Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) (11 page)

‘
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.’

He stood up.
‘I’d like to get
started asking around, Colonel, before lights out- with your
permission, of course.’

‘
Of
course, sh - sir, of course.’ Thompson lurched to his feet. They
were surprised to see he was quite drunk. ‘I’ll get Lieutenant
Ellis to accompany you.’

‘
No
need,’ Angel said. ‘I can find my way around. Sunny, you want to
check on our sleeping beauty?’

‘
Be a
pleasure,’ Metter said, grinning.

Austin looked from Thompson to Angel to
Metter to Thompson.

‘
What
about me?’ he asked plaintively.

‘
Why
don’t you keep the colonel company, Sheriff?’ Metter said. His eyes
moved to the whiskey bottle on the desk. Austin’s face brightened.
He looked almost happy.

‘
That
ain’t a half-bad idea,’ he said, licking his lips. ‘I b’lieve I
will. Colonel?’

‘
Do’
min’ ‘f I do,’ Thompson said. He nodded to Angel, dismissing him,
and fell back into his chair. ‘Make it a big one,’ he told the
sheriff.

When Angel and Metter came out into the
open, they found Lieutenant Blackstone waiting for them.

‘
Frank!’ he exclaimed, pumping Angel’s hand. ‘I wondered
what had happened to you.’

‘
More
than enough,’ Angel told him, and briefly outlined the events of
the past few days. Blackstone exclaimed in disgust when Angel
described his ordeal in the desert.

“
You
think Battle knew about the set-up?’ he whistled.

‘
Only
one way to find out,’ Angel said. ‘I thought I’d ask
him.’

‘
Angel,’ Metter said, carefully. ‘You ain’t about to do
nothin’ silly, are you?’

‘
Who,
me?’ said Angel, smiling. ‘Perish the thought. Run along, little
man. Tuck your protégé into bed.’

‘
I’d
as soon tuck him into a nice six by four hole,’ snapped Metter. He
faded off into the darkness, heading for the guardhouse, and Angel
started walking towards the stables. Blackstone paced along-side, a
worried frown creasing his forehead.

‘
Frank,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘If you’re thinking what I
think you’re thinking, it’s damned foolishness. I can’t be a party
to it.’

‘
All I
want to do is ask a few questions,’ Angel told him, with an air of
injured innocence. ‘No harm in that, is there?’

They were at the doorway of the
stables. Inside they could
hear the sounds of the men caring for their
animals; buckets clattered, hoofs stamped. There was an acrid smell
of horse, urine, straw. Someone was singing
Lorena
in a soft Irish brogue. Angel went
in. Blackstone hesitated for a moment and then followed. For a
moment no one noticed them, and then they heard a shout of
Attennnnnnn-shun!
and Sergeant Battle came hurrying forward,
carrying a storm lantern which he held high to identify the
visitors.

‘
Sir?’
he said.

‘
Mr.
Angel wants to - ah - ask you some questions, Sergeant,’ Blackstone
said.

‘
Yes,
sir,’ Battle said. There was a finely honed edge of insolence on
his voice which neither man missed. ‘What would that be about,
sir?’

‘
That
day when you escorted me off the post, Sergeant,’ Angel
said.

‘
Ah,
yes, sir,’ Battle said. ‘That day.’

‘
You
made a very specific point of taking me west of the Fort,’ Angel
began. ‘Why?’

‘
Orders, boy,’ the sergeant said. ‘Orders.’

‘
Whose
orders, Sergeant?’

‘
Lieutenant Ellis was the one told me, as I recall. Not that
it makes that much difference.’

‘
Plenty of difference, Sarge,’ Angel told him. ‘I was
ambushed out there. Left to rot in the desert because some bastard
had emptied my canteen and lifted all my ammunition.’

Battle
frowned. ‘You’re not
suggestin’—’

‘
I’m
not suggesting anything,’ Angel said flatly. ‘I’m telling you what
happened.’

‘
And
you’re thinkin’ I knew about it.’

‘
Did
you?’

‘
Damn
your eyes, boy, if—’

‘
If
what, Sarge? Go ahead, the lieutenant won’t put you on report for
speaking your mind.’

‘
I was
goin’ to say, beggin’ the lieutenant’s pardon, that if the
circumstances was any different than they are, I’d beat your brains
out for that.’

‘
You
still didn’t answer my question,’ Angel said. ‘Somebody wanted me
dead, and tried to make sure of it. Somebody who had access to my
guns and canteen. Somebody who knew there was an ambush waiting for
me, knew you and your squad would deliver me to them, ready for
chopping down. If it wasn’t you, who was it, Battle?’

‘
Listen, boy,’ the soldier said levelly. ‘I told you once
before I admired the way you stepped in when the lieutenant here
was havin’ a hard time with them two killers. I told you I had no
grudge against you personally. Orders, boy. I was takin’ orders.
But I wouldn’t take no order to set a man adrift in the desert
without water nor ammunition, and I’ll smash in the face of any man
who says I would.’

‘
I
never had any doubt of it,’ Angel said, softly. ‘But I had to ask.
No hard feelings, Sarge.’ He held out his hand. The soldier spat on
the ground.

‘
Sure,
there’s hard feelin’s, boy,’ he said. ‘Damned hard feelin’s. You
just told me somebody on this post set you up to be murdered. I
don’t want to believe that. But I’ll take your word for it. And
I’ll be doin’ my damnedest to find out who it was. When I do, I’ll
be comin’ lookin’ for you, boy. If you’re shootin’ your mouth off
you’ll have some crow to eat, or lose some teeth - I don’t much
mind which. Now get the hell out of my stables - I got work to do.’
He looked at Blackstone defiantly ‘With the lieutenant’s
permission, of course.’

‘
Carry
on, Sergeant,’ Blackstone said. His face was red, and the broad
smiles on the faces of the other enlisted men who had heard the
exchange didn’t make his retreat any easier. He followed Angel out
on to the parade ground.

‘
You
haven’t exactly made Battle your dearest friend, Frank,’ he
remarked mildly.

‘
I
know it,’ Angel said, and Blackstone could see a faint grin on his
companion’s face. ‘But if I read him right, the Sergeant won’t
sleep easy until he remembers who might have set me up. And when he
remembers, all hell is going to break loose on this
post.’

“
You—’
began Blackstone, but he had no chance to finish whatever it had
been he was going to say. A commotion across the parade ground
claimed their attention and they saw men running towards a man on
horseback who was yelling at the top of his voice. They ran across
the square and when they got closer they saw a soldier running
towards Thompson’s quarters. The rider had slumped to the ground,
and someone was giving him a drink from a water canteen.

‘
Fetch
the doc!’ yelled someone in the dark. ‘On the double!’

Blackstone pushed through the knot of men
surrounding the rider. The enlisted men fell back to make room for
him and Angel.

‘
What’s going on here?’ snapped Blackstone.

‘
Dunno, sir,’ said the soldier supporting the man on the
ground. ‘This feller rode right past the guard yellin’ bloody
murder, an’ then keeled over. Look at his horse.’

The animal the man had ridden was lying a
few yards away. Its sides were lathered with sweat, its flanks
heaving; the horse was tossing its head wildly and neighing
hoarsely, a grating sound of pain.

‘
Somebody shoot that horse!’ shouted Blackstone. ‘He’s all
but killed it anyway.’ He knelt by the man’s side as a shot rang
out and the agonized wheezing of the dying animal stopped
abruptly.

‘
Who
are you, man?’ he said, urgently.

‘
Hell
. . .’ the man mumbled. ‘All hell. ..’

‘
One
side there!’ The men fell back to allow the post doctor through,
and he took one look at the man on the ground and snapped,
‘Hospital: fast as you can!’ Willing hands lifted the man off the
ground and hurried him over to the post hospital, where in the
flaring light of a storm lantern, the doctor stripped the man’s
shirt away from his body. There were three bullet wounds in his
chest; blood was flecking the man’s lips. The doctor shook his head
and straightened up. Angel pushed forward and went close to the man
lying on the cot.

‘
You’re safe,’ he whispered urgently. ‘You made it to the
Fort.’

‘
Thank
God!’ The man coughed, bubbles of blood flecking his white chest.
‘I - didn’t think—’

‘
Save
your breath,’ Angel told him. ‘Where are you from?’

‘
Circle C,’ the man said. Agony twisted his
features.

‘
Clare’s ranch?’ Angel said. ‘What happened?’

‘
Hell,’ the man said again. ‘All hell. Broke loose ... in
high country. Raiders. They killed ... killed. . . .’

‘
Raiders attacked the Circle C?’ Angel said. ‘Go on. Go
on.’

‘
Cut
us ... pieces. And .. . Perry place. We . . . ran. Shot... all down
. .. like dawgs....’

The eyes rolled upwards and the man made a
terrifying effort to come back from the edge of the precipice. His
face was contorted.

‘
Get... help ...’ the rider said, his words fading away to a
weak whisper.

‘
Get... help. All hell’s broke loose ... in the high
country.’

And then he was dead.

Angel and Metter left the Fort
long before the sun came up. Behind them they left the pandemonium
of blaring bugles and shouted orders, the men being roused, horses
saddled, preparing for the forced march across country to the
ranches in the high chaparral. Traveling at their fastest, the
cavalry would take two hours longer to reach the Circle C than two
men riding alone, and that much more again to prepare for the
patrol. To wait for them, Angel had stated categorically, would be
to let the trail of the raiders grow cold and Thompson was not
the
caliber
of man who could have persuaded Angel in such a mood to change his
mind. Now the two men thundered through the pre-dawn twilight
towards the Ruidoso, their faces grimly set against the thought of
what they would find.

It was well after sunup when
they reached the Circle C, but
they saw the smoke rising faintly long
before them. The ranch and its outbuildings had been burned to the
ground, the stock turned loose. Already the buzzards were at their
grisly work. It was a sight out of the pits of hell. The black
birds rose in a squawking cloud as they rode down into the open
yard, where the bodies were scattered like broken dolls. They
counted twelve dead; riddled with bullets, torn apart by
close-range shotgun blasts. The awful sweet stench of blood hung in
the air and clouds of fat black flies hummed in the
sunlight.

It was not difficult to reconstruct what
must have happened. The raiders had fallen upon the ranch without
warning, and the Circle C men had died without a chance to fight.
They had been cut down working in the corrals, in the outbuildings.
The cook and his helper lay dead outside the charred ruin of the
bunkhouse, obviously shot as they came running out of the blazing
building. Nothing moved. There was a heartbreaking silence hovering
over the place, and the crumpled bodies seemed unreal in the
morning sunlight. Mass death is a strange thing: the unmoving
bodies seem as though they have been posed, and will come to life
if you watch long enough. Metter sat still in the saddle.

‘
Nothing we can do here,’ Angel said. ‘Let’s get
going.’

‘
God
in Heaven,’ Metter said. ‘What kind of butchers done
this?’

‘
There’s only one kind,’ Angel said. ‘Come on. Let’s see how
much of an Indian you really are.’

‘
I can
read sign,’ Metter said.

There was no need of his
tracking abilities. The trail of the departing raiders was easy to
follow, for they had made no attempt to conceal it. It led, as
Angel had known it would lead, up the rolling hill to the divide
between the Ruidoso and the Feliz, almost due west, pointing
straight towards the Perry ranch. They pushed on through the hills
and when they crested the ridge, they could see the smoke down in
the valley. As they got closer, they could see the house. It was
still burning, flames licking dying tongues at what was left of the
woodwork. The adobe walls were blackened with smoke. Metter ducked
his
head,
cursing in a low monotone as they moved on down the slope and
across the level land to the ranch. The Perry place had been caught
as unprepared as the Circle C. The sheer savagery of the attack
must have been terrible: they saw the body of one rider hanging
face down over the low adobe wall around the yard before the ranch.
The top of his head had been blown off at close range. Three men
had forted themselves up behind a pile of timber at the back of the
ranch building. Their bodies lay in a tangled heap, thick with
blood. There were flies everywhere, and overhead the buzzards they
had disturbed wheeled and swooped, waiting, waiting. Neither man
spoke. They dismounted, and as if by prearrangement quartered
around the charnel-place that was the remains of the Perry ranch.
Both of them knew without speaking what they were looking for; they
covered all the ground for fifty yards around what was left of the
place before giving up their search.

‘
She’s
not here,’ Angel said.

‘
Any
chance of her being in Daranga?’ Metter said, without real
hope.

Angel shook his head.
‘She’d have been
here.’

‘
Then—’

‘
They
took her.’

‘
Who?’
Metter said. ‘Who in the name of God would do this?’

‘
Plenty,’ Angel said, ‘if the money was good
enough.’

As they stood there, a buzzard
flopped down and waddled across the yard towards one of the
sprawled bodies. Metter drew his
six-gun, cursing, but Angel laid a
restraining hand on his arm.

‘
Wouldn’t do any good,’ he said. ‘And they might still be
within earshot.’

‘
They’re long gone,’ Metter said, savagely, ‘and it’ll
do
me
good.’

He fired at the bird, and feathers burst
from its body, fluttering up and then slowly down as the buzzard
screeched once and flopped over.

‘
We
got some riding to do,’ Angel said. ‘Let’s go.’

‘
What
about buryin’ these men?’ Metter asked.

‘
The
Army can do it,’ Angel said. ‘We got business with the
living.’

He swung aboard the dun, and Metter put his
hand on the pommel of the saddle, looking at his companion.

‘
You’re a cold-blooded bastard, Angel,’ he said, ‘you know
that?’

When he got no answer, he went
on,
‘Don’t
seein’ this do nothin’ to you?’

Angel turned. Metter gave a
start of surprise, for there were tears in Angel
’s eyes. Or was it a trick of
the light? He blinked and Angel was looking at the scattered bodies
with an empty gaze.

‘
Sure,’ Angel said. ‘It does something to me. I was fourteen
when Sherman marched through Georgia.’ His voice was harsh and
there was a savage glare building behind the grey eyes. ‘They
killed my father when he tried to stop them going into our house.
Then they broke down the doors. I hid in a tree while they went in
and raped my mother. She screamed when they got to her and she went
on screaming for a long time and then she stopped. I sneaked in the
back way and got a gun and killed a soldier who was standing at the
top of the stairs fastening his pants. Then I killed the one that
was on top of her. He didn’t even know she was dead, didn’t care.
They came and got me and one of them worked me over with his fists.
Then they made me watch while they killed everything that moved on
the place: cows, horses, chickens, geese. Then they rubbed my face
in the blood of the man I killed and rode off and left me there.
Sure, Sunny. This sort of thing is meat and drink to
me.’

Angel wheeled the dun around
savagely and jabbed his spurs into the startled
animal
’s
ribs. The horse screamed and leaped into a gallop, rocketing up the
rise away from the house. Metter leaped into the saddle and set off
after Angel, spurring his horse to try and catch up.

‘
Frank!’ he yelled, ‘Frank!’

He caught up as they reached
the top of the rise that sloped down to the northeast and away
towards the malpais. The swath of
hoof prints was wide and clear in the
sandy soil. Angel tracked along them, hipshot in the saddle, no
expression on his face.

‘
Looks
like they’re heading for New Mexico,’ he said as they moved along.
Metter nodded. He did not speak for a long time, but concentrated
upon keeping his pace matched to Angel’s, knowing they were
punishing the horses needlessly, knowing the animals could not keep
it up. But when the dun started to flag Angel whipped it with the
reins, then later used the spurs cruelly, flogging the animal
through the rock-strewn wasteland. Whatever was going through his
mind, whatever dark thoughts pursued each other behind the burning
eyes, he did not speak of them. It was noon before he pulled the
dun to a halt beneath a stand of paloverde and dismounted. He
slackened the girth, letting the reins trail. Water from the
canteen gurgled into his hat: the dun drank greedily. Metter
followed suit, and they turned the animals loose to forage. Range
trained, they would not stray while ground-hitched.

Angel slumped beneath the
paloverde, using the thin shade for respite from the blinding heat
of the sun.
‘We’ll rest for an hour,’ he said. ‘No more.’

Metter nodded, trying to find a
way to speak. Finally he gave up. There was no way to say he was
sorry. He looked
covertly at his companion. Angel’s clothes were already
filmed with desert gypsum, and his eyes were empty and fathomless.
Metter thought he had never seen a man more surely ready to kill,
and felt a cold finger of dread across his spine. Up to now, Frank
Angel had seemed to be a competent, civilized, easygoing man who
happened to have turned out to be a lawman. Now Metter saw him with
the restraints of civilization torn off, the thin veneer gone, and
the cruelly efficient killing machinery exposed. He wondered what
Angel’s life had been since that last year of the War between the
States, what the man had done that had led him to undercover work
for the Justice Department. Since by definition they had the pick
of the very best the country had to offer, Frank Angel must be
among a rare group of men. Yet there were laughter-wrinkles at the
sides of the eyes, good humor in the normal set of the mouth. Angel
didn’t look like a killer. Maybe that was why he was what he was,
Metter thought, but he let none of it show on his face.

After almost exactly an hour Angel got to
his feet.

‘
Let’s
move,’ he said, without ceremony. He went over to the dun, cinched
up, and mounted. Metter followed suit, and they moved out across
the featureless land.