Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) (7 page)

Sheriff Nick Austin
wasn
’t a
good man or a bad one. He never thought of himself in those terms
anyway. He was a man who held a political office which had been
arranged by men more attuned to the nuances of necessity in
politics than himself. He had a large family; he was not an
athletic man, and he was long past the age when he could earn a
living on a ranch for his beefy wife and their brood. When Al Birch
had proposed that he run for sheriff, Nick Austin had been
surprised and finally flattered into accepting. It was an easy job.
Hard cases found Daranga a discouraging place; the presence of
Johnny Boot and Willy Mill was enough to convince most of them that
to move on was the better part of valor. So Nick Austin became
sheriff and his office was, if not revered by the townspeople, at
least tolerated. He didn’t bother anybody overmuch and by and large
that was how folks in Daranga liked their sheriffs. In turn, Austin
repaid his benefactors by never asking awkward questions. He did
what they told him to do and never did anything they told him not
to do. In his years of office, Austin had grown steadily more
corpulent and more lethargic; right now he was cursing steadily
beneath his breath the fact that Birch had sent word to him that he
had to attend Walt Clare’s funeral. The lambent gaze of the high
chaparral ranchers across the open grave burned into his tallow
heart, and Austin shivered at what they might be
thinking.

They buried Big Walt beneath
the cottonwood he had planted himself to make shade on the ranch
house. It was an overcast day, and a cold wind whipped away the
muttered words George Perry was reading from an old leather-bound
Bible as they lowered the rough pine coffin into the ground. When
they were done they went into the house. One of
Clare
’s
riders took Kate Perry home; she had stood dry-eyed through the sad
rite, her eyes dark with pain, welted shadows beneath them making
her look haunted. No one had known what to say to her.

The men formed a rough half circle around
Nick Austin and he looked from face to face, a sheen of sweat on
his brow.

‘
Well,
Nick,’ George Perry grated. ‘What you aimin’ to do about
this?’

‘
I ...
uh ... I don’t .. . ah, you said yourself there was no tracks,
George,’ the sheriff stuttered. ‘What can I do? I could take a
posse out an’ scour around for days, an’ mebbe then find
nothin’.’

‘
Shit,
man,’ said John Oliver, Clare’s foreman. ‘You know well as we do
who done this.’

‘
No, I
don’t know no such thing, John,’ Austin said stoutly. ‘I don’t know
no such thing.’

‘
Let
me spell it out for you then,’ Oliver growled. ‘It was prob’ly
Johnny Boot, or mebbe Willy Mill, or mebbe both o’ them. Al Birch
sent them up here night afore last and they laid for Walt an’ shot
him down like a dawg. Then they skedaddled back to Daranga. That’s
what happened, Sheriff. Now what you goin’ to do about
it?’

Austin drew himself up, his belly protruding
above his belt, his face stiff with comical dignity.

‘
Now
see here, John, I know you’re lathered up about Walt’s death, an’
rightly so, but I happen to know that this time you got your reins
crossed. It couldn’t have been any o’ Birch’s men.’

George Perry pushed forward and faced the
sheriff, arms akimbo.

‘
You
fat impersonation,’ he snapped. ‘You askin’ us to swaller that kind
o’ crap?’ The sheriff retreated from the pure venom in Perry’s gaze
and the growls of anger which came from the assembled men. Angel
got to his feet. He had been sitting to one side of the room,
favoring his side, the dull throb of pain against the tightly
wadded bandages a constant reminder that he was still some way from
fully recovered.

‘
Hold
it a moment, men,’ he said, holding up a hand. He turned to face
Austin.

‘
You
sayin’ you can show none of Birch’s men could’ve done
this?’

‘
I
am,’ said Austin flatly. ‘An’ who the hell might you
be?’

‘
I
might be Abraham Lincoln, but I ain’t,’ snapped Angel. ‘Speak your
piece.’

The sheriff drew himself up as
if to bluster and then his eyes met the cold gray gaze of the
stranger, and a chill touched the
sheriff’s spine. He had seen eyes like
that before, and the man who had been their owner had been one of
the coldest killers he had ever seen, a man in a jail in Yuma whom
they’d told him had fought seven armed men with only a knife and
come out of the fight on his feet with every one of the others
dead. He had looked into the man’s cell and the man had turned his
head and looked at Austin and the sheriff had recoiled as if from
the gaze of Satan himself. He did the same thing now.

‘
Uh .
.. mm, ah, no offense, mister,’ he managed. ‘It’s just ... well, I
happen to know there was a big party out at the Birch place the
night Walt was shot. I was out there myself. Johnny Boot was there,
and Mill. Birch, Jacey Reynolds, they were there. The colonel from
the Fort an’ some of his officers. Some bigwig political fellers
from over Phoenix way. A whole swodge of people. There was a big
dinner, went on all night. Hell, I’d’ve knowed if any o’ them had
been missin’ long enough to ride up here, kill Walt, an’ come back.
It couldn’t ‘a’ been done.’

‘
Nick,
you better not be lyin’ to us,’ ground out Perry. ‘You better be
tellin’ me the truth, you hear?’

‘
In
God’s name, George,’ Austin cried, ‘half the town was there. You
c’n ask anybody. I’m tellin’ you: they couldn’t’a’ done
it!’

Perry looked stunned. He pushed through the
rank of men around Austin and sat down, his expression revealing
his total bewilderment.

‘
I
don’t figger it,’ he said finally, shaking his head slowly from
side to side.

‘
John?’ He looked towards Clare’s foreman as if he might be
able to say something which would explain everything, but Oliver
shrugged.

‘
I’m
plumb bamboozled, George,’ was his remark.

Perry got to his feet, stamping about the
room angrily.

‘
But
it’s gotta be them,’ he muttered. ‘Who else would want him
dead?’

Finally he stopped his pacing, and turned to
face Austin again.

‘
Sheriff,’ he said, ‘I’m comin’ to Daranga with
you.’

Austin
’s eyes widened. ‘There ain’t no call
for you to do that, George,’ he expostulated. ‘You can believe me.
Why would I tell you somethin’ you could check in ten minutes if it
warn’t true?’

Perry put a hand on the fat
man
’s
shoulder. ‘No, man,’ he said. ‘I believe you. I got to go into town
anyway. We need some supplies. Might as well go now, get it done.
John, will you get a couple o’ the boys saddled up an’ ride in with
me?’ Oliver nodded and touched a couple of his men on the shoulder,
leading them out of the room. Angel got to his feet.

‘
I’ll
come with you,’ he said.

Perry shook his head.
‘No need, boy,’ he
said. His voice was old and very tired. ‘I ain’t on the warpath. I
might just ask a few questions around, but I ain’t huntin’ trouble.
Besides, you better give that wound a rest. You ain’t goin’ to do
it no good comin’ with me. Anyways I’d be obliged if you’d ... sort
of look after Katy while I’m in town.’

Angel started to argue with the old man but
he was adamant.

‘
I’ll
have Oliver with me,’ he said, ‘an’ a couple o’ the
boys.’

Austin turned again to Angel,
wary politeness in every nuance of his voice when he spoke.
‘You been wounded?’
he said, as if it were only of the slightest interest to him.
‘Uhuh,’ Angel said. ‘Own fault. Nothin’ serious.’

Austin nodded,
reassured.
‘I still never got your name,’ he persisted.

‘
That’s right,’ Angel said, turning away. He caught the old
man’s eye and Perry nodded. Each man had his own way of skinning a
cat Besides, he liked the young stranger.

Oliver came back in.
‘We’re about ready,
George,’ he said.

Perry nodded.
‘Tell Katy I’ll be
back afore sundown,’ he told Angel. ‘Try’n ... well, you
know.’

‘
Sure,’ Angel said, ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘
Thanks, son,’ Perry said. He touched Angel’s shoulder as he
passed. Angel felt a twinge of pity when he saw the defeat in the
old man’s eyes. The sheriff glowered again at the uncommunicative
stranger and followed the rancher out into the open yard where the
riders were waiting with the horses. Angel stood on the porch and
watched them as they rode off, until they finally disappeared
behind one of the folds in the land to the south. Then he went down
to the corral, where one of Clare’s men had saddled the dun. The
clouds were piling high above the Baranquillas. There was a feel of
oppression in the air as the thunderclouds grew pregnant over the
mountains. The chaparral was silent; no birds moved in the desert
air. Angel rode slowly west towards the Perry ranch, trying to
ignore the premonition that shadowed him, jeering.

George Perry rode down Fort
Street and pulled his horse up to the hitching rail of the general
store. Daranga was so familiar to him that he did not really look
at it, and in truth, there was not that much to see. Fort Street
was the upright of the Injunction on which the town had been built.
Front Street was the trail that ran to Lordsburg in the east and
Tucson in the west. On the right hand corner of the junction stood
Birch
’s
Alhambra Saloon, a gaudy place built as a direct copy of the
Alhambra in Tombstone, which Oliver and his two riders had already
gone into. Directly opposite it stood the boarding house, and next
to that was the store into which Perry now stamped, slapping the
trail dust off his clothes. Martin, who clerked in the store, and
kept the books for Birch and Reynolds, came around the
counter.

‘
Howdy, Keith,’ the old man said. ‘Like to get a few
things.’

‘
Yessir, Mr. Perry,’ Martin replied. ‘You want to let me
have your list?’

‘
No
need of a list, son,’ Perry told him. ‘I on’y need some fixin’s.
Bag o’ flour. Couple o’ cans of Arbuckles. Mebbe I’ll take a few
pounds o’ bacon, oh, an’ some o’ that chawin’ tobacco. I run right
out.’

‘
Sure
thing, Mr. Perry,’ Martin said. He wrote down something on a piece
of paper, gnawing his pencil and frowning, muttering to himself.
Then he looked up and said brightly, ‘That’ll be sixteen-eighty,
Mr. Perry.’

Perry nodded absently.
‘Fine,’ he
said.

Martin looked at him and kept
on looking, and after a moment the old man looked up.
‘What in hell you
starin’ at, Keith?’

‘
Uh .
. . well. ..’ Martin managed.

‘
Spit
’er out, boy,’ Perry smiled. ‘I forget somethin’?’

‘
Well
... uh . . . yes, Mr. Perry. The . .. money, sir,’ Martin
said.

‘
Why
damn, Keith, you know I ain’t sold no beef this summer,’ Perry said
in mildly exasperated tones. ‘Put it on my account like
usual.’

‘
I ...
uh ... I can’t do that, Mr. Perry, sir,’ Martin stammered. ‘Mr.
Birch, he done told me.’

‘
Told
you? Told you what?’ Storm signal fluttered in Perry’s
eyes.

‘
About
credit, Mr. Perry. It’s nothin’ against you personal, sir,’
Martin’s voice was greasy with embarrassment. ‘I ain’t to sell
nothing to nobody on credit. Mr. Birch said.’

‘
He
say nobody, or me in partickler?’ burst out Perry, anger coming
strongly into his voice.

‘
Oh,
no, sir, Mr. Perry, he meant ever’body, I’m right sure he did. No
credit, an’ no exceptions, he said.’

‘
Damnation in the mornin’!’ swore Perry. ‘He knows I’m good
for the money!’

‘
Yessir, I know it, Mr. Perry,’ Martin said. ‘Honest, Mr.
Perry, it’s nothin’ to do with me. I got to do what Mr. Birch tells
me. You know that.’

‘
Now,
son,’ said Perry, controlling himself and adopting a reasonable
tone, ‘you ain’t goin’ to make me ride all the way out to the ranch
again for a measly sixteen dollars an’ eighty cents, are you? I’ll
pay you next time I come to town.’

Martin wrung his hands, shaking his head
simultaneously.

‘
You .
. . you better talk to Mr. Birch, Mr. Perry,’ he said. ‘I got my
orders.’

Perry
’s face darkened again. ‘Damned if I
don’t do just that,’ he snapped and turned on his heel, pushing his
way past the other customers out into the street. He stood for a
moment shaking his head in incomprehension at this latest evidence
that the world was going mad, and crossed the dusty street on foot
towards the Alhambra. He hardly saw the man sprawled in the
bentwood chair on the porch, his feet out straight in front of him.
As Perry walked towards the swinging doors of the saloon, the man,
hat tipped forward on his face as if dozing, moved his feet as
though by accident, and Perry stumbled across the man’s legs. He
put out a hand to save himself from falling and turned, with the
puzzled anger from his encounter across the street brimming
over.

‘
What
the hell...” he began.

‘
You’re a mite on the clumsy side, old timer,’ said the
man.

His colorless eyes beneath the
shaded
hat
brim bored into Perry’s. The old man grinned, his good temper
reasserting itself.

‘
Which
I’m beggin’ your pardon,’ he said. ‘Damned if I seen you.’ He half
turned to go when the man in the chair spoke again, his voice low
pitched.

‘
You
scuffed my boots,’ the man said, mildly, ‘An’ I just had ‘em
shined.’

‘
Well,
like I said, stranger, I’m plumb sorry,’ Perry said, a trace of
irritation coming back into his voice. What was wrong with the
fool? ‘Pure accident, no more.’ He turned again to go and again the
man’s voice nailed him to the spot.

‘
Pure
stupidity, you mean,’ the man said. Perry wheeled, eyes
glinting.

‘
Now
look, mister,’ he ground out, ‘I done told you I’m sorry, which I
am whether it was my fault or not, an’ I’d say there was some doubt
as to that, the way you’re sprawled out like a daid
frog.’

‘
You
farmers is all the same,’ the man said in that same mild, quiet
voice. ‘Born with two left feet.’

Perry shook his head like a taunted bull.
This was incredible!

‘
Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know who you are or what your
problem is, but I got no time to stand here jawin’ about your
boots.’ He reached into his pocket and brought out a dime, which he
tossed at the man. ‘Go get ‘em shined again, if you ever had ‘em
shined, which it shore don’t look like.’

‘
You
calling me a liar?’ Perry looked at the man aghast. Suddenly all
trace of indolence had fallen away and the man was on his feet,
lambent eyes fixed on Perry, hand brushing the six-gun at his hips.
Perry noted clearly in that moment how the butt of the gun was
dulled to kill reflection, and then came the chilling realization
of what was happening. Fear touched him momentarily but then common
sense flooded back. This was foolishness, not a killing matter. He
half lifted a hand, as though to reason with the man facing
him.

‘
Now
look here,’ he said, ‘there ain’t no call for this.’ He was
surprised to hear his voice; it sounded dry and high pitched. ‘No
call at all.’

‘
You
call me a liar and then say it’s nothing?’ The man smiled, lazily.
‘Well, I’ll listen to your apology.’

Perry drew in a deep breath and
let it out slowly. He had no doubt the man was a killer: those eyes
told him that. He must not be pushed into making the man move that
right hand. The gun looked enormous. Perry
’s hands were wet with
sweat.

‘
All
right,’ he managed, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘
Fine,’ the man said, ‘now there’s the matter of my
boots.’

‘
Whaaat?’ Perry’s voice was strangled. He cast his eyes
around. A few people had stopped on the street, watching the
exchange curiously. They edged backwards. What was wrong with them?
he thought. There wasn’t going to be any gunplay. Oliver and his
boys were only ten yards away in the saloon, for God’s
sake!

‘
The
boots,’ the man explained, patiently, as though to a child. ‘The
boots.’

‘
The
boots,’ Perry said, dully.

‘
Right. Good. You messed them up. Agreed?’

Perry nodded. He was
speechless. There was nothing he could do. Where was that fat fool
Austin? He had told him to meet him at the Alhambra. Where was the
man? He thought of calling Oliver
’s name. But there was no way he could do
it.

‘
Well,
I’m a reasonable man,’ the gunman went on, ‘we can put it right in
no time. All you got to do is lick ‘em clean.’

George Perry looked at his
tormentor as if the man had suddenly gone insane. His mouth opened
and closed but nothing came out. He was lost and he knew it; the
angel of death was sitting on this stranger
’s shoulder and waiting for the right
moment to reach out and touch him. Perry swallowed the white ball
of fear that clogged his throat. He was a brave man.

‘
You
can go plumb to hell,’ he said. He was astonished at his own
calmness. The man smiled like a fiend incarnate.

‘
You
better be ready to back that up, old man,’ he said
softly.

The moment stretched into an
eternity. George Perry saw people in the street looking at him.
Their faces were white
blurs. His tormentor looked as relaxed as a cat in
a patch of sunlight. I should shout for Oliver, Perry told
himself.

‘
Like
I thought,’ said the man, ‘full o’ shit.’

Something turned in
Perry
’s
brain and he blinked as he felt the weight of his gun in his palm,
drawn without conscious movement before the enormity of what he had
done hit him. He stopped in mid-draw, the barrel of the six-gun
just clear of the holster. The man facing him had not moved, but
the face had changed. The smile had gone, and had been replaced by
a mask twisted ferociously with the lust to kill. The empty eyes
burned into Perry. He fell back a step. The gun was in his hand. He
had not lifted the barrel.

‘
No,’
he said.

‘
Oh,
yes,’ said the man.

Perry
’s hand twitched as though he would
raise the gun and in that instant the man’s hand blurred into
movement, harder to see than a kingfisher’s wings. Perry saw the
muzzle of the man’s six-gun and he saw the flame. The heavy slug
caught him right between the eyes and blasted away the top of his
skull, smashing the old man backwards into the rail of the porch,
which caught the small of his back. He went over in a tumble of
arms and legs, dead long before his body hit the dirt of Front
Street. Something viscous streaked the wooden wall of the Alhambra.
He never even knew that it had been Larkin who killed
him.

The gunman turned to the people in the
street.

‘
You
seen that,’ he rasped, flatly. The empty look of death was still in
his eyes. One or two of them nodded, dumbly. They averted their
gaze from the wall of the saloon and did not look at the crumpled
body.

‘
Had
his gun out afore I even moved,’ Larkin instructed them.

One man nodded.
‘That’s . . .
that’s right, mister.’

‘
Tell
it that way if anyone asks,’ Larkin said and without another word
he shouldered his way past them and crossed the street towards the
boarding house, as Oliver came rushing out of the
saloon.