Trap Angel (Frank Angel Western #3) (8 page)

They rode past the man in
phalanx and Angel tried to conceal his surprise at the way in which
each man the Colonel passed snapped to impeccable present-arms,
slapping his carbine as if it was an Army Springfield and the man
passing in review Phil Sheridan himself.

‘Hold it right there,
friend,’ a voice growled in Angel’s ear. He turned to see one of
the riders, a thin-faced youngster of perhaps twenty whom he’d
noted earlier on account of the two tie-down guns the boy had been
sporting, idly cocking a six-shooter which was aimed in the general
direction of Angel’s midriff.

Angel raised his eyebrows in
surprise.

‘Nothin’ personal, friend,’
the kid said. ‘The Cunnel just don’t like no one peekin’ over his
shoulder when he opens the gates. One of his little funniosities,
you might say.’

‘You mean no one can get in
or out unless he opens the locks?’

‘That’s what I mean,
sunshine. So don’t you go gettin’ no ideas about leavin’ us,
unexpected-like.’

‘How do the guards get in
and out?’

‘Shucks, that’d be tellin’
now, wouldn’t it?’ grinned the kid. He sheathed the gun as he saw
Denniston turn his horse and the gate swing open.

‘Let’s go, Angel,’ he said,
and the phalanx moved forward through the gate. Angel covertly
checked the fencing as he rode past. It was heavy wire mesh, a
quarter of an inch thick, woven into squares about nine inches wide
and long. He supposed a man could get through it if he had
to.

They had said the perimeter
was patrolled, though. He could see no one.

Now they were riding through
broken country, the trail rising slightly uphill all the time, and
ahead Angel could see a gap between two huge shoulders of rock that
formed a natural gateway.

Presently they were level
with this, and again he saw the hidden guards snapping to present
arms as their leader rode by. Now, below, he saw the Denniston
place, but it was like no ranch he had ever seen. It was laid out
on the level of a green and fertile mountain plateau from which
every tree and shrub over the height of two feet had been removed,
and its rectangular rows of buildings serried on two sides of what
looked like a parade ground had the appearance, shape and style of
Army buildings. It was not the buildings, though, not the parade
ground — if such it was — not yet the bustling figures of many men
that he saw which startled Angel. For the place itself lay within
yet another fenced area, sentries pacing along its length. As they
approached, he saw that there was a gully running laterally across
the northern face of the compound where the entrance gate stood
flanked by two sentry platforms. Over it ran a footbridge, perhaps
six feet wide, with low rails that would not have afforded shelter
for a squirrel. As they crossed the bridge, he saw that the gully
below was man-made, not natural, and that the smoothed ground bore
no trace of a foot or hoof mark.

They rode into the compound,
the sentries saluting as Denniston went by, and it was almost
exactly like riding into an Army establishment.

Squads of men marched by,
not drilling, but obviously under some form of disciplined
activity.

Over in a far corner of the
compound seven rows of men under the eye of another were doing
punishing gymnastics. Angel looked up as Denniston
spoke.

‘Angel, come with me. I will
want to see all Twos and Threes in twenty minutes,’ he added to the
others.

‘Yes, sir,’ they chorused.
Angel half expected to see them salute, but they did not. He sought
the word for this kind of organization. They were no guerillas. Not
renegades. Yet both. Paramilitary: that was the
book-word.

He followed Denniston into
the centre building of three on the southern edge of the parade
ground. It was sparsely furnished. A simple cot in the corner. A
large table with six chairs on either side, a bentwood armchair at
its head. A bureau. Pegs sunk into the walls for hanging hats,
clothes, gun belts. A bearskin rug on the floor. An open hearth
with a military saber crossed on its scabbard above it. A
photograph in a silver frame, young men in uniform on a lawn
somewhere.

And a huge large-scale map
of northern New Mexico, southern Colorado and western Kansas on the
wall facing the table. A window looked out on to the parade
ground.

‘Well, Mr.
Angel?’

‘I’m impressed,’ Angel said.
‘Astonished. But this is no ranch, no way. What are all these men
doing up here?’

‘I will give you a general
answer to your questions, Mr. Angel. I cannot be specific until you
have been voted by my fellow — ah, officers, to be a man with whom
they will serve. This is slightly different to the real Army, but
our purpose is such that I can admit of no dissent. Each man has to
believe completely in his fellow. There can be no exceptions.
However, within the limitations placed upon me by that fact, I will
try to satisfy your curiosity.’

‘You’re raising some kind of
Army up here?’

‘I suppose you could say
that.’ Dennison smiled. ‘I prefer the term
Kommando
— a Dutch word meaning a
mobile, well-trained, totally ruthless attacking unit.’

‘And you use military style
and titles?’

‘Not quite. You heard
outside I asked for Twos and Threes to join us shortly — when we
shall decide upon your acceptability — or otherwise. As commander,
I, of course am Number One. There are two Number Twos, of whom the
unfortunate Atterbow was one. Four Number Threes.’

‘And how many
men?’

‘Classified,’ Denniston
said, smiling slightly to take the sting out of the words. ‘I don’t
wish you to think me discourteous, Mr. Angel. But at the moment you
have only the status of a possible recruit.’

‘And if your — ah, officers
don’t care to have me along for the ride, what then?’

‘Let us hope,’ said
Denniston without humor, ‘that you are not so unlucky.’

He walked across to the
window, looking out on the busy scene and lighting a thin cigar
which he used as a pointer.

‘I’ve built it all,’ he
said. ‘The whole thing. Slowly, painfully, choosing my location and
my men with infinite care. Now … now it is almost
ready.’

‘For what?’

‘Ah, Mr. Angel, you are a
direct man, a man after my own heart. But not even my most trusted
subordinates know that.’

Angel shrugged, changing the
subject. ‘Place like this can’t be put together for pennies,’ he
suggested.

‘True,’ Dennison said. ‘I
once owned land. In Virginia. It was worth a great deal of money.
My heritage, you might say. I sold it. Sold that lovely green land
for this.’ His tone was bitter and his eyes far away, but he got
control of himself quickly, as if there had never been gall in his
tone. ‘And with the passing of time, I found other ways to make
money. I made it. And built a little more of my empire. Hired the
right men. Paid them enough to keep them happy, keep them loyal.
And then began to teach them true loyalty, the loyalty of a man for
his own cause, his own Army.’

His eyes had gone empty and
he was really talking to himself. Angel had ceased to exist except
as an excuse to pour out his vanity and contempt.

‘Ten years,’ Denniston said.
‘Ten lost years. But now I am within sight of my objective. Then it
will have been worth it.’

Angel walked across the room
and picked up the silver-framed photograph from the
mantel.

Looking at it, he thought
one of the faces looked familiar. It was Denniston. A much younger
Denniston. He looked up to see the iron-gray eyes watching
him.

‘You recognized me,’
Denniston said.

Angel nodded. ‘West
Point?’

‘Class of ’6l,’ he said. He
took the picture from Angel’s hands, intoning the names of the
faces as his eyes ran over them for the ten thousandth time.
‘O’Rourke, Alonzo Cushing, Charles Parsons, Elbert, Jamie Parker,
George Custer, Robley Denniston — ’ he broke off his reverie,
lifting empty eyes towards the window.

‘I didn’t realize you were
Regular Army,’ Angel said, for want of anything better to
say.

‘Yes,’ Denniston said dully.
‘Yes, I was. I served with George Thomas, General Thomas. At Mill
Springs, Murfreeboro, Chickamauga.’

‘And then?’

‘What? Oh, I was invalided
out after Chickamauga. Shot through the lungs. They gave me the
usual medals, the usual pension. It wasn’t what I wanted. I was
used to commanding men. And so I made my plans to do it my own way:
If the Army didn’t want me, I would build an Army of my own that
could not function without me. And I have done it.’

He really believed it, Angel
thought. He’s convinced himself that it happened that way. The
whole dirty little scene after Chickamauga, the court martial and
the ignominious discharge have all been safely tucked away where no
one can see them.

Denniston went across to the
wall where the huge map was hung and looked at it long and
intently. There was a red flag stuck into the map on the line which
marked the road from Trinidad to Raton through the
mountains.

‘Well, Mr. Angel,’ Denniston
said, after a while. ‘Now you know what the background of this
place is. I think we can use you — again providing my staff
officers agree. Do you know anything about explosives?’

The question was shot at him
without warning and Angel grinned at Dennison without
shame.

‘Explosives? Where the hell
would I learn about explosives? I was too young for your war,
Colonel.’

‘Quite,’ Denniston said. ‘It
was just a thought.’

‘Sure,’ Angel said. Before
he could say more there was a respectful knock at the door. A man
poked his head around it and said that the officers were waiting
outside. Denniston nodded and the man closed the door. Denniston
motioned Angel to stay where he was and went towards his cot. He
pulled a curtain across so that he was hidden behind it. Then, and
not until then, the door was smartly opened and five men came into
the room. They stood behind their respective chairs alongside the
table, their eyes looking up somewhere above head level, faces
blank. Then Denniston pulled his curtain aside and stepped into
view and the man at the top of the table on the left yelled
‘Atteeeeennnnn . . . tion!’

The five men came smartly to
attention and saluted, as Denniston sat at the table and said ‘At
ease, gentlemen.’ The quintet sat down in their chairs, hands
folded on the table. The man on his left handed Denniston a piece
of paper.

‘Minutes, sir,’ he
said.

‘Thank you, Froon,’
Denniston replied.

Angel watched this imitation
of Army ritual in fascinated silence. They were like children
playing soldiers, except that they, like Denniston, seemed to
believe in it implicitly, and they, like Denniston, intended to use
their military force in some way. But what? What?

He let his gaze rest on the
faces of Denniston’s officers one by one. Next to an empty chair on
Denniston’s right sat the slow-spoken kid who’d held the gun on him
at the gate. On his right was a pockmarked man of about thirty with
a badly broken noise. On the left hand side of Denniston was the
burly man with the wind-burned face who had brought the officers to
attention on Denniston’s entrance; the other Number Two, Angel
guessed. On his left was a tow-haired young man with a Texas drawl
who carried a tied-down gun low on his right thigh. And at the end
of the table a short, squat, beady-eyed little man who had a
singsong accent which Angel finally identified as Welsh. The man
looked completely out of place until Angel remembered Denniston’s
earlier question about explosives. He’d be a miner. And know about
things like that.

‘Before we discuss business,
gentlemen,’ Denniston was saying, ‘there is the matter of our — ah,
guest. And the replacement of John Atterbow. It is my intention to
appoint Mr. Angel as a Number Three, replacing John with you, Mr.
Adam. With the approval of all you gentlemen, of
course.’

He looked at them all for a
moment, then spoke again.

‘Mr. Whiting? That was the
miner, who said, ‘Agreed sir.’

‘Mr. Adam?’

‘Honored at my promotion,
sir,’ drawled the Texan. ‘And no objection.’

Denniston nodded. ‘Mr.
Briggs?’

The pockmarked one shook his
head. ‘Fine with me, sir.’

‘And you, Mr.
Jackson?’

‘A question,
sir?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Is Mr. Angel any good with
that gun?’ asked the kid.

Denniston swiveled in his
chair and looked at Angel with eyebrow raised.’ Well, Mr.
Angel?’

‘I can use it,’ Angel said
without emphasis. He let his gaze hold that of the younger man
until the kid’s eyes flickered and evaded it.

Denniston smiled. ‘That
seems to be that, then. Please join us, Mr. Angel. Take Mr. Adam’s
chair. Ray, you move up here beside me.’

Angel sat down in the
vacated chair and Denniston looked at the piece of paper in front
of him.