Send Angel! (A Frank Angel Western #2) (8 page)

Larkin sat like a lizard in the sun.

The bentwood chair was tilted
back against the wall of the Alhambra, and his hat was pushed
forward until it rested on the tip of his nose. His long legs were
crossed in front of him and braced against one of the posts
supporting the porch roof. A casual observer would have passed him
by, thinking him just another sleepy-minded townsman passing a
pleasant morning sunning himself on the porch of the saloon, maybe
easing himself into the day after a hard night
’s drinking. But the people of
Daranga walked a wide half circle around the place where Larkin
lounged, for they had all heard now about the killing of George
Perry, and they were wise enough in the ways of gunmen to know that
the spot Larkin had picked was not accidentally chosen: it
commanded a view up Fort Street and along Front Street, and they
also knew well that Larkin was about as relaxed as a cat by a mouse
hole.

Larkin grinned to himself.
Sheep, he thought. They had clustered around the old
man
’s body
like sheep, baa-ing to each other. He had watched through the
window of the boarding house as the fat sheriff had panted up Fort
Street and the tall thin man called Oliver had harangued him,
waving his arms, pointing to the hotel. Austin had talked to some
of the people standing around the body. They had nodded and shaken
their heads and Larkin had sneered, knowing what they were saying.
Sheep. Austin had come to see him, and their conversation had been
brief. Self-defense, pure and simple. Everyone had seen it There
had been killing grief in the eyes of the tall man, Oliver, but he
was not the man to take on Larkin, and the shame of his own fear
had made the man almost weep with impotence. So they had finally
taken the old man out of the town in a wagon, gone back to the
ranch with his body. Now they would be talking up there. They
always talked, Larkin thought. He knew their conversation as well
as if he had written it out for them to read like a play. It was
always the same.

But we can
’t let him get away with it,
they would be saying.

Somethin
’s gotta be done, they’d
insist.

The sheriff would tell them
there wasn
’t
anything he could do. Witnesses said it was self defense, he’d tell
them. George drew his gun before the other feller even touched his.
Half a dozen people saw it.

Well, damnation, someone would
say, that ain
’t good enough.

And finally, one of them, his
friend, or his foreman, or one of them who felt closer to the old
man than the others, or one of them who wanted to make himself look
big with the daughter would say, well, I ain
’t goin’ to leave it like
that.

And they would say, tentatively
at first, you ain
’t going in after him, are you?

The man would say,
half-
defiantly, well, somebody’s got to.

They would half-heartedly try
to talk him out of it. People wanted something done, generally.
They just weren
’t prepared to do it themselves. So there would also be an
element of relief in it: that it wasn’t going to be them who had to
go and do something about the death of their friend. So when they
tried to talk him out of it, they would only be
half-trying.

Then the one who had spoken
bravely would waver. He didn
’t really want to do it anyway. They had told him
how fast the killer was with a gun. He would hope that his friends
would talk him out of it.

Which they would now try to do. But not hard
enough. So, having put himself on the line, he would not back down
now. Nobody would say anything if he did, of course. But he would
have compromised his own bravery and he would not be able to do
that. He would feel he had to do it. He would even begin to believe
he could do it after they told him how noble and brave he was.

And then they would say, maybe we ought to
come with you.

He wouldn
’t let them, of course. He
would tell them there were some things a man had to do alone. And
they would nod, sagely, as if this were some eternal verity, and
stand silent as he saddled up and headed for town.

Morons, thought Larkin. Sheep.
You panic them with a flap of the arm, a shout. They see one of
their number run and they all run. When the wolf attacks they
cluster together and bleat. Together they could kill him, but they
have no leaders. Which is why they are sheep. So now, these fools
in the high chaparral; they will send in the best man they have and
I
’ll kill
him like a sheep and then they will have nothing left. And that
will be that. There was no sense of anticipation in Larkin. He did
not relish the killing. They were cogs in a piece of delicately
balanced machinery. The Man had told him what to do, and briefly,
why. He wanted those ranchers out of the high chaparral, and
that
was
fine with Larkin. The Man paid well for what he wanted, and
Larkin’s job was to
do it well. That way there would always be more jobs, and the money
to spend time in places as far away. from this ass-end of the world
as possible. He thought of KayCee and St. Louis, and that time in
New Orleans with the Creole girl. She had swung her hips at him in
a place on Bourbon Street and he had danced with her until her
movements had felt as if they
were scalding his groin. He smiled slowly in the
soft sunlight and
remembered afterwards with her. That was the kind of thing
a man needed. And this was a way of getting it. What was that thing
he’d read? If God hadn’t meant the wolves to eat the sheep he
wouldn’t have made the sheep. Something like that. It was damned
good: exactly right Larkin eased his back in the bentwood chair and
let his breath out slowly. The sheep didn’t even have to be chased:
they would come, haltingly perhaps, but they would come to the
slaughter. He knew that as well as he knew it was morning. He
tipped his hat forward again and the smile touched his lips. All he
had to do was wait.

Angel eased the dun to a halt
on a slight rise north of Daranga. Below him he saw the unlovely
huddle of the town, torpid in
the blasting heat of the summer sun. It looked
like any of a hundred other frontier towns Angel had seen:
buildings of adobe or wood or both, with low adobe walls or slatted
fences between the lots on which they stood. Two rows of buildings
down the straight line of Fort Street, ending in a crossing line on
the south side of town.

‘
Well,
I see the dump,’ Angel said to himself, ‘but where’s the
town?’

He pushed the horse forward
into a walk, moving down the trail that became Fort Street at the
edge of the town, one or two private houses with picket fences,
scrub gardens, then larger buildings: a restaurant, with the
word
‘Eats’
on a swinging board over the door. A livery stable; a small adobe
with a hipped roof and the sign ‘Sheriff painted on a wooden board
above the doorway. The store, and beyond it the hotel, nothing more
than a six-room shack, somewhat more sturdily built than other
buildings on the street. The Alhambra on the corner with its ornate
balcony and curlicued woodwork. They’d told him it was a copy of
the gaudy palace built over at Tombstone, full of polished wooden
bars and plate glass mirrors. Angel let the horse move easily, his
eyes checking off faces on the street, letting himself be seen.
Strangers in a town like Daranga were soon noted. He wanted to let
the word percolate through. He reined the horse in outside a
building which had a high flat false front and a shaded porch roof
along the street side. There were no windows on the street, just a
dark shaded door standing wide open. He went in: this was the
saloon they had told him about, although no sign outside advertised
the fact. They called it ‘The Indian’s’ and he soon discovered
why.

The bartender was short and swarthy, with a
pointed black beard and opaque, expressionless eyes.

‘
What’ll it be?’ he asked. His voice was hostile.

‘
A
beer would be fine.’

While the man pulled the beer,
Angel looked around. The saloon was primitive enough. A long plank
bar, a few tables and chairs, a faro layout at the far end of the
room. Apart from one or two early morning drinkers the place was
empty. The
bartender pushed the beer across the bar.

‘
New
in town?’ he asked.

Angel nodded.
‘Just got
in.’

‘
Most
people go to the Alhambra,’ the bartender said. ‘It’s sort of
required.’

‘
I’ll
get around to it,’ Angel said.

The
bartender
’s
eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to the smooth-butted
six-gun at Angel’s hip, then up to meet Angel’s eyes. He nodded, as
if something had been said.

Angel lowered the level of the beer in the
glass and sighed appreciatively.

‘
Good
beer,’ he said.

‘
Oughta be,’ he was told, ‘we pay enough for it.’

‘
How
come?’

‘
Local
monopoly,’ was the reply. The bartender did not amplify it. Before
Angel could speak again the door at the rear of the saloon opened
and a small, dark haired girl came in. She was wearing a flimsy
dress and her eyes were shadowed. She came up to the bar and her
eyes flicked quickly up to meet Angel’s. They were liquid, almost
black in color.

‘
Let
me have a jug of beer, Sunny,’ she said, ‘my friend’s got a sore
head.’

‘
Cash
or tab?’

‘
What
do you think?’ she grinned. ‘I’ll take a beer myself.’

The man called Sunny served the
beer for her and Angel turned as she raised her glass and
said
Salud.’

‘
Ypesetas y amory el liempo,’
he replied. The girl put on an automatic
smile and moved a step closer to him, a calculated warmth coming
into her voice.

‘
Well,’ she said. ‘You’re a big one. Buy me a drink,
stranger?’

‘
I
thought you had a sick friend,’ Angel remarked.

‘
Oh,
that one,’ she spat. ‘He snores like a pig. He will sleep until
noon if I do not waken him.’ Her smile became ingratiating. ‘We
could go to the house of my girl-friend ... if you
like?’

‘
Maybe
sometime,’ Angel said, smiling to remove any sting from his words.
‘But I’ll buy you a drink, if you will allow me the
honor.’

The girl looked at the
bartender.
‘See? A gentleman, for a change.’ She slipped an arm
through Angel’s, and tugged gently.

‘
What’s your hurry?’ she said softly. ‘Stay and talk to
Carmen.’

She was quite pretty. Small, black hair
pulled back and tied with a ribbon, the body where his arm touched
her breast warm and rounded. She smelled of soap and water, which
in itself was unusual.

‘
It’s
a thought,’ he admitted. ‘But some other time, Carmen. I got to see
a man.’

‘
Oh,
let him wait,’ she pouted.

‘
I
can’t do that,’ Angel said. ‘He’s expectin’ me.’ There was a faint
irony in his voice that made the girl raise her eyebrows
quizzically but the words meant nothing to her and she
shrugged.

‘
You
are just playing hard to get, «?’

Angel shook his head.
‘No, ma’am, I’m
easy as pie. But not right now. Some other time, OK?’

‘
I’ll
be looking for you,’ she said softly, and walked away, carrying the
jug of beer on her shoulder and deliberately switching the hips
only nominally covered by the thin dress.

‘
Quite
a girl,’ Angel remarked to the bartender.

‘
So
they tell me,’ was the monosyllabic reply.

‘
Friendly, too.’

‘
Like
a bear trap,’ said Sunny. ‘Who’s the man you’re lookin’
for?’

Angel looked up quickly. The
bartender
’s
gaze was direct and flat and his eyes showed no emotion.

‘
Feller called Larkin,’ he said. ‘You know him?’

‘
Know
about him,’ the bartender said. ‘Killed a man here
yesterday.’

Angel nodded.
‘I know,’ he said
and the way he said it evidently confirmed something in the
bartender’s mind.

‘
He
ain’t no cream-puff, friend,’ Sunny said.

‘
So I
hear.’

The bartender shook his head,
his jaw muscles working. He
stalked away down the bar, kicked a barrel, and
cursed it fluency.

‘
Something up?’ Angel asked, mildly.

‘
Ain’t
you got no sense, boy?’ snapped the bartender, whirling around to
face Angel. ‘That gunslinger burns down old George, and next thing
you come in to town with your guns oiled. Don’t you people know
he’s hopin’ that’s just what you’ll do?’

‘
Us
people?’

‘
You’re one o’ Perry’s men, I’m guessin’,’ the saloonkeeper
said, ‘though I ain’t seen your face afore.’

‘
Name’s Angel, Frank Angel.’

‘
That’s fittin’,’ said Sunny. ‘It’ll look nice on your
tombstone.’

‘
You
must be Metter,’ Angel said. ‘They told me your bark was worse than
your bite.’

‘
I’m
Metter,’ the man said, ‘an’ I ain’t bit you yet.’

‘
Have
a beer,’ Angel offered.

‘
Don’t
goddam hedge,’ Metter said furiously. ‘You fixin’ to mebbe invite
Larkin to Perry’s funeral?’ There was deep sarcasm in his
voice.

‘
We
buried him last night,’ Angel said quietly.

‘
Oh,
damn, I’m sorry, Angel,’ Metter said. ‘I liked George Perry. He was
one of the few decent men in this country. But gettin’ more men
killed ain’t goin’to help.’

‘
Agreed,’ Angel said.

Metter put his hands on his hips and glared
at the man across the bar.

‘
Well,
then?’

‘
I
won’t kill him,’ Angel told him.

Astonishment flickered across the swarthy
face and then Metter laughed, a barking sound of disbelief.

‘
Well,
that’s big of you,’ he said. ‘You’ve talked this over with Larkin,
of course?’

‘
Come
on, Sunny,’ Angel said, ‘what’s eatin’ you? You want George Perry’s
killer to walk away scot-free?’

‘
No,
damn you,’ Metter snapped. ‘I just don’t see no sense in more of
you people gettin’ your fool heads shot off is all. You’re all like
school kids with this eye-for-an-eye business. There ain’t no
percentage in it. Goddamn it, the man’s a killer. He
likes
what he does, boy!
You’re askin’ for it if you go lookin’ for him.’

‘
You
never answered my question,’ Angel said mildly.

‘
What
question, fachrissake?’

‘
You
think he ought to walk away from this clean?’

‘
You
need to ask me that? Then you really are stupid!’ snapped
Metter.

‘
Unfashionable viewpoint,’ Angel went on. ‘Way I see it,
George Perry’s death won’t cause much mourning in
Daranga.’

‘
Birch
an’ Reynolds, you mean? No, they’re prob’ly plannin’ to have a
party to celebrate it,’ Metter said. ‘Don’t mean everybody in town
agrees with ‘em.’

‘
But
nobody’s going to do anything about it, right?’

‘
Only
a fool’d go against them odds, mister,’ Metter said. His voice had
gone surly and his eyes fell away from Angel’s direct gaze.
‘Nothin’ much we can do.’

‘
Funny
that this Larkin should turn up out of nowhere and do Birch and
Reynolds such a big favor,’ Angel remarked.

‘
What.. . ? Listen, talk like that could get you in real
trouble, Angel,’ the saloonkeeper said. ‘Ain’t nothin’ to show this
Larkin’s got anythin’ to do with them two ... is there?’

Angel shook his head.
‘Not as I know of,’
he admitted. ‘Strange, all the same.’

‘
I
don’t know,’ Metter said. ‘They wasn’t no admirers of Perry but it
don’t figger they’d bring in somebody to kill him. Why would they
need to? Why would anybody want him dead, come to that?’

‘
Or
Walt Clare either, come to that,’ mocked Angel.

‘
Listen, you’re jumpin’ to some mighty hairy conclusions,
mister,’ Metter said.

‘
Could
be,’ Angel said. ‘Well, thanks for the beer. I’ll have another one
. . . later.’

‘
I’ll
pour it on your grave in Boot Hill,’ Metter said sourly. ‘It’ll
make the daisies grow.’

‘
My
God, if you aren’t mother’s cheery little helper,’ Angel grinned.
‘Now I understand why they call you “Sunny”.’ His face grew
serious. ‘Listen. I need some help.’

Metter threw up his arms in the
sign of mock surrender.
‘Include me out, friend,’ he said, exaggerated
fear in his voice.

‘
Just
tell the sheriff he’s goin’ to have a prisoner who won’t be a bit
pleased about the fact, will you?’

‘
Oh,
that. Shore. I’ll tell the sheriff that. He’ll laugh, but I’ll tell
him.’

‘
Attaboy,’ Angel said. ‘Don’t fret, Sunny: there’ll be no
killing today.’ And he was out of the door before the words had
sunk in, and walking down Fort Street when Metter spoke, addressing
the ceiling or some other being in that general
direction.

‘
How
the hell is he so sure of that?’