Warn Angel! (A Frank Angel Western--Book 9) (9 page)

‘
I was just riding in,’ he told the
lawman. ‘I got level with the alley down the street there, and the
next thing I knew my horse was gut-shot and three men were trying
to kill me.’

‘
For no particular reason, of course,’
Compton said heavily. ‘Just didn’t like the way you sat in the
saddle, I suppose?’

‘
Look, Marshal,’ Angel said patiently,
‘I was never here before in my life. Don’t know a soul in town.
Listen, how about letting me see the wounded man. Maybe he can
throw some light on this.’

‘
Ain’t likely,’ Compton said. ‘He
croaked halfway up the street an’ no wonder—you put three bullets
through his belly.’

‘
I was trying to stay alive,’ Angel
said reasonably. ‘Can I see him?’

‘
No hurry,’ Compton said. ‘He ain’t
going no place.’

‘
No,’ Angel said, sensing what was
coming. ‘But I am.’

‘
As to that,’ Compton said, ‘we’ll
see. First you answer a few o’ my questions.’ He looked up from
beneath his heavy eyebrows and put an edge on his voice. ‘An’
answer me straight, boy,’ he added. ‘I been known to keep fellers
who lied to me locked up months at a time.’

The deputy, Andy, sniggered.

‘
Months at a time, boy,’ he
parroted.

Angel felt his temper surge and checked it
before it showed. A show of temper was just what Compton wanted, so
he could show his authority, kick his prisoner into the hoosegow,
and forget him until he was prepared to eat dirt. No one knew Angel
was here, so no one would come looking for him if he got himself
thrown into Canon City’s undoubtedly unpleasant jail. He could rot
in this wide spot in the road while Falco and his men got clear out
of Colorado Territory. Easy, he told himself, take it easy.

‘
Name?’ Compton asked, licking on the
stub of a pencil.

‘
Frank Angel,’ Angel replied. He had
already set his mind to work on the problem of who had tried to
assassinate him. The only obvious answer was Falco and his men.
Except for one thing: there was no way they could have known he was
coming to Canon City. Unless …

‘
You say Angel?’ Compton said,
incredulously.

‘
Holy shee-hit!’ Andy
added.

‘
Angel,’ the prisoner repeated. ‘Frank
Angel. And I’ve heard all the jokes about wings and haloes and
heaven, Marshal.’

‘
Angel,’ Compton repeated. ‘Well, I’ll
be damned.’

Angel’s attention wasn’t even on him; the
prisoner was still busy on the problem he had set himself. There
was just one way Falco and his men could have known he was coming.
And if it was true …

‘
Marshal,’ he said, urgency in his
voice now. ‘Is there a telegraph office in town?’

‘
Why, sure thing,’ Compton said, the
sarcasm larding his tone. ‘Not to mention the Turkish baths an’ the
Japanese massoosies an’ them two duchesses workin’ in the
cathouse.’

‘
Haw, haw, haw,’ Andy said, without an
ounce of humor in his voice.

‘
Listen, Marshal, I’m serious,’ Angel
said.

‘
Me, too, sonny,’ Compton said. ‘Now
what part o’ the country you from? You sure as hell ain’t from
’round here.’

‘
Washington,’ Angel said. Without
thinking he reached for the secret pocket in his belt and as he did
so Andy came off the corner of the desk in a fast, ugly movement,
jamming the wicked double mouth of the shotgun into Angel’s belly
hard enough to make his teeth click.

‘
You better take it right easy,
sonny,’ Compton said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Or Andy thar’s
liable to blow you forty ways to Sunday.’

‘
Bet your ass!’ hissed the
deputy.

‘
Listen,’ Angel said, looking past
Andy at the marshal. ‘In my belt is a badge. I want to show it to
you.’

‘
Let him get his badge, Andy,’ the
marshal said. Reluctantly, the deputy eased back on the pressure,
and Angel took out the silver badge. It made a bright, ringing
sound as he tossed it on to the marshal’s desk. Compton looked at
the screaming eagle, the circular seal with the words Department of
Justice, and pushed it away with one finger,
unimpressed.

‘
You could’ve stole that,’ he pointed
out.

‘
All right,’ Angel said. This time he
brought out his Special Commission and unfolded it, spreading it
out flat on the desk beneath the oil lamp where the marshal could
see what it said.

Know all men by these presents that Frank
Warren Angel, holding the office of special investigator,
Department of Justice, is empowered by the president of the United
States to act for and represent the attorney general in all matters
of concern to his department.

In his capacity, the aforesaid Frank Warren
Angel may take any action that he sees fit to maintain civil or
military law and order, this to include where necessary the
convening of grand juries, the holding of special courts, the
empanelment of juries, the subpoena of witnesses and the conducting
of general courts-martial He is also empowered to supervene the
authority of any officer of the law, civil, or military,
territorial or federal, where he so desires. All United States
citizens, all officers of the law both federal and territorial are
requested and required to render him such assistance and support as
he may demand in the performance of his duties.

It was signed by the president of the United
States, and countersigned by his attorney general. The marshal
sighed as he finished reading it.

‘
Andy,’ he said. ‘Put that damned gun
away.’

He got up and came around his desk, his
hands spread in a placating gesture.

‘
I’m sorry, Mr. Angel,’ he said. ‘What
do you want me to do?’

‘
Hey,’ Andy said. ‘What the hell is
this?’

‘
Shut your mouth, Andy,’ Compton said,
pleasantly. Andy shut his face like a trap, his ratty eyes burning
with the fury behind them.

‘
The dead man,’ Angel said. ‘I want to
take a look at him. Then I need a horse—the best you can lay your
hands on.’

‘
That all?’

‘
If I think of anything, I’ll let you
know,’ Angel said. He gestured for Compton to precede him out of
the office, ignoring the glowering eyes of the deputy and wondering
what he had done to provoke the man’s hatred. They crossed the
street to a white-painted frame shack with a low picket fence
around a small kitchen garden in front of it. There was a light
over the porch and Angel waited as the marshal knocked on the door.
It was opened by a gray-haired, cadaverous-looking man with eyes
that looked as if they had witnessed every conceivable human
aberration and still found compassion possible. The deep-set eyes
moved from the marshal’s face to Angel’s and back again.

‘
Ray,’ the man said. ‘What can I do
for you?’

‘
Like to take a look at that dead man,
Doc,’ Compton said. ‘This here’s Mr. Frank Angel. He’s from the
Department of Justice in Washington. Angel, this is Doc
Napier.’

‘
Hi, Doc,’ Angel said
softly.

‘
Hi yourself,’ Napier said, looking
more closely at him. ‘Aren’t you the one who—?’

‘
He is,’ Compton said, tersely, and
led the way into the hallway. There were two green-painted doors on
both sides of the narrow passage, and the marshal opened the first
one on the left. Inside it was the unadorned room which Napier used
for a surgery. Angel smelled the fish-honey taint of death, and the
sharper stink of formaldehyde. On a plain plank table lay the dead
man, already stripped naked by the doctor for his examination. The
three bullet wounds in the man’s belly looked as if someone had
spilled violet ink on his skin.

‘
Davy Livermoor,’ Angel said softly.
‘He’ll steal no more herd money.’

‘
How’s that?’ Compton asked,
sharply.

‘
His name’s Davy Livermoor,’ Angel
said. ‘He’s wanted down Fort Worth way for stealing the price of a
herd he took up to Sedalia. Likely there’ll be a reward out for
him.’

‘
Which no doubt you’ll be claimin’,’
sneered Compton. He faltered as Angel turned and just looked
levelly at him for a long moment.

‘
I don’t have the time,’ Angel said
softly. ‘How about the horse as a trade.’

‘
Well, as to that,’ Compton said. ‘You
got a deal.’

He hurried out of Napier’s house, and Angel
watched as the doctor replaced the sheet over the still form of
Davy Livermoor.

‘
You have to forgive Ray, Mr. Angel,’
Napier said. ‘He’s what you would call a man who stoops to every
challenge.’ There was no condescension in his voice, just a soft
sadness at all folly.

‘
Forget it, Doc,’ Angel said. ‘Life’s
too short to take offense at that kind of opacity. Listen, I need
some information about that one’s sidekicks.’ He jerked his chin
toward the surgery. ‘Where’s my best place to get it?’

‘
Over at the Eldorado,’ Napier told
him. ‘That’s our local bull pen. Or ask Andy Wheatcroft, Ray’s
deputy. There isn’t much goes on in town he doesn’t know
about.’

‘
I may do that,’ Angel said, not
commenting on Compton’s deputy who, if his expression when last
Angel saw him had been anything to go by, wouldn’t have given Frank
Angel typhus without making him pay for it.

‘
Tell Compton where I am, will
you?’

He shook hands with the doctor and walked
out into the street. Canon City was back to dull normality. One or
two horsemen moving up the street. The sound of a badly tuned piano
being played in the saloon. A woman laughing softly somewhere in
the darkness. He got to the Eldorado and pushed in through the
batwings. It was a big square place, one room with a bar down the
right hand side. On the left were some tables and chairs, and at
the back of the room there was a chuckaluck wheel and a faro
layout. The place was half-empty, maybe ten or fifteen men sitting
around, three more at the bar. One of them, his boot heel hooked on
the brass rail, was Compton’s deputy Andy Wheatcroft.

‘
Beer,’ he told the bartender, ‘and
maybe you could give me some information.’

‘
Beer, coming up,’ the bartender said.
He was a little fellow with pudgy hands and black, button-bright
eyes. His hair was pasted in greasy strands across the balding dome
of his head, and his bushy sideburns were heavily pomaded. He
smelled, Angel thought, like Saturday night at the whorehouse in
Mexico City. ‘As to information,’ the bartender continued, ‘that’s
another thing again.’

‘
You heard about the fracas outside,’
Angel said. It wasn’t a question. The bartender looked uneasily
toward Andy Wheatcroft. The deputy wasn’t even looking in his
direction, but he was listening to what was said.

‘
Sure,’ the bartender nodded. ‘Sure.
Who didn’t?’

‘
You know the man who got killed?’
Angel asked. ‘Ever see him?’

‘
I don’t know who got killed,’ the
bartender said. ‘I never seen it.’

‘
He was one of a group who were in
here, yesterday, maybe even today,’ Angel said. ‘One of them was a
kid, tow-headed. Pale blue shirt and tight fitting fawn pants.
You’d remember him. Another was a German. Scarred face, like he’d
been in a knife fight. Cropped hair. You recall them?’

The bartender nodded nervously, like a bird
pecking up crumbs.

‘
Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘Them fellers.
Who could forget?’

‘
When were they in here?’

‘
Oh, a couple of times,’ the bartender
said. ‘They were in here yesterday, the day before that. You
know.’

‘
I don’t suppose,’ Angel said, ‘you
heard them say anything about where they might be
heading?’

‘
Nope,’ the bartender said, shaking
his head. ‘Nothing.’ He looked very, very nervous and Angel
couldn’t figure out why.

‘
What do I owe you?’ he
asked.

‘
Twenty-five cents for the beer,’ the
man said. And then, all in a rush, as though afraid to speak the
words but knowing he must, ‘An’ twenty-five dollars for the
information.’

Angel just looked at the perspiring little
man and then he laughed. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said, softly.

‘
No,’ the bartender said defiantly.
‘Twenty-five dollars!’

‘
Hey,’ Angel said. ‘What is
this?’

‘
Nothing,’ the bartender said. ‘You
give me my money. I don’t want any trouble with you.’

‘
An’ you ain’t gonna have none,
Harry,’ said a familiar voice. Angel turned slowly to see Andy
Wheatcroft standing at his elbow and then he understood. The deputy
had his hand wrapped around the butt of his holstered sixgun. It
had a staghorn handle. They always did, Angel thought. He let a
slow sigh escape his lips.

‘
What is this, Wheatcroft?’ he
asked.

‘
Nothin’ serious, little Angel,’ the
deputy grinned. ‘Unless you’re figurin’ on not payin’ your bill. In
which case, you got trouble.’

‘
Listen,’ Angel said, reasonably.
‘There’s no call for this.’

‘
I’m makin’ call,’ Andy said. ‘I ain’t
taken to you at all, little Angel.’