Shoot Angel! (14 page)

He mounted up a few minutes
later and rode on. It didn
’t take him long to pick up the trail again, just
beyond the rise of low hills before him.

Cranford had chosen his spot
well, Angel had to admit. The man had wanted to make certain that
if anyone was following they would maybe have second thoughts if a
few of them were killed. If it hadn
’t been for that poor opening shot the
matter might have had a totally different outcome. As it was
Cranford had lost two men, and Angel had lessened the odds from six
to four.

Angel pushed his horse as hard as he dare.
The day was living up to the promise shown in the early hours. The
cloudless sky poured down endless waves of brutal sunlight. The
heat was almost overpowering. It became trapped in the rocks,
glaring up off the bleached earth. It hung in shimmering curtains
before his aching eyes, causing the very landscape to tremble and
waver.

Somewhere close by he heard a
faint sound. Angel reined in and listened. He unsheathed his rifle.
The sound came again, a soft rattle. Angel climbed down from his
horse and moved toward the
mass of boulders and choked brush from where the
sound was emanating.

He found a horse, down on the
ground, one of its forelegs badly broken. Splintered bone gleamed
white where it had pierced the flesh. Angel put a quick shot
through the horse
’s head, ending its misery. Now they were four with only
three horses. One mount would have to carry double. Angel gazed
down at the dead horse. Cranford was going to find his progress
slowed down considerably.

Angel returned to his horse and put it back
on the trail. The tracks he was following began to angle off
towards the east. Coming down off a high slope Angel caught a flash
of greenery and a short while later he was riding through tall
stands of aspen and spruce. The ground underfoot here was soft,
thick with leaf mould and the trail was clearer than it had been
for any time since he had first picked it up. Angel could easily
see the deeper marks made by the horse carrying double.

Shortly after noon Angel broke
out of the trees and drew rein. Just below him, on the bank of a
wide, meandering creek, stood a low, rambling log building. Smoke
curled lazily from the stone chimney. Chickens moved back and forth
across the trampled yard. Horses stamped restlessly around the
small corral. Angel studied the place for a time. It looked
peaceful enough. But he knew of old that it was this sort of place
that generally gave the most trouble. He rode in with caution, his
rifle across his thighs. As he drew nearer the place he
saw the weathered
sign over the door: ANDERSON’S POST. Angel wondered idly how long
the place had existed. Thirty? Maybe forty years? Possibly even
longer. There were hundreds of these places dotted around the
country. In the early days, long before any towns had been
established, these isolated trading posts had been the only contact
with other white men that had existed for the early explorers. A
place for them to buy supplies. To sell their furs. To come in out
of the wilderness simply to see and speak to others of their kind.
The posts had been places of contact between the Indians and the
whites. They were generally considered safe places by the Indians,
and were left alone even during times of hostility. Not always—but
for the most part the posts survived.

Angel crossed the yard and took
a quick look in the corral. He easily spotted the single horse,
standing motionless amongst the other restless animals. Angel
dismounted, led his horse over to the corral and tied it to one of
the posts. He slipped through the bars and crossed the corral to
the horse he
’d spotted. The animal didn’t even back off when he
approached. Angel gave it a quick look over. Its lower legs were
dust-stained. Its coat was still lathered and damp. Angel made his
way out of the corral, certain that he had found two of his
men.

He left his rifle in its
sheath, checking his Colt before
he made for the post. At the door he
paused, giving his eyes time to adjust to the interior light. Then
he stepped inside quickly.

The main room was large,
low ceilinged. The
section nearer to the door held all the trading goods, foodstuffs.
Down at the far end was a section that had been turned into a small
saloon-cum-dining-room. A row of shelves held an assortment of
bottles. A couple of casks were supported on wood blocks. Fronting
this was the bar, consisting of three thick, rough-hewn planks laid
across large barrels. Behind the bar was a lean, hawk-faced man in
his late forties. He had thick, red hair, the kind that stuck out
from his head in unruly tangles, defying any attempt at keeping it
tidy. He was dressed in dark pants and a rose-colored shirt. He was
deeply absorbed in rolling himself a cigarette, so he didn’t notice
Angel’s appearance.

Nor did his only customers: two
travel-stained men at the bar, hunched over their drinks in sullen
silence. Duggan and Koch. The two ex-deputies from Liberty.

‘
Just
stay where you are, boys, and we can do this without anybody
getting hurt,’ Angel said. He spoke evenly, making certain there
was no threat in his tone.

The man behind the bar glanced
in Angel
’s
direction. He took one look at the tall, unshaven, battered figure
standing there, and decided not to interfere.

‘
You
hear me?’ Angel asked.

‘
That
you, Angel?’ Koch asked over his shoulder.

‘
Yeah!’

Koch laughed.
‘We should of
killed you when we had the chance. I reckon if we had we wouldn’t
be in this damn mess right now!’

‘
Judge
gone and run out on you?’

Koch emptied his glass with an angry
gesture.

‘
Too
true, Angel. He just upped and paid us off. Said it was time to go
our own ways.’

‘
Weren’t my fault the goddamn horse broke a leg!’ Duggan’s
voice was high with self-pity.

‘
For
Christ’ sake, shut your mouth about that horse! Nobody said it was
your fault.’

Duggan grunted
something.
‘It sure as hell is what you’re thinkin’,’ he threw
out.

‘
Balls!’ Koch muttered. He turned slowly from the bar to
face Angel. ‘One thing we better get straight, Angel, from here on
in. I ain’t about to turn in my gun and go with you! No way,
mister.’

‘
Koch,
it’s up to you,’ Angel told him. ‘Makes no difference to me. I can
deliver you either way. Dead or alive!’

‘
Go to
hell, Angel!’ Koch yelled. ‘I don’t figure on ending up behind
bars! Or dancing on the end of a rope! No chance, Angel, so I’ll
just have to kill you myself!’

And as he spoke Koch went for his holstered
gun and started shooting.

Fast as Koch was, Angel turned
out to be faster. He barely seemed to move, yet the big Colt was
suddenly in his hand. It was level and it was aimed at
Koch
’s
chest. Koch had already fired off two shots. One smashed into the
edge of the bar near Angel’s right elbow. The other tore through
the log roof overhead, because Koch’s gun had tilted in that
direction as Angel’s bullet took him just over the heart. Koch went
over backwards, letting go with a loud scream of pain that trailed
off to a soft whimper. His limp body slumped against one of the
barrels supporting the bar. Koch lay with his head flopping
forward, seeming to stare at the blood pumping out of the hole in
his chest.

‘
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.’