Shoot Angel! (15 page)

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.

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!’