow at the base of one of the hills, shielded on three sides from the rear, facing south out across the tumbling jumble of country through which they had passed. They built a fire, propping a blanket on poles to prevent its glow rising against the blackness of the night, and huddled close to it against the chill of the night. Angel had coffee and a small pot, and they measured water sparingly into it, relishing the smell of it and the good warm full taste on their parched lips. Two strips of jerky made their meal. They fell into instant sleep, and it seemed to Metter he had hardly closed his eyes when Angel was shaking him.
‘Up,’ he said.
It was still dark; even the tinge of grey that heralds the dawn was not yet visible on the horizon. Metter shivered in the cold, as Angel fanned the small fire to glowing embers and reheated the last of the coffee. They had enough to take away the morning thirst, no more. They would need to strike water soon. Stretching stiffened arms and legs, Metter climbed reluctantly into the saddle. The horses, too, were still tired. They snorted in protest and bucked to show their disapproval.
Angel moved off down the slope, Metter behind him, shaking his head. He almost felt pity for the men they were trailing. He’d as soon have Angel on his back trail as a pack of timber wolves, he told himself. They moved out of the hills and down the western slope of the Rincons, which they had quartered across. The faint trail had led towards the west. Tucson? Metter asked himself. About half an hour later they found the camp.
The ashes of the fire were cold. Two whiskey bottles lay glinting emptily in the sharp morning sunlight. Metter dismounted, stooping close to the ground, reading the sign he could see in the scuffled sand. Around the ashes of the fire the sand was churned and piled: some kind of disturbance: a fight? He said as much, and Angel hunkered down alongside him and nodded.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Probably fighting over the Perry girl.’
Metter looked at him, sharply, but there was no expression of anger or regret on Angel’s face: just that unemphatic determination.
‘They were here night before last,’ Angel said. Metter nodded.
‘Has to be,’ he agreed. ‘They must have been travelin’ hard.’
‘This far,’ Angel nodded. ‘They’ll ease off some now. They won’t be expectin’ to be caught up with.’
They moved out, down a long arroyo which led to a plain that stretched to the western horizon, speckled with yucca and prickly pear, the yellow scar of a wash visible about ten miles ahead. Far out ahead of them, blue-red outcrops of sandstone rose like the backs of whales. They strained their eyes but could see no sign of dust or movement.
‘How far we come?’ Metter asked, as they pushed ahead towards the distant hills. ‘Fifty mile?’
‘About that,’ Angel said. ‘We made good time this far.’
Metter pointed to the jumbled hills off to the south-west.
‘Beyond there lies Tucson,’ he said. ‘You think they’re headin’ there?’
‘Could be,’ was the noncommittal reply.
‘Reckon the troops’ll have taken care o’ things back in the Ruidoso country,’ he offered.
‘Uhuh,’ Angel answered.
‘You think they’ll be able to follow this trace an’ come on out here after us?’ Metter asked. ‘We run into them boys, we may need a little help.’
‘Not likely,’ grunted Angel.
‘Chatter, chatter, chatter,’ complained Metter. ‘Trouble with you, Angel, is you talk too much.’
For the first time since they had come upon the carnage in the high chaparral, Angel smiled. It was a brief, on-off smile, but at least a smile.
‘Thanks, Sunny,’ he said. That was all. But Metter knew what he meant and felt warmed by it.
That afternoon they found signs of a second camp. It looked as if the raiders had stopped early in the day yesterday, perhaps deciding to travel in the cool of the night. They would be low on water, perhaps suffering from the extra thirst of hangovers, for there were more bottles scattered in the scrub. The sign around the campsite was much fresher, not dulled by the scouring, ever-present furnace-blast breeze across the desert floor. They were closer to the raiders now, and they moved more carefully. Towards sundown they came upon a long shelving slope of softened sand, where the shifting winds had drifted the streaming mica smooth across a stretch of flatbed rock, and saw the trail as plain as if it had been printed stamped into the gleaming whiteness of sand, curving away from the westward line it had been following, curving north and northeast and pointing across towards the northern quadrant of the Rincons and the tumbled peaks of New Mexico. They reined in and Metter dismounted. The lines of concentration between his black brows were deep.
‘I don’t get it,’ he said, hunkered down gazing along the swath of tracks.
‘Making it easy for anyone following,’ Angel said. ‘Or don’t they give a damn?’
Metter shook his head. “You have to try to leave tracks like that,’ he said.
‘Mile to one side or the other, you’d have trouble finding their trail.’
‘This ...’ he gestured, ‘this is like puttin’ up a signpost.’
‘What I thought,’ Angel said. ‘Take that side, I’ll take the other.’
They ground hitched the horses and moved into the scrub on foot, keen eyes questing right and left, looking for any trace that horsemen or men on foot had passed. The ground was baked and hard, and strewn with rocks. There was no sign. They ranged further away from the horses, out of sight of each other, crossing and criss-crossing a central line drawn in their own minds, each line gradually diverging from the other.
Metter found it. They were now about a quarter of a mile away from the horses, invisible to each other in the gullied waste. Angel heard Metter shout. His eyes shuttled across the open land, pin-pointing the source of the sound. In a moment he picked out the shape that was the saloonkeeper, who was waving his shirt around his head. He was about five hundred yards away to Angel’s right. Angel hurried towards his companion, oblivious of the detaining claws of the cactus. Metter’s face was wet with sweat, glowing with triumph.
‘Crafty bastards,’ Metter said. ‘Look here.’
He pointed at the ground, and Angel saw half a dozen pieces of rough-cut rawhide, about six inches square, scattered in the lee of a sloping rock. Metter held a short length of piggin’ string in his hand. He shook his head with reluctant admiration.
‘They tied pads on the horses’ feet,’ he said. ‘Led them half a mile, then turned loose.’
‘How many?’ Angel asked tersely.
‘Two horses,’ Metter said. ‘One mule.’
‘What do you think?’
T reckon we’re s’posed to follow the other trail,’ Metter
said, his teeth gleaming white as he grinned.
‘You reckon they knew they’re bein’ trailed?’
Metter shook his head. ‘Prob’ly takin’ no chances. If the so’jer boys was comin’ after them, they’d never find this sign. They’d hare off after the obvious tracks, bugles blowin’ and spurs ajinglin’.
Angel looked up, his eyes following the line of the tracks. ‘What’s up ahead?’
‘Nothin’,’ Metter replied. ‘More o’ this.’ He waved an arm at the desert. ‘Then Tucson.’
‘Right,’ Angel said. ‘Here’s where we split up.’ Metter just looked at him.
‘I mean it,’ Angel said. ‘From here on in, I go alone.’
‘Fat chance,’ Metter said. ‘Fat chance.’
They glared at each other for a moment, then Angel grinned.
‘One of us has got to follow that other trail,’ he pointed out.
‘Hell, Frank, you know that’s a blind,’ Metter burst out. ‘Razzle-dazzle, that’s all.’
‘Yes. And no,’ Angel said. ‘You dog that trail. My bet is it’ll wind up in Grant Country, over the border. I’d bet that’s where the scum that wiped out the Circle C and Perry’s place were recruited. They’ll be wanting to spend their blood money. I need names, faces, Sunny. I need them to make sure that no man who rode with that gang will ever do it again.’
‘An’ that means I’m elected,’ Metter said.
‘You see anyone else I can ask?’ Angel replied.
‘I’ll do it,’ Metter said. ‘I ain’t goin’ to tell you I don’t mind, but I’ll do it’
‘Fine,’ Angel said. ‘Get word to a man called Mike Dempsey in Radlett, the County Seat. Tell him I sent you. Tell him the names, an’ why he is being told. He can get help from the military at Camp Grant. I want those men in jail, Sunny.’
‘I might just kill one or two of ‘em first an’ then tell this Dempsey feller,’ Metter said. ‘That OK?’
‘Do what you have to do. Hand it over to Dempsey - don’t try to handle it alone. Take this’ - he handed Metter the circular badge of the Justice Department - ‘you’ll need to convince him who you are. Then head back for Daranga. My hunch is that when this pot comes to the boil, it’ll be there.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘As soon as I’ve done what I have to do,’ Angel said. He swung up into the saddle. ‘Con Dios,’ he said.
Metter nodded. ‘’Con Dios,’ he replied.
He stood watching as Angel moved off to the west, steady and relentless on the faint trace they had discovered. After a moment he reined his horse around and headed back towards the sandy slope where the tracks of the raiders lay stark in the sunlight. When he looked back again, he could not see Angel. Metter moved on towards the mountains.
Chapter Seventeen
Night had fallen an hour ago, and still Angel moved on through the desert. There was a full moon, and when the cloud broke, its silver light bathed the cactus, heightening their weirdness, casting shattered shadows on the broken ground. Ahead the land broke, cresting into a high rise which fell on its western side sharply down into a shadowed arroyo. Angel approached it on foot, his hand clamped on the horse’s muzzle. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that one of the men he was seeking was down there, perhaps both of them.
He took all the time he needed.
Belly down in the fine ground sand he wormed forward on his elbows and knees to the edge of the arroyo. Flints and broken cactus spiked his bare hands and tore his shirt but he moved on like a hunting snake, oblivious to the pain. He edged easily over the crest of the arroyo and slithered down. As he came down the slow slope, he caught a flicker of light along the canyon, hidden perhaps behind a bend or a pile of rock.
With infinite care he moved forward again, until he raised his head and saw the dull red embers of a campfire glowing. A man was sitting cross-legged in front of the dying fire. Behind him lay a spread bedroll and a saddle ready to be used as a pillow. The man threw some twigs on the embers and in the quick flicker of a flame Angel saw that the man was Johnny Boot. The face looked strange, as if lopsided. After a moment, Angel recognized that Boot’s face was bruised, as if he had been fighting.
He inched further forward. If Boot was here, Mill could be nearby. He could now see the full flat base of the arroyo, and Boot’s horse idly cropping at some thin grass growing precariously from the side of the wash. Boot was alone. He stood up and stretched, the deep-set eyes like black holes in the high cheekboned face, the thin frame taut and wary even in repose. Boot unbuckled his gunbelt and laid it by the saddle, and then lay down without removing any of his other clothes. He turned to the right, and then the left, wallowing until he was covered by his blanket. Angel lay still and waited. He watched the moon sail by overhead and counted stars for a while. The Great Bear and the Little Bear, the Pole Star. Those were the ones he knew. It would be nice to study the stars, he thought.
Inside his head a clock was ticking, counting the seconds as they coagulated into minutes and the minutes as they crawled by. After what he deemed an hour, Angel figured Boot would be as asleep as he was ever likely to be. Johnny Boot had been too long on the wolf trail to ever really sleep deeply. He would wake up instantly if Angel made a sound. With careful, measured movement, Angel drew his feet up and under himself. Very slowly, he got to his feet and stood fully upright. He drew in a slow deep breath and let it out as he moved forward. He was about ten yards away from Boot when the desert wind shifted around behind him and Boot’s horse lifted its head and snorted a warning.
Boot rolled out of his blankets almost before the animal had finished blowing the air through its nostrils, his right hand snatching the six-gun from the holster by his head, eyes searching the blackness for his assailant. He saw Angel diving for the cover of the rocks, and the gun in his hand boomed, the slug ricocheting off the sandstone and filling the air with flickering splinters of rock. Angel rolled backwards away from the first hiding place as Boot scuttled across the open bottom of the arroyo, moving to another position as the gunman found shelter behind a tilted rock lying on the sloping side of the riverbed.
‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted Boot.
Angel remained silent.
‘Speak, damn you!’ yelled Boot. ‘Who’s there?’
While the man was shouting, Angel moved again. On all fours he slid halfway up the far side of the arroyo away from where Boot lay hidden. He heard Boot shout again and fire another shot, the report booming in the darkness, the flash muted behind the rock. In the moments of that noise, Angel was over the rim of the arroyo and on the flat scrubland above it, easing along on his hands and belly, his gun held ready but uncocked.
He heard a scuttling down below and peered over the edge. Boot had changed his position, and was now belly down on the sandy arroyo bed, trying to get back to his bedroll. Angel grinned: Boot had forgotten to grab his cartridge belt and had suddenly realized he had only three shots left in the gun. Angel’s fingers closed around a big pebble and he tossed it up the arroyo behind Boot’s back. Boot rolled over and faced the direction of the sound, ready to fire. In that moment Angel loosed off a shot which ripped the back of Boot’s calf, tearing through the leather of his boot and searing the soft muscle. Boot screamed in agony and rolled away behind the rock he had used previously.
‘Johnny,’ Angel called. Up this high, he knew his voice would sound disembodied; Boot would find it difficult to pinpoint Angel’s position.
‘Who the hell are you?’ shouted Boot. ‘Show yourself!’
Angel could hear the man’s muttered curses, could almost see in his mind’s eye Boot’s frantic efforts to staunch the flow of blood from his ripped leg.
‘Johnny!’ Angel’s voice was peremptory now. ‘Where’s the girl, Johnny?’
‘Angel?’ There was disbelief in Boot’s voice. ‘Angel? Is that you?’
‘It’s me. Where’s the girl?’
He heard Boot chuckl
e maliciously.
‘What’s it worth to you, Angel?’
‘You’re in no spot to bargain, Johnny,’ Angel said. To emphasize his point he drove three bullets into various angles of the slanted rock sheltering Boot. The whining, disintegrating slugs and the splintered stone drove Boot down flat for safety, cursing as he filled his unprepared mouth with sand.
Angel rolled to a new position and fired two more rounds rapidly, the slugs angling off the rock, cutting through the air like demented hornets as they caromed. He reloaded quickly, letting Boot hear the sound of the chamber as he turned it.
T got all night and plenty of bullets, Johnny,’ he called. ‘Where’s the girl?’
‘Go to hell,’ yelled Boot, then ducked flat again as Angel blasted two more bullets against the rock.
‘One of those slugs is going to find you sooner or later, Johnny!’ yelled Angel. ‘Better talk!’
Boot fired at the place where he had seen the gun flashes, but Angel was well away from there, rolling soundlessly to a new position. Each time, he opened the angle slightly more. It would only be a matter of time before he could bounce a slug off the rock and hit the crouching man.
‘She’s long gone, Angel!’ Boot yelled. His laugh was maniacal. ‘Willy took a shine to her.’
‘Where’s he headed, Johnny?’
‘Go to hell!’ yelled Boot
‘See you there!’ Angel replied coldly, letting another pair of slugs smash chunks out of Boot’s shelter.
‘I can stay here all night, Angel!’ yelled Boot ‘Why don’t you show yourself like a man?’
Angel blasted the rock again and then again, rolling aside and this time coming near the edge of the arroyo. He reloaded. The gun barrel was hot He heard Boot shout as he moved, knew he had hit the man, but not how badly.
‘Damn ... you!’ Boot shouted. His voice was thinner. Angel nodded grimly.
‘Last chance, Johnny!’ he called. ‘The next one’s got your name on it.’
Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) Page 11
