‘You could’ve stole that,’ he pointed out.
‘All right,’ Angel said. This time he brought out his Special Commission and unfolded it, spreading it out flat on the desk beneath the oil lamp where the marshal could see what it said.
Know all men by these presents that Frank Warren Angel, holding the office of special investigator, Department of Justice, is empowered by the president of the United States to act for and represent the attorney general in all matters of concern to his department.
In his capacity, the aforesaid Frank Warren Angel may take any action that he sees fit to maintain civil or military law and order, this to include where necessary the convening of grand juries, the holding of special courts, the empanelment of juries, the subpoena of witnesses and the conducting of general courts-martial He is also empowered to supervene the authority of any officer of the law, civil, or military, territorial or federal, where he so desires. All United States citizens, all officers of the law both federal and territorial are requested and required to render him such assistance and support as he may demand in the performance of his duties.
It was signed by the president of the United States, and countersigned by his attorney general. The marshal sighed as he finished reading it.
‘Andy,’ he said. ‘Put that damned gun away.’
He got up and came around his desk, his hands spread in a placating gesture.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Angel,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Hey,’ Andy said. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘Shut your mouth, Andy,’ Compton said, pleasantly. Andy shut his face like a trap, his ratty eyes burning with the fury behind them.
‘The dead man,’ Angel said. ‘I want to take a look at him. Then I need a horse—the best you can lay your hands on.’
‘That all?’
‘If I think of anything, I’ll let you know,’ Angel said. He gestured for Compton to precede him out of the office, ignoring the glowering eyes of the deputy and wondering what he had done to provoke the man’s hatred. They crossed the street to a white-painted frame shack with a low picket fence around a small kitchen garden in front of it. There was a light over the porch and Angel waited as the marshal knocked on the door. It was opened by a gray-haired, cadaverous-looking man with eyes that looked as if they had witnessed every conceivable human aberration and still found compassion possible. The deep-set eyes moved from the marshal’s face to Angel’s and back again.
‘Ray,’ the man said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Like to take a look at that dead man, Doc,’ Compton said. ‘This here’s Mr. Frank Angel. He’s from the Department of Justice in Washington. Angel, this is Doc Napier.’
‘Hi, Doc,’ Angel said softly.
‘Hi yourself,’ Napier said, looking more closely at him. ‘Aren’t you the one who—?’
‘He is,’ Compton said, tersely, and led the way into the hallway. There were two green-painted doors on both sides of the narrow passage, and the marshal opened the first one on the left. Inside it was the unadorned room which Napier used for a surgery. Angel smelled the fish-honey taint of death, and the sharper stink of formaldehyde. On a plain plank table lay the dead man, already stripped naked by the doctor for his examination. The three bullet wounds in the man’s belly looked as if someone had spilled violet ink on his skin.
‘Davy Livermoor,’ Angel said softly. ‘He’ll steal no more herd money.’
‘How’s that?’ Compton asked, sharply.
‘His name’s Davy Livermoor,’ Angel said. ‘He’s wanted down Fort Worth way for stealing the price of a herd he took up to Sedalia. Likely there’ll be a reward out for him.’
‘Which no doubt you’ll be claimin’,’ sneered Compton. He faltered as Angel turned and just looked levelly at him for a long moment.
‘I don’t have the time,’ Angel said softly. ‘How about the horse as a trade.’
‘Well, as to that,’ Compton said. ‘You got a deal.’
He hurried out of Napier’s house, and Angel watched as the doctor replaced the sheet over the still form of Davy Livermoor.
‘You have to forgive Ray, Mr. Angel,’ Napier said. ‘He’s what you would call a man who stoops to every challenge.’ There was no condescension in his voice, just a soft sadness at all folly.
‘Forget it, Doc,’ Angel said. ‘Life’s too short to take offense at that kind of opacity. Listen, I need some information about that one’s sidekicks.’ He jerked his chin toward the surgery. ‘Where’s my best place to get it?’
‘Over at the Eldorado,’ Napier told him. ‘That’s our local bull pen. Or ask Andy Wheatcroft, Ray’s deputy. There isn’t much goes on in town he doesn’t know about.’
‘I may do that,’ Angel said, not commenting on Compton’s deputy who, if his expression when last Angel saw him had been anything to go by, wouldn’t have given Frank Angel typhus without making him pay for it.
‘Tell Compton where I am, will you?’
He shook hands with the doctor and walked out into the street. Canon City was back to dull normality. One or two horsemen moving up the street. The sound of a badly tuned piano being played in the saloon. A woman laughing softly somewhere in the darkness. He got to the Eldorado and pushed in through the batwings. It was a big square place, one room with a bar down the right hand side. On the left were some tables and chairs, and at the back of the room there was a chuckaluck wheel and a faro layout. The place was half-empty, maybe ten or fifteen men sitting around, three more at the bar. One of them, his boot heel hooked on the brass rail, was Compton’s deputy Andy Wheatcroft.
‘Beer,’ he told the bartender, ‘and maybe you could give me some information.’
‘Beer, coming up,’ the bartender said. He was a little fellow with pudgy hands and black, button-bright eyes. His hair was pasted in greasy strands across the balding dome of his head, and his bushy sideburns were heavily pomaded. He smelled, Angel thought, like Saturday night at the whorehouse in Mexico City. ‘As to information,’ the bartender continued, ‘that’s another thing again.’
‘You heard about the fracas outside,’ Angel said. It wasn’t a question. The bartender looked uneasily toward Andy Wheatcroft. The deputy wasn’t even looking in his direction, but he was listening to what was said.
‘Sure,’ the bartender nodded. ‘Sure. Who didn’t?’
‘You know the man who got killed?’ Angel asked. ‘Ever see him?’
‘I don’t know who got killed,’ the bartender said. ‘I never seen it.’
‘He was one of a group who were in here, yesterday, maybe even today,’ Angel said. ‘One of them was a kid, tow-headed. Pale blue shirt and tight fitting fawn pants. You’d remember him. Another was a German. Scarred face, like he’d been in a knife fight. Cropped hair. You recall them?’
The bartender nodded nervously, like a bird pecking up crumbs.
‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘Them fellers. Who could forget?’
‘When were they in here?’
‘Oh, a couple of times,’ the bartender said. ‘They were in here yesterday, the day before that. You know.’
‘I don’t suppose,’ Angel said, ‘you heard them say anything about where they might be heading?’
‘Nope,’ the bartender said, shaking his head. ‘Nothing.’ He looked very, very nervous and Angel couldn’t figure out why.
‘What do I owe you?’ he asked.
‘Twenty-five cents for the beer,’ the man said. And then, all in a rush, as though afraid to speak the words but knowing he must, ‘An’ twenty-five dollars for the information.’
Angel just looked at the perspiring little man and then he laughed. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said, softly.
‘No,’ the bartender said defiantly. ‘Twenty-five dollars!’
‘Hey,’ Angel said. ‘What is this?’
‘Nothing,’ the bartender said. ‘You give me my money. I don’t want any trouble with you.’
‘An’ you ain’t gonn
a have none, Harry,’ said a familiar voice. Angel turned slowly to see Andy Wheatcroft standing at his elbow and then he understood. The deputy had his hand wrapped around the butt of his holstered sixgun. It had a staghorn handle. They always did, Angel thought. He let a slow sigh escape his lips.
‘What is this, Wheatcroft?’ he asked.
‘Nothin’ serious, little Angel,’ the deputy grinned. ‘Unless you’re figurin’ on not payin’ your bill. In which case, you got trouble.’
‘Listen,’ Angel said, reasonably. ‘There’s no call for this.’
‘I’m makin’ call,’ Andy said. ‘I ain’t taken to you at all, little Angel.’
‘Look,’ Angel said, trying one more time. ‘I’ll pay for the beer. Then I’ll be on my way. Nobody’s got to get hurt. What do you say?’
‘Crawlin’ already, little Angel?’ Wheatcroft sneered. ‘Makes no odds. You’re on your way all right. It’s up to you whether you go vertical or horizontal.’
Angel shook his head sadly. There were men like Andy Wheatcroft in every dirty little trail town in the West. They were little men, and they lived on a steady diet of envy and hate. Depending on the town, they were usually pimps, gamblers, or hustlers. Often they were also sadistic back-shooters and far too often they were lawmen. Once in awhile one of them got weeded out by pushing his brand of justice too hard with the wrong man, but more often they stayed in their own bright little pool of poison, eating away at what they were sworn to uphold, every bite they took poisoning not just their own little piece of the law, but every man’s opinion of it. There was no cure for them: they had to be stepped on like bugs.
Nobody saw his hand move.
One moment he was standing, his attitude placating, back to the bar and leaning slightly away from the glaring face of the deputy. The next, his hand stabbed forward, the knuckles of the first three fingers held so that they formed a terrible weapon. That right hand moved little more than eighteen inches and struck the deputy just above the breastbone, its awful force paralyzing the man. Wheatcroft’s eyes bulged out and his face turned purple as his astonished system struggled to obey the frantic commands of the brain to get oxygen pumped out by the heart literally stunned by the vicious blow. Wheatcroft’s knees sagged, and his mouth dropped open like a gutted shark. He made a horrid gargling noise, and his right hand twitched as he tried to make it pull the staghorn-butted sixgun from the holster.
‘Tut, tut,’ Angel said, seeing the movement.
That same deadly right hand flickered down to the holstered gun at his side, and came up and out and around in a movement that defeated sight. The barrel of the Colt hit Wheatcroft just above the left ear and he went down in a jarring crash of flailing limbs that made the bottles and glasses jingle on the shelves behind the bar. Nobody moved.
There was a silence that could have been sliced and sold. The terrible suddenness of Angel’s action, the callous indifference of the man who had unleashed it was bizarre and chilling and no one wanted to trigger such violence again. And now Angel, knowing to the centimeter the effect of what he had done, turned slowly to face the bartender.
Harry’s face had turned as gray as the collar of his once-white shirt.
‘Uh,’ he said. ‘Unh.’
‘How was that, Harry?’ Angel said, pleasantly. ‘What did you say?’
‘Honest, mister,’ the man stuttered. ‘I was. Just. Just josh—kidding, mister. I wasn’t serious, honest.’
‘Sure, Harry,’ Angel said.
‘No, listen, it’s true, they never said nothin’ the whole time, except maybe have a drink, like that,’ Harry blurted. ‘It’s the truth, mister.’
‘Oh, I believe you, Harry,’ Angel said, every syllable declaring flatly that if Harry had told him the date, he’d have checked it with a calendar.
Harry looked about him piteously for help that he knew he had no right to hope for and that was damned well not about to arrive. He racked his brain for something to tell this smiling man, who had so casually crushed Andy Wheatcroft. Before he could speak, Angel interrupted his thoughts.
‘Who put you up to that twenty-five dollars business, Harry?’ Angel asked, his voice as soft as ever.
‘Uh,’ Harry said, hesitating until Angel leaned slightly forward on the bar. Then he made a fast decision. Andy Wheatcroft might give him some stick later, but that would be later. This soft-spoken stranger would give him hell now, and he wasn’t about to take the chance. ‘He—Andy, there. He told me to do it.’
‘You know why?’
‘No idea,’ Harry said, truthfully. ‘Looked to me like he just wanted some excuse to quarrel with you.’
‘Pretty pointless,’ Angel mused.
‘I think it was mebbe on account o’ them fellers you was askin’ about,’ Harry said. ‘Andy there, he spent quite a lot o’ time with them.’
‘Did he now?’ Angel said, softly.
Harry the bartender looked pleased; as if he personally had solved all Angel’s problems for him. In fact, Harry didn’t give a hoot in hell who solved Angel’s problems for him, just so long as Angel went out of the saloon pronto and never came back into it again ever.
‘Harry,’ Angel said. ‘Let me have a jug of water, will you?’
Harry hastened to oblige, and watched fascinated as Frank Angel poured the water, without haste, over the head of the sprawled deputy, who was breathing stertorously, like a man under water. Andy Wheatcroft spluttered, coughed, retched, rolling his head to one side and then another to try to escape the cascading water. His eyes came open, and as they did, Frank Angel got hold of the deputy’s shirtfront and hauled him to his feet. He pushed Wheatcroft backward into a bentwood chair at a vacant table and lifted the man’s chin with his right hand so that Wheatcroft’s eyes were level with his own.
‘Andy,’ he said. ‘I want to ask you about your friends.’
‘Go crap in your hat!’ Wheatcroft spat venomously.
His words brought another stillness in the saloon. The onlookers held their breath as Angel shook his head sadly, like a schoolteacher let down by a favorite pupil.
‘Let me ask you again,’ he said. He was holding Wheatcroft’s shoulder, almost negligently, and no one really saw the way his fingers moved on the deep nervous center above the big levator scapulae muscles but Wheatcroft’s head went back, and his eyes widened with the shocking pain. His face went a sick gray but before he screeched his pain, Angel released the pressure.
‘Where did they go, Andy?’ he asked, quite pleasantly.
‘Fuck you!’ Wheatcroft hissed.
‘If I do this really hard, it’ll probably paralyze your left arm for a couple of months, Andy,’ Angel said, reminding Wheatcroft of the pain by increasing the pressure on the nervous system again.
‘Aaaah,’ Wheatcroft said.
‘Quite,’ Angel remarked. Relentlessly, he increased the pressure. The bartender and the other men in the room looked at the tableau with open mouths, unable to figure why Wheatcroft was the color of a gaffed catfish.
‘Up the river!’ Wheatcroft said.
‘Up the river? Which river?’
‘The Arkansas. They said it was a long pull all the way up the Arkansas. That’s all. For God’s sake, Angel, that’s all they said!’
Angel released his grip, thinking about what Wheatcroft had just said. Up the Arkansas meant, in real terms, that Falco and his men were turning north, heading back up into the mountains. Durango lay to the south and west, which meant that Durango had been a blind. But why north? North lay only the mining camps, Buena Vista and Leadville and the Chalk Creek diggings. Beyond them the high passes that lay ten thousand feet up at the crest of the Continental Divide. Beyond that again, more camps, and then the endless tumble of the mountains, the cordillera, the central spine of the country. If they bore west, they faced five hundred miles of nothing, ending in the City of the Saints, Salt Lake. They wouldn’t be heading for the Mormon capital, no way. Which left only one place they could be going—Denver.
‘Of course,’ he said, softly, beginning to see it all now.
Andy Wheatcroft stared up at him, the weak, Cupid-bow mouth loose with the reaction to pain. If his eyes could have killed, Angel would have dropped dead at the deputy’s feet.
‘Wheatcroft,’ Angel said, ignoring the venom in then man’s gaze. ‘I’m serving you notice. You’re not cut out for the law. My advice to you would be to hand in your badge, as soon as you can. You keep the wrong kind of company. Sabe?’
Wheatcroft nodded, the hatred still burning in back of his eyes.
‘Do it right soon,’ Angel told him softly. ‘Or I’ll come looking for you. You know what I mean?’
Again Wheatcroft nodded, but the soft whisper of death in Angel’s voice had driven all the fury from his eyes, replacing it with naked fear.
Just then, Marshal Compton came in through the batwing doors, and Harry the bartender let out a sigh of relief they could probably hear in Colorado Springs. Compton took in the whole scene in one swift glance: the silent room, the stock-still spectators, the gray-faced figure of his deputy in the bentwood chair, and Frank Angel standing over him. Harry’s sweaty face and enormous gasp of relief completed the story, and he walked across the silent saloon to where Angel stood.
‘The horse is outside,’ he said, levelly. ‘I’d like for you to be on it and on your way. Right soon.’ He smiled at Angel’s nod of acquiescence and jerked a thumb at Andy Wheatcroft. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He bumped into something,’ Angel said. ‘Hard.’
‘Bound to happen, sooner or later,’ Compton said, unfeelingly. He looked at Angel and raised his eyebrows, and Angel nodded. He led the way across the saloon and out into the street. The horse was standing hipshot at the hitching rail, a chunky bay gelding. Its legs were in good shape, mouth firm, chest strong. About five years old, Angel judged from the animal’s mouth, and not hard used. It would be as good a horse as he had any right to hope for in a town like Canon City.
Warn Angel! (A Frank Angel Western--Book 9) Page 7
