Frame Angel! (A Frank Angel Western) #7 (14 page)

‘
I don’t
have the time,’ Angel told him. Sherman nodded, thinking he meant
the waiting train, the long haul to Trinidad still to be made.
Angel let him think it.

Without another word he slid
around the edge of the carriage shed and into its gloomy interior.
It was simply a pair of walls with a timber roof, open at both
ends, with three sets of buffers up against the brush-choked bank
of the western end of the yard. Hogben would be down at that end;
if the killer tried to
bolt that way, he wouldn’t get far.

There were three lines of track
inside the shed. On the pair nearest Angel was a row of four coal
trucks. The center line was empty. On the far side of the shed were
two passenger coaches. He flattened himself on the ground, his eyes
already accustomed to the gloom, scouring the spaces between the
bogies for a pair of boots or legs. Nothing. The man
wasn
’t that
much of a fool.

And he still had a carbine.

He eased his way along the line
of coal trucks to the far end of the shed. The light was better
now, and halfway down he found a big old packing case, nearly three
feet high, that had obviously brought in some mining machinery or
maybe a lathe for one of the sawmills up in the Rio Chama country.
He eased himself behind it, and using the wall as a brace, slid up
onto the top of the case. He put his six-gun beneath his armpit
under the coat and cocked it, the triple click deadened, almost
inaudible. Then he
quickly stood, his gaze sweeping the length of the
high-sided coal trucks. The truck at the end had a tarpaulin
loosely spread inside it, and he swept the gun up and fired three
shots into it. He dropped quickly and waited.

The thunder of the shots
magnified by the closed space sounded like the crack of doom. The
gun-smoke swirled and drifted in the uncertain breeze. Angel shook
his head. He eased himself back, getting into a position where he
could slide down to the ground. The whiplashing crack of the
Winchester blended with the smashing impact of the bullets hitting
the crate inches from his face, whacking huge splinters out of the
wood. One of them flickered across his face like a razor, drawing a
fine-etched line that oozed blood into the corner of his mouth. He
found himself on the ground, having rolled off the top of the crate
without even knowing it. There was a deep, solid throbbing in his
head now, and for a moment he had trouble focusing his
eyes. He didn’t even
know where the shots had come from. But there was only one place
left.

He laughed like a hunting wolf and rolled
onto his haunches, the six-gun still ready in his hand. Then he ran
fast for the end of the carriage shed, coming around the coal
wagons in a diving forward somersault. Like a rolling ball, he
barreled across the graveled space between the rails as the man in
the far passenger coach, his carbine leveled out of the window,
poured five simultaneous shots at the fleeting target. Then Angel
was sheltered by the end of the coach, and he swung aboard. The
door into the carriage was open, the interior dark but visible.

What would the killer
expect
– roof
or interior?

Roof.

He nodded and slid into the
doorway, moving on silent feet the length of the carriage. When he
came to the vestibule, which led into the platform outside, he
stopped and slid
between two seats on the right-hand side, gently lowering
the window. It slid down silently and he leaned out, his hand
arching up and over, tossing his six-gun up high onto the roof of
the next carriage.

Vargas heard the sound on the roof that he
had been expecting. He was poised by the platform between the two
carriages, and he went through the door like a snake, eeling down
onto the gravel with the cocked carbine up and leveled for the
killing shot at the exposed figure he expected to see on the roof
of the carriage.

His jaw was just dropping with
the realization that there was no one there when Angel landed
lightly behind him. He was nicely set as Vargas whirled around, his
hand already clenched in the way that Kee Lai had taught him during
those endless, punishing sessions they had shared in the gloomy
gymnasium the Justice Department snared with the army. The Korean
had taught
him that there is an inner strength upon which a man can
call, summoning all of himself at one moment, directing all that is
him into the effort he needs to make. The Korean had called
it
ch’i
and said there was no word for it in the English language.
But Angel knew that it was a total belief in yourself – if all of
you was at its fullest potential, what you were and what you could
do were insuperable, unstoppable. Thus he knew that when he hit
Vargas with the inward, downward chopping, clenched hand, it would
break the man. And it did.

The Mexican was driven to his
knees as if a pile driver had hit him, a thin scream of agony
wrenched from his twisted mouth. The carbine clattered to the
gravel from his nerveless hands, and he pitched forward, writhing
in agony on the ground while Angel looked dispassionately down as
if the man were some form of lizard he had trodden upon. He felt no
pity for the man, nothing. Academically there was a corner of his
mind which knew, as
if turning the pages of some bizarre medical catalog, that
he had probably broken Vargas’s collarbone and shoulder blade,
dislocated or snapped the humerus, crushed or punctured the upper
lung, cracked or broken two or more ribs, and possibly punctured
the pleura. Medically Vargas was in desperate need of a doctor, not
because he would die, but because without the proper attention, his
injuries could cause him great pain and suffering, possible
hemorrhage and pleurisy or pneumonia aggravated by massive shock.
He shouted two names and slowly looked up as Sherman and Hogben
came running into the shed, guns drawn. They saw the twisting,
writhing thing on the floor, and both men looked at Angel’s empty
holster and unarmed hands.

‘
This
man will need a doctor,’ Angel said.

‘
So will
you,’ Hogben told him grimly.

‘
I don’t
have time,’ Angel said.

Then he went down.

‘
You’re
out of your head,’ the doctor said.

‘
Uh-huh,’ Angel replied, struggling a little with the
buttons on his shirt.

His right hand was a little stiff, and his
entire right side was a huge purpled mass of bruised,
iodine-painted, tightly bandaged tissue. He felt a little
uncomfortable, but all right. Not first class. All right. He
buttoned his shirt and reached for his pants.

‘
You
ought to stay in bed for a week,’ the doctor persisted. ‘If those
stitches burst …’ He shuddered theatrically at the
thought.

‘
I seem
to be saying this a lot,’ Angel told him. ‘But I don’t have the
time.’

‘
All
right, Mr. Angel,’ the doctor said, throwing up his hands. ‘You’ve
convinced me. You’re made of whalebone and rawhide, spring steel
and hickory. Bullets bounce off you, and strong men break their
hands trying to hurt you. Knock you down and up you get, good as
new. Like hell! You put any real strain on those stitches, and
they’ll pop open like a clam in a kettle.’

‘
I’ll be
sure to come back for you to do it over personally and tell me you
told me so,’ grinned Angel. ‘How’s Vargas, by the way?’

‘
He’ll
live,’ the gray-haired man told him. ‘He’s probably in better shape
than you. They tell me you did all that with your hands. Is that
right?’ When Angel didn’t reply, he shook his head. ‘He’ll be lucky
if he ever uses that left hand properly again.’

‘
He
won’t need to where he’s going,’ Angel said, coldly. ‘Thanks for
everything, Doc.’

The doctor shook his head.

‘
They
tell me you work for the Department of Justice,’ he said. ‘They
must be quite an organization.’

‘
I guess
you could say they are,’ Angel grinned.

‘
Take
care, Angel,’ the older man said, resting a gentle hand on his arm.
‘Try not to put too much strain on your right side. You’ll probably
forget what I’ve told you as soon as you walk out of here, but try
not to. You might keel over at the worst possible moment – for
you.’

Angel nodded and went out. The
doctor
’s
warmly furnished adobe was on Palace Avenue, right across the
street from the Federal Building, where Sherman’s office was
situated. Sheriff Hogben was waiting outside for him, a buckboard
standing ready to take him back down to the depot.

‘
If at
first you don’t succeed,’ Hogben said, smiling.

‘
Don’t
be dumb, give up,’ Angel said wryly. ‘I’ve lost a lot of time,
Mike.’

‘
Not too
much,’ Hogben said, pulling his fat watch from its nest in his
waistcoat pocket ‘I make it just after one.’

‘
Five
hours,’ Angel said. ‘We could’ve been up around Springer by
now.’

‘
You
should have heard old Bob Gray complainin’,’ Hogben chuckled.
‘After he done all that work, billy-be-damned if he didn’t have to
do her all over. He like to bust a gut!’

Despite himself, Angel grinned at the image.
He climbed into the buckboard, and Hogben gigged the horses into a
trot around the plaza. It was a bright autumn day, and the round
adobes surrounding the square looked golden and brown, as if they
were sugarcoated, their windows fat currants in the dumpy cakes of
the houses. They passed the sprawling La Fonda and clopped across
Water Street.

‘
Y’ever
see the Miraculous Staircase, Frank?’ Hogben asked.

‘
The
what?’

‘
The
Miraculous Staircase,’ Hogben explained. ‘It’s in a chapel down on
the left there, along Water Street.’

‘
Why
miraculous?’

‘
Aw,
some old legend. They was buildin’ a chapel down there, see, an’
for some reason the workmen gave up on tryin’ to build a staircase
from the ground up to the choir loft. Too difficult, they said, or
some such thing. Stood for a long while, sort of half-done, then
one day a feller comes along, says he’s a carpenter an’ he’ll
finish the job. Built this beautiful circular
staircase.’

‘
And?’

‘
Well,
that’s the thing. I’ve seen it, Frank. Fitted together like that,
you never saw work like it. And not a nail in the whole damn thing.
It hangs together with nothin’ holdin’ it up as far as anyone can
see. Mexicans reckon it was Saint Joseph built it.’

‘
Saint
Joseph?’

‘
Yeah,
the Good Lord’s old man. Whoever he was, the man who built it
disappeared without a trace. Never asked for payment. Never seen
again.’

‘
It’s a
good story,’ Angel said.

‘
Yeah,’
Hogben agreed, and he swung the team around in front of the
railroad depot. John Sherman came forward, smiling.

‘
I’
ve telegraphed Washington on your behalf,’ he said. ‘And
Cecil Smith up in Trinidad. They know you’ve been delayed a little,
but not why.’

‘
Good,’
Angel nodded. ‘I’m thanking you.’

‘
De
nada,’
Sherman said, as they shook hands. ‘Although,’ he added
with a grin, ‘you might at least acknowledge the good work I did in
keeping Bob Gray away from the depot. He was just bustin’ to tell
you how much trouble you’d caused him.’

‘
I bet,’
Angel grinned. ‘Take good care of Vargas.’

‘
No
sweat,’ the marshal said.

Angel shook hands with Hogben,
swung around, and moved quickly through the shaded depot building
and out into the passenger bay. The engine which had been ready
earlier in the day was at the platform now, hissing slightly as if
impatient. The same engineer was leaning out of the same window
with the same resigned expression on his face. It
didn
’t change
as Angel stopped below him and told him his name.

‘
Howdy,’
the engineer said. ‘Get yourself aboard.’

Angel swung up onto the footplate, and the
engineer took hold of the brake handle. It looked like the handle
on some gigantic coffee grinder. The heat from the roaring furnace
was like a physical blow as the stoker knocked it open with his
shovel and slid another shovelful of coal on top of the glowing
fires inside.

‘
How
long you figure it will take us to get to Trinidad?’ Angel shouted,
as the engineer released the brake and the locomotive made a
thundering metallic noise, shuddering like some huge animal and
then easing gently and easily backward out of the depot.

‘
Something over two hundred miles,’ the engineer said,
giving a tug on a dangling cord that released a mighty whoosing
whistle. He did it again, scratching his chin and watching the
startled doves wheeling in a panicked half-circle above the roof of
the depot.