‘You told anybody else about this?’ Angel asked.
Birdy threw him a bitter glance.
‘You think I want to end up like Harry Culp? Listen, Angel, I was there when they dragged Culp out of that rockslide! Ain’t a sight I want to see again. You ever seen a man after he’s been squashed flat like a stepped-on bug? He just didn’t look like a man any more. Angel, I don’t know why they tossed you in here but it seems it must be something to do with Culp. I was you I wouldn’t admit to being a friend of Harry Culp’s. Hardly worth all the trouble it’ll bring you.’
‘Only thing that’s troubling me, Birdy, is how I’m going to get out of this place,’ Angel said.
Birdy grinned. ‘Ain’t ever been done yet, Angel. But I’ll stake my life you’re the man to do it.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘You … er … wouldn’t be needing a partner … Angel?’
‘All depends, Birdy. I’ll let you know.’
Angel eased away from the little man. Birdy glanced up, wondering why Angel had moved so suddenly. And then he saw.
Capucci was on his feet. Swaying slightly he was staring in Angel’s direction with open hostility blazing in his eyes. An angry blotchy bruise had already begun to form on his cheek where Angel’s fist had caught him. Capucci repeatedly touched his cheek, wincing at the discomfort it was causing him. He held Angel’s stare for a time, then reluctantly backed off. He stalked along the row of cots until he reached his own, throwing himself across it.
‘Now you got more problems, Angel,’ Birdy whispered. ‘Don’t show him your back ’cause he’ll find something to stick in it if you do!’
Chapter Seven
In the chill dawn light the guards began to rouse the camp. Bleary-eyed prisoners, stiff from uncomfortable hours on rigid wooden cots, stumbled from the huts. They stood shivering in the compound until a nod from the guards allowed them to cross to the cookhouse. Here on long wooden tables, steaming iron pots held the only meal the prisoners would get during the day. Armed with a tin plate, mug and spoon, each prisoner shuffled along the tables, receiving a ladle of soggy beans, a hunk of dark bread and a mug of bitter black coffee.
Eyeing his breakfast with less than rapturous enthusiasm, Angel wandered over to a nearby hut and squatted on his heels. He placed his mug of coffee on the ground beside him while he ate. The beans were tough, flavorless, and the bread was stale. But it was all he was liable to get for some time, so Angel ate.
Birdy appeared and joined Angel. He sat for a while, busy with his meal. He ate with the deliberation of a man who knew what it was like to go hungry.
‘I see another bean after I leave this place I’ll go crazy,’ he said as he put down his empty plate and picked up his mug of coffee.
Angel smiled thinly. ‘What happens when we leave here, Birdy?’
Lifting a scrawny arm Birdy indicated the distant peaks.
‘We go up there. ’Bout hour and a half ride. Then we make a road.’ Birdy drained his coffee. ‘Nice when life’s simple, ain’t it, Angel!’
At that moment the guards began to move across the compound. The breakfast period was over. The prisoners were herded into wagons, each with two armed guards and a driver. The gates were opened and the wagons rolled out of the camp.
The dusty trail, grinding its way up the mountain slopes, was a crude, dangerous track. On one side the rocky slopes rose above the wagons, on the other lay a long, almost sheer drop to the jagged mass of tumbled stone below.
Frank Angel shut himself off from the physical discomforts of the ride. His mind was concerned with only one line of thought. How to get himself free. Until he did get away from this place there was little he could do to conclude the business of Cranford and Sherman. Like it or not he had stumbled on a nasty little racket being operated by the so-called law of Liberty. It needed stamping out before anyone else finished up like Harry Culp. It was typical of life’s complexities to bring a man to a place on one pretext and then go and drop into his lap a whole mess of other problems. As far as Angel could see his whole life had been one continuous round of swapping one set of problems for another. Not that he had ever worried over it. At least it kept life from becoming dull.
He heard a sudden shout. The wagon lurched, slipping sideways. Angel glanced over the side and saw that the front wheel had gone clear off the edge of the trail. The driver was fighting the jittery horses and not doing too well. The wagon jerked forward a little, then slid back again. Loosened rocks and dirt cascaded over the edge of the trail, rattling down the long, shale slope. Glancing at the slope Angel realized that they had left the earlier sheer drop far behind. Now this steep, but comparatively easier slope lay below.
Angel took one look at the slope and saw instantly a chance for escape. A slim chance, with the odds stacked against its being successful, but nonetheless a chance. Angel had learned through bitter experience that in his line of business opportunities were there to be grabbed with both hands.
The guard, perched on the seat beside the driver of the wagon, hunched himself round, eyes wide with fright as he anticipated being hurled over the edge of the trail.
‘Get out!’ he yelled. ‘Move, you bastards! Jump!’
The prisoners surged towards the far side of the wagon. Angel moved too—but he crossed to the opposite side. He didn’t hesitate. In the scant seconds before he went over the side of the wagon he heard a familiar voice somewhere close.
‘I’m with you, Angel!’
Out of the corner of his eye Angel caught sight of Birdy. The skinny little man, moving with surprising agility, was sticking to Angel like a second shadow.
Angel hurled himself over the side of the wagon, dropping towards the near-vertical slope. He struck the loose sale on his feet, falling forwards. He didn’t try to hold himself back because there was no way he was going to be able to control his descent. Angel allowed his body to go slack. The downward fall seemed endless. The world spun about Angel as he was catapulted clown the slope. Dust billowed up around him, acrid, blinding dust. It stung his eyes, clogged his nostrils, filled his lungs. A roaring noise blotted out every other sound.
And then with startling abruptness it all stopped. Movement and sound ceased. Angel lay, stunned, almost paralyzed. He couldn’t have lain there for more than seconds but it had the feel of eternity. Dimly, sound and feeling returned. Far off Angel heard angry voices. He lifted his head, pawing gritty dust from his eyes. A single rifle shot sounded. The bullet whacked into the earth yards to one side of where Angel lay. He jerked to his feet hurriedly while the echo of the shot faded among the rocks. Throwing a swift glance up to where the abandoned wagon now hung halfway over the edge of the trail, Angel made out the tiny figures of the armed guards, some of them pushing curious prisoners back from the rim of the trail. Other guards began to put rifles to shoulders. Angel decided it was time to move. He turned, cutting across an open stretch of ground. Yards away thick brush offered scant shelter. Beyond lay broken stretches of crumbling, eroded rock.
‘Angel!’
The whispered call came from Angel’s right. Birdy’s scrawny figure dragged itself out of a clump of thorny brush. He looked extremely sorry for himself.
‘You’re liable to get your ass shot off if you don’t get moving,’ Angel told him brusquely.
Birdy managed a wry grin as he fell in beside Angel.
‘Hey, we got company, Angel! Did you know? Friend of yours!’
Angel followed Birdy’s finger. Moving in their direction, obviously intending to conceal himself in the brush, was Capucci. He glowered in Angel’s direction, seemingly offering to fight Angel if he even threatened to make any kind of objection.
‘Capucci’s a son of a bitch,’ Birdy said conversationally, ‘but he’s a hard one. Trench ain’t going to let us go easy, Angel. The way things might get we might end up being grateful Capucci’s along!’
‘We? I’m starting to get the feeling I’ve suddenly got more friends than I ever realized,’ Angel grunted.
They reached the brush and plunged on through, ignoring the clawing bite of thorn tendrils clutching at flesh and clothing. The sporadic gunfire coming from the distant rise behind then was spur enough to keep them moving.
‘Won’t take ’em long to find a way down that hill,’ Birdy yelled. They come after us they’ll be shootin’ first and sayin’ sorry while they bury us!’
‘Yeah?’ Angel managed a tight grin. ‘They do tell me you got to catch your bird before you pluck it.’
Capucci, who was close enough to hear Angel’s words let go a derisive snort.
‘Easy enough to talk—Mister Angel!’
Angel didn’t reply. Even so he admitted that Capucci was right. Talk was easy enough. Backing up those casual words was where the difficulty arose.
The brush thinned out just before the first outcropping of rook. Angel led the way in amongst weathered stone already too hot to touch. The jumbled mass of stone contained the oppressive heat and it radiated up off the ground and from the curving walls of rock. It sucked the moisture from their overheated bodies, leaving them damp and sticky with sweat.
Angel called a halt. Each man selected himself a place where he could sink down on his heels. For a time there was silence, broken only by their harsh breathing as tortured lungs fought to supply weary bodies with life-giving air.
‘Shit, Angel, this is crazy!’ Capucci suddenly exploded. ‘What the hell we doin’ sitting here like it was a Sunday picnic? Trench’s boys ain’t going to be standing around playing with themselves!’
Angel raised his head. Sweat glistened on his brown face, mingling with the grimed filth to give him a savage expression.
‘Let’s get something straight, Capucci. I didn’t ask for company. Right now I’m in enough trouble to keep me going for a long time. The last thing I need is you round my neck. If you don’t like the way I’m doing things, mister, all you have to do is leave!’
Capucci half-rose from his position, then paused, as if something had caused him to hesitate. Indecision clouded his face, then he resumed his former pose.
‘Angel, hey, Angel,’ Birdy said. ‘Take us out of here, Angel. You can do it!’
Chapter Eight
Phil Sherman shouldered his way past Amos Cranford the moment the judge opened the door of his neat, white-painted house. Cranford closed the door and walked down the passage, entering the room he used as his office. He ignored Sherman while he closed the door, crossed the room and seated himself behind his desk. Leaning back in his large leather armchair Cranford surveyed the panting, sweating sheriff calmly.
‘Something wrong, Phil?’
‘You better believe it, Amos,’ Sherman almost yelled. He pulled a crumpled sheet of buff paper from his hip pocket and waved it under Cranford’s nose. ‘I said things had gone too far. This time we went and hung ourselves!’
‘Calm down, Phil, before you wet your goddam pants. Just tell me what it is that’s got you excited.’
‘I told you I was worried about that Angel feller. More I thought about him the worse it got. So I did some checking, Amos. Sent a couple of wires to people I know.’ He shook the paper he was holding. ‘I got this back from a feller I know works in the federal building in the capitol. He owed me a favor and by God he’s paid me in spades! Frank Angel, the man you sent out to Trench’s camp, the man you figure to have killed—he ain’t no drifting hard case, Amos! He’s a special investigator for the Justice Department. Works out of Washington for the goddam Attorney General! Jesus Christ, Amos, we’re way out of our depth this time!’
Cranford remained silent while he absorbed Sherman’s news. He glanced across the desk, smiling inwardly as he studied Sherman’s wet, flushed face. The man was coming apart, he thought. Sherman was close to absolute panic. Cranford realized that his earlier decision to get rid of Sherman had been the right one. The matter was even more urgent now. Sherman could split the whole damn affair wide open if he was left to his own devices. Scared the way he was Sherman might simply walk out and start talking to the first person willing to listen. Critical as the situation might appear, Cranford still considered it possible to come out on the winning side. But not with Sherman around.
‘Well?’ Sherman demanded. ‘You just going to sit there and play games?’
‘Just thinking ahead, Phil.’ Cranford smiled. He stood up. ‘Look, Phil, let’s just take things easy. I don’t think we have anything to worry about.’
‘Is that supposed to make everything all right? Because you figure we ain’t got problems?’ Sherman laughed harshly. ‘Let me give you the news, Judge. We’ve got more trouble than you ever saw. This time it ain’t some saddle tramp we framed and tossed in jail. This time it isn’t going to be so easy to forget. Christ, Amos, this is the government we’re playing with. Angel’s a federal agent!’ Sherman’s voice began to rise. ‘Anything happens to him this town’s going to be crawling with Justice Department people. I seen those boys at work once before an’ they don’t ever let go once they got you tabbed!’
‘Give me a chance to think this out, Phil,’ Cranford suggested. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll work on something. You go back to your office. Just carry on like it was a normal day. Later tonight come back. Take the back way. Fewer people know what we’re doing the better.’
‘We’ll have to be smart to get out of this, Amos,’ Sherman said, slightly calmer now that Cranford seemed to be taking control of the situation.
‘Leave it to me, Phil. I won’t let you down. We’re not finished yet.’ Cranford came around the desk. He put an arm across Sherman’s shoulders as he guided the sheriff out of the room, towards the front door. ‘You leave this to me. I’ll see us through.’
Cranford closed the door after Sherman had gone and leaned against the frame, his face set, eyes cold, his thin lips drawn in a bloodless line. Damn the man! Sherman was a stupid animal! Ready to cut and run at the first sign of trouble. It always boiled down to the same thing. You could never trust people. Get involved and you had to depend on the strength of those around you. All it took was one weak link in the chain and everything was suddenly threatened. Cranford made his way back to his office. He sat down behind his desk, staring at the blank wall on the far side of the room.
First, see to it that Sherman was silenced. That was a matter to which Cranford would attend personally. After that it would be Angel’s turn. And then … ? Cranford didn’t plan any further ahead. He considered it better to take one step at a time. Once he had Sherman and Angel out of the picture he could sit back and decide on his next move. One thing he did know. Eventually he would leave this place. He’d come to hate Liberty. It was a dirty little town in the middle of nowhere and he’d had his fill. It had served his purpose over the last few years. His set-up, in partnership with Sherman, had brought in a steady flow of money. Nothing spectacular but it had built up slowly. The unexpected bonus of seventy-five thousand dollars from the man called Harry Culp had been like a gift from the gods. With that kind of money Amos Cranford could go far. And he intended doing so.
Throughout the rest of the day Cranford followed his usual routine. He took his midday walk to town and ate lunch. Later he visited a number of Liberty’s businessmen, discussing various legal matters. Halfway through the afternoon he stopped off at the barbershop and had a trim and a shave. He only saw Phil Sherman once during the day. The sheriff was crossing the street as Cranford came out of a store. Sherman almost gave himself away but managed to control his jangled nerves and mutter a quick response to Cranford’s hearty greeting.
It was a couple of minutes off five o’clock when a dust-lathered rider reined in before the judge’s house. Cranford had returned only a while before. He spotted the rider through the parlor window and went quickly to open the front door. He had already recognized the rider as one of the guards from Trench’s camp.
‘What’s wrong?’ Cranford asked.
‘We got trouble out at the camp,’ the rider told him. ‘On the way to the construct
ion camp this morning three prisoners made a break.’
A sense of unease washed over Cranford. Even as he asked the next question he was certain of the answer.
‘Who were they?’
‘Feller called Birdy. Hard case named Capucci. And the new one who came in yesterday. Angel!’
Cranford almost chuckled out loud. Of all the men at the camp Angel had to be the one to escape. You had to hand it to the man, Cranford thought. He was no fool.
‘How’s Trench handling it?’
‘He’s got the camp locked up tight. Every man he can spare is out looking for those three.’ The rider grinned through the dusty mask caking his face. ‘Hell, Trench is even out himself! I reckon we’ll get ’em ’fore they get far, Judge. They’re on foot and they don’t have a gun between the three of ’em!’
Cranford considered the facts and came to the conclusion that the lack of facilities weren’t going to deter Angel. The man would improvise every step of the way and if the opportunity arose he would furnish himself with whatever he needed to complete his task.
Whether on foot or horseback, armed with a gun or his bare hands, the man named Angel would also stick rigidly to his predetermined line of travel, which would bring him ultimately to Liberty.
To that end, Cranford decided, he would have to prepare himself. One way or another, in the not too distant future, Liberty was going to have a rude awakening.
Chapter Nine
‘I can’t see what you’re going to gain in Liberty,’ Birdy complained. He stared at Angel’s tight-lipped expression and knew he wasn’t going to get any kind of answer. The little man had learned quickly in the short time he’d been with Angel that if the younger man wasn’t in a mind to discuss something there was no future in pursuing the subject. He grumbled darkly to himself, making sure that his words were inaudible.
They were moving along a sandy slope. High rock faces soared jaggedly skywards all around them. The terrain they were crossing seemed endless. A tortured expanse of sun-bleached stone and dust, grotesque cactus lurching starkly out of the dry earth. Pale tendrils of dust followed in their wake as they stumbled wearily across hard earth, clambered over rocks that were so hot from the sun that the briefest contact burned the flesh of their hands.
Shoot Angel! Page 5
