Shoot Angel!

by Frederick H. Christian

  ‘The hell with you, Angel!’ Duggan roared. He had started to turn even while Angel and Koch were trading shots. His gun was half-way out of his holster as Koch went down. Angel saw that Duggan was going to start shooting a little ahead of himself, so he moved, wanting to alter his position.

  That would mean Duggan having to aim again and it would give Angel the precious seconds he required.

  Angel dropped to the floor, letting his body roll. He heard the solid thunder of sound as Duggan fired, heard the thwack as the bullet chewed a long sliver of wood from the floor.

  ‘Jesus, will you stand still and fight!’ Duggan yelled. He half-turned, swinging his gun round.

  Angel fired from where he lay. His bullet caught Duggan in the left shoulder, spinning the big man around. Duggan’s legs became entangled in the legs of a chair and he crashed to the floor in a bloody heap. He kicked the chair aside and staggered to his feet. He sighted Angel, in the act of rising, and brought up his gun again, triggering wild shots in Angel’s direction. One bullet burned across the back of Angel’s hand. And then Angel’s gun crashed again, and again. Duggan gave a stunned grunt, his body shuddering under the impact of the heavy bullets. Blood began to stain his shirt, soaking his pants. He stumbled drunkenly, desperately trying to stay on his feet. But his body had taken too much punishment. As his left leg lost all feeling Duggan arced to the floor. He twisted over on to his back, blood marking the worn boards. His left boot-heel drummed spasmodically on the floor. He opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, but any words were lost in the rise of blood gushing from his throat.

  Angel climbed to his feet and deliberately reloaded his Colt before he did anything else.

  ‘Hey … Angel … !’

  Angel knelt beside Koch. The man was staring at him with half-closed eyes. A slippery sheen of blood coated his chest and the hands he had clasped over the wound. A thin trickle showed at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘You knew damn well we wouldn’t let you take us in,’ Koch whispered. The effort of a continuous sentence left him breathless.

  ‘A stupid move, Koch,’ Angel said.

  Koch shrugged slightly. ‘Yeah. Well ... I ... never did much thinkin’.’

  ‘Koch, you want to tell me where Cranford’s heading?’

  ‘Save my soul?’ Koch gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘Too … too … damn late … for that … Angel. What the hell ... I don’t owe that bastard a thing ... no way. Him an’ Trench … they’s headin’ … for … Marcos … ’ Koch began to cough. Mainly he coughed up blood, and when he stopped coughing he was dead.

  Standing at the bar Angel eyed the red-haired man. The man picked up a bottle and a glass, gesturing in Angel’s direction.

  ‘Looks like a good idea,’ Angel said.

  ‘Personal quarrel?’ the man asked as he poured Angel a drink.

  Angel fished out his badge and laid it on the bar. The man studied it for a while, craning his neck to read all the words inscribed around the rim.

  ‘That make you a marshal?’

  ‘Investigator,’ Angel told him.

  The man held out his hand. ‘Name’s Loomis. Jack Loomis.’

  ‘Frank Angel.’

  ‘Anything I can do for you, Mr. Angel?’

  ‘Tell me where Marcos is.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing to tell. It’s just a scrubby little cow-town half a day’s ride east of here.’

  So why was Cranford making for it? Angel emptied his glass and placed it on the bar. Loomis refilled it automatically.

  ‘Anything special about Marcos?’

  Loomis shook his head.

  ‘Not a damn thing. If it wasn’t for the spur line I don’t reckon Marcos would even be there.’

  Angel’s head came up with a jerk.

  ‘Spur line? To where?’

  ‘Why, the Santa Fe.’

  Angel nodded. That was Cranford’s way out. He would ride the spur line to where it merged with the main Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe line. From there he could board any of the long haul express trains which ran between Chicago and Los Angeles on the west coast. Cranford could take his pick of trains. He could go east or west, even change direction if he desired.

  ‘Mr. Loomis, I’d like a fresh horse. Seems I got me some hard riding to do.’

  Loomis nodded. ‘Come on out to the corral.’

  ‘How long have that other pair been gone?’

  ‘Around three hours.’

  ‘There should be money enough on that pair to bury them,’ Angel said as they stepped outside. ‘I’d stop and lend a hand if I hadn’t pressing business in Marcos.’

  Loomis smiled. ‘Don’t you worry on that score, Mr. Angel. I’ll plant those two and put markers over them.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr. Loomis,’ Angel said. ‘You are a gentleman.’

  ‘There ain’t many of us left, Mr. Angel, and that’s a pure fact.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  They came to Marcos as darkness fell. A chill wind was rolling down off the high peaks and heavy clouds were filling the sky. The first rain began to fall as they took their horses up the single, rutted main street of the small town.

  Amos Cranford eased his stiff body from the saddle, leading his horse the last few steps to the hitching rail outside the single-storey building that served as the rail depot booking and dispatch office. Some way up the single set of tracks stood slatted holding-pens, there for the cattle Marcos sent to the outside world. There was little else.

  ‘Let me see to the tickets, then we can go and get something to eat,’ he said to Trench.

  Cranford strolled round to the front of the booking office. He peered in through the glass-paned door, relieved to see that there was someone seated behind the counter. He opened the door and went in. Warmth from a glowing stove in one corner of the room rushed out to meet him.

  Cranford closed the door. As he crossed the floor he heard a sudden heavy downpour of rain.

  ‘Damn and blast this weather!’

  The speaker was the booking clerk, seated behind the counter. He stared out of one of the windows, wrinkling his face as he watched the rain streaming down the glass. He was an old man, dressed in a worn black uniform. He had a green eyeshade over his eyes and he turned to glare at Cranford.

  ‘What do you want, feller?’ he demanded.

  ‘Couple of tickets on the next train out,’ Cranford said.

  ‘Where to, feller?’ the old man asked.

  ‘We want to pick up one of the mainline expresses. So I want the tickets to get us there.’

  The old man muttered to himself. He slid off his stool and went to the shelf at the back of the counter.

  ‘Flagstaff!’ he said loudly.

  ‘What?’

  The old man stared at Cranford as if he was dealing with some kind of geriatric idiot.

  ‘Flagstaff, feller! That’s where the train’ll take you so you can make your connection!’

  Cranford nodded. ‘All right. Two tickets to Flagstaff. How much?’

  The old man consulted a worn book. Eventually he worked out the price. Cranford paid and put away the tickets.

  ‘What time does the train leave?’

  The old man glanced at the big clock on the wall above his counter. ‘Eight o’clock on the button,’ he announced. ‘That is, providing there ain’t any delays.’

  ‘Gives us time for a meal,’ Cranford remarked as he made for the door.

  ‘Gives you time for more than that, feller,’ the old man said, smiling for the first time. ‘That’s eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Ain’t no train leaving Marcos tonight, feller, so there ain’t no call for you to hurry!’

  Cranford left the booking office and banged the door shut behind him. He ran to where Trench was waiting with the horses.

  ‘How long we got to wait?’ Trench asked as Cranford mounted up.

  ‘All damn night,’ Cranford told him. ‘There isn’t a train out of here until eight in the morning.’

  They rode back uptown, bodies
hunched against the rain slanting in along the street. Lamps were already being lit against the rapidly approaching gloom.

  ‘At least we can sleep in a bed tonight,’ Trench pointed out.

  Cranford saw little comfort in the revelation. He would have preferred to have been moving rapidly away from this part of the country. The longer he stayed the more possible became the chance of his capture. The man named Angel, whether dead or not, had set in motion the machine he worked for. Cranford knew enough about the Justice Department to realize that they would have Liberty sealed off before very long. Once that happened they would start digging and it would come to light, sooner or later, how Cranford had been running his operation. Before that happened Amos Cranford wanted to be far, far away.

  ‘Hotel!’ Trench’s monosyllabic tone brought Cranford out of his thoughts.

  ‘It’ll do,’ Cranford said.

  They dismounted and tied the horses. Cranford freed his fat saddlebags and hung them over his shoulder. He intended sleeping with them next to him. His future was in those pouches and he in no way wanted to take any chance of losing that.

  They walked into the hotel lobby, shaking the rain from their clothing. The place was dusty and nondescript. Cranford walked to the desk and thumped his fist hard down on the top. A young clerk, with an oval face and an overweight body, emerged from the office in back of the desk. He had oily skin and dark hair of the kind that hung limply over his face.

  ‘Couple of single rooms,’ Cranford said. ‘Just for the night. We’ll be leaving on the eight o’clock train in the morning.’

  ‘You’all like to sign the book,’ the clerk drawled. He watched with total disinterest as Cranford signed the register.

  ‘I’ll pay now,’ Cranford said, ‘so there won’t be any delay in the morning.’

  ‘Sure. Rooms are two dollars each.’

  Cranford paid, took the keys the clerk handed him, and led the way up the creaking stairs. He took the first room for himself and gave Trench the other key.

  ‘Give me ten minutes to clean up and we’ll go eat,’ Cranford said.

  When they emerged from the hotel the rain was still falling. The rainstorm seemed settled for the night. They walked along the boardwalk seeking the restaurant Cranford had spotted on their ride in. They went inside and ate. On leaving the restaurant Trench decided he wanted to go for a drink. Cranford declined to join him and they parted company for the evening. Trench went looking for liquor and a woman. Cranford returned to the hotel to his bed, his dreams and his money.

  ~*~

  By six-thirty Cranford and Trench were out of the hotel. They returned to the restaurant for breakfast. It was just after seven when they made their way towards the depot. They had sold off their horses and gear to the owner of Marcos’s only livery stable. All they owned was in the saddlebags they carried. It was enough, as far as Cranford was concerned. He intended to start a new life and he had all he required in his saddlebags.

  It was still raining, though not as heavily as the night before. Now a misty drizzle wafted along the muddy strip of earth that served as Marcos’s main street.

  The depot appeared deserted, though the office was open and the stove burned brightly. Cranford and Trench stepped inside, dropping their saddlebags on one of the benches. Trench slumped down beside them. He shook rain from his hat, then began to build a cigarette.

  ‘You want one, Amos?’

  Cranford shook his head. He watched Trench silently, thinking that if he didn’t have need of Trench’s skills, the man’s latent violence, he would dispose of him instantly. But Trench, at the present, was an extremely valuable ally.

  ‘Damn clock moves slow,’ Trench grumbled.

  ‘It’ll get there,’ Cranford said.

  And it did. The train rolled into the depot right on eight. The engine was a real old hay burner, rattling in every joint and bellowing steam from every seal. Thick smoke erupted from the blackened stack, drifting like a dark cloud. The engine was hauling a line of stock cars loaded with bawling cattle. Tacked on at the end of the line was a much-abused passenger coach.

  ‘Thank Christ for that,’ Trench muttered. He snatched up his saddlebags and made for the door.

  Cranford followed at a distance, letting Trench go ahead to check the way. Halfway across the loose-boarded, rain slick platform Cranford saw Trench pause, then turn suddenly, throwing out a warning hand.

  A cold hand clawed at Cranford’s gut. He pivoted slowly, glancing along the platform, peering through the grey mist of rain.

  ‘You son of a bitch!’ Cranford spoke so that only he heard.

  Frank Angel was standing at the far end of the platform. He was soaked, his clothing muddy and stained, but he looked primed.

  ‘End of the line, Cranford,’ Angel called and began to walk towards them.

  Cranford let the saddlebags slide from his hand. As they thudded to the platform Cranford flipped back the skirt of his black coat and reached for the gun holstered on his right hip. He slid the gun free, dropping to a crouch as he leveled the weapon and fired. His bullet ripped up a long wood splinter from the platform. Cranford cursed and fired again. But Angel wasn’t there any longer. The Justice Department man had dropped to the platform, sliding his body over the edge on to the bed of the tracks.

  ‘Trench,’ Cranford whispered, jerking a hand in the man’s direction.

  ‘Yo!’ Trench acknowledged, and opened his coat to expose the whip looped around his waist.

  Sleeving rain from his eyes Cranford edged across the platform until he was behind a large wooden packing-case standing close to the booking-office wall. He spotted movement down near the wheels of one of the cars and fired. His bullet clanged against a wheel.

  ‘Angel … Angel?’ Cranford yelled. ‘You want to deal?’

  ‘No deals, Cranford. Just you with your hands up and the gun on the ground.’

  Cranford quickly reloaded his gun. He was sweating heavily despite the cold rain. He knew that unless Trench could get to Angel it wasn’t going to be easy getting out of this one. He had underestimated Angel. It had been a mistake not making completely certain that the man had died back in Liberty. But Cranford hadn’t had a lot of time to spare. He’d been too busy getting at the money in the safe. He finished loading his gun. They did say that a man had to pay for his mistakes. Cranford eased back the hammer of his gun. Maybe he could get Angel to pay for them instead. He glanced round, looking for Trench, but the man had vanished. Probably trying to come on Angel from a different direction.

  ‘Angel?’ Cranford called. ‘There isn’t any sense in this.’

  There was no reply. Cranford hadn’t really expected one. His only reason for speaking had been the hope of distracting Angel while Trench worked his way closer.

  ‘Angel? You can’t expect me to quit, man! You know damn well they’ll hang me! Man would have to be a fool to give himself up for that.’

  Still no reply. Cranford peered round the edge of the packing case. The rain drifted across the platform and stung his eyes. Cranford blinked. Then he saw a blurred shape moving across the platform. A momentary panic gripped him. Was it Angel? He pawed at his eyes, blinking furiously. In his haste he half-rose to his feet, bringing up his gun at the same time. His finger was tightening on the trigger when his vision returned to normal and he recognized Angel. They fired in the same instant of time. A powerful blow struck Cranford’s left shoulder, spinning him off his feet. He banged up against the wall of the booking office, stumbling awkwardly. As he went down he felt a hot rush of blood streaming down his arms soaking the material of his shirt and coat. Then he hit the wet, dirty boards of the platform, his face rubbing against the splintery wood. He lay, sick and giddy. The pain in his shoulder was terrible. He turned his head and saw the pulsing, bloody hole in his shoulder. A cold sensation washed over him and he knew, without further thought, that it was over. He’d lost and this time there was no way out. He didn’t even think that Trench could help.

&
nbsp; As far as Angel was concerned Trench was still a threat. He still had the man in mind as he reached Cranford’s side, bending to pick up the man’s gun and toss it aside. He straightened up, and heard a soft footstep at his back. Angel’s body stiffened. Trench! He spun round, gun cocked and ready in his hand. And as he faced about he heard the sharp whistling hiss that could only have come from the whip Trench carried. He caught a quick glimpse of Trench, grinning, his face wet from the rain, standing close to the edge of the platform. Then there was a vicious crack, a blinding burst of pain that engulfed his right hand. Angel’s fingers went numb, the Colt dropping to the platform. He felt the hot spread of blood running across his hand.

  ‘You were the first man to escape from my camp,’ Trench said. He flicked his arm and the long black lash of the whip arced back to him. ‘Kind of sits like a lump in my craw. I mean, a man has his pride to think of—don’t he, Angel!’

  The arm moved again and the long tongue of the whip snaked forward. It curled across Angel’s shoulder, snapping cruelly down his back, laying open shirt and flesh alike. The pain was sharp, bringing forth a gasp from Angel’s lips. He fell back, knowing that there wasn’t far for him to retreat, and realizing that he was going to have to do something quickly, else he was going to end up like Birdy—cut to bloody ribbons!

  ‘I ain’t even got warmed up yet, Angel,’ Trench grinned. He was enjoying himself. Having a hell of a time. And he laughed even more when Angel apparently slipped and went down on his knees. Trench contemplated the bowed figure, the sight of Angel’s broad, exposed back promising an excellent target. Trench jerked back his arm, bringing the bloody lash back to him. That was when Angel moved, faster than Trench could follow. Angel’s left hand came up from somewhere around the top of his left boot, and Trench was certain he saw something flash in the pale dawn light. His mind was still deliberating on what might have caused the flicker of light when the cold Solingen steel blade of Angel’s knife penetrated his throat, cutting its way deeply into the tender flesh. There was a second of numbness, then awful, deep-down pain. Trench, still not quite realizing what had happened, released the whip and clamped both hands to the rigid thing protruding from his throat. He began a blind, mindless cry of animal fright and agony, repeated when he became aware of the torrent of blood surging from his throat. He gripped the handle of the slender knife and yanked it free, tearing the wound even more in the process. But he was too late. The damage had been done. He was already beginning to choke on his own blood, coughing raggedly, spewing a pink froth from his jerking mouth. He fell back against one of the stationary cattle wagons. One of his feet went over the edge of the platform and he pitched forward, slamming face first to the platform. Blood spread out from beneath his jerking body in watery fingers, soaking into the soft boards.