Frame Angel! (A Frank Angel Western) #7 by Frederick H. Christian

the US Marshal or both. If
he claimed to be a government investigator, he was lying. He was,
in fact, an escaped convict named Briggs, who had broken out of
Folsom Penitentiary a few days back and was wanted for attempted
murder. Herlow would be able to claim the reward, and there would
be no risk involved, no risk at all.
    ‘ Unless,’ the big man had told him, ‘you fail to do exactly
as I say. Should that happen, Herlow, I would of course feel it
necessary to come back to Santa Fe and kill you.’
    He had said this so coldly, his
words such a calm and unemotional statement of deadly intent, that
Herlow had devoutly believed him and signaled his agreement. Then
the man had gone down the corridor and into
Hainin ’s
room. There had been no noise, no sound of a struggle, nothing. He
had not, truly, seen the man leave the hotel. But of course, he had
gone across the street for a couple of drinks to celebrate his
windfall.
    ‘ Brother,’ the sheriff said when Herlow had finished
talking. ‘If that don’t muddy the water, I don’t know what
does!’
    Angel stifled his disappointment
and chagrin. Once again the Easterner had outthought him, setting
Herlow up with a story which he had told so patently and blatantly that
Herlow had swallowed it hook, line and sinker. It was just right,
contrived so artfully that no matter what evidence he produced to
the contrary, the sheriff was going to have to check with Folsom
before he could release Angel.
    And that would take time, and
time was all that Angel ’s quarry needed.
    He had the two halves of the claim check
now. All he had to do was get to Trinidad and collect the
suitcase.
    ‘ Hogben,
what trains are there to Trinidad?’ he asked
unexpectedly.
    ‘ One a
day, but you ain’t takin’ it,’ Hogben said.
    ‘ What
time?’ Angel asked impatiently. ‘What time does it pull
out?’
    Sheriff Hogben delved into the
bulging waistcoat pocket with his left hand – all this time he had kept his drawn
six-gun more or less generally pointing in Angel’s direction – and
pressed the lid of his watch.
    ‘ Leaves
at midday,’ he said, as if reading it from the face of the
watch.
    ‘ About
four hours ago.’
    ‘ That’s
right,’ Hogben confirmed. ‘She gets up there, oh, ’bout nine or
nine-thirty, dependin’ on how things go.’
    He looked levelly at Angel, then glared at
Herlow again.
    ‘ Damn if
I know what to make of all this,’ he muttered. ‘You say you’re some
kind of investigator for the Department of Justice. This other
feller said you was an escaped felon.’
    ‘ This
other fellow killed Hainin,’ Angel pointed out. ‘Didn’t
he?’
    ‘ As to
that,’ Hogben said, cocking his head to one side wryly, ‘that’s how
it looks on the face of it. But you ain’t said why.’
    Angel picked up his badge, folded the
Justice Department commission, and stowed them in his pocket.
    ‘ Is John
Sherman in town?’ he asked.
    The sheriff looked startled. John T. Sherman
was the United States Marshal for the territory.
    ‘ You
know him?’
    ‘ No,’
Angel said. ‘But we’ve got mutual friends. And he’s got priority
call on the telegraph if he needs it. Maybe we can clear this up
that way.’
    Hogben pursed his lips. ‘Well,’ he
said.
    ‘ Sheriff,’ Angel said levelly. ‘You could be right. I might
be Briggs, I might be wanted by Folsom. In which case, you’ve got
me anyway. But if you’re wrong – and you are – you’re going to get
the biggest black mark in your copybook anyone’s ever seen. You’ll
be lucky if they let you run for dog-catcher. Now don’t you figure
it’s worth the trouble to check?’
    ‘ Well,’
Hogben hesitated.
    ‘ Sheriff,’ Angel said, and there was no pleading in his
voice any more, no anxiety, nothing but a flat certainty. ‘I don’t
want to have to kill you to get out of here now, but if I have to,
I will.’
    Hogben looked at
Angel ’s eyes,
then down at the gun in his own hand, and then back at Angel with