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

a
new expression. He damned well thinks he could do it, he thought to
himself. He thinks he could come at a man with a gun in his hand
three feet away and kill him. And in the same moment he realized
that this was no ordinary fugitive cane-breaker.
    ‘ All
right,’ he said, thrusting his six-gun into its holster. ‘Herlow,
lock this place up. Nobody in or out, understand? I’ll likely want
to talk to you again!’ The way he said it made Herlow cringe, but
the hotel keeper nodded, rubbing his hands together
anxiously.
    ‘ Angel,’
Sheriff Hogben said. ‘Let’s go!’

Chapter
Twelve
     
    The big man knew he was clear now.
    He sat in the plushly upholstered Pullman
car of the Atchison Topeka & Sante Fe train laboring up the
long, rising incline across the flank of the Turkey Mountains,
satisfied that he had covered everything, delayed pursuit
sufficiently, and given himself more than enough time to do what
needed to be done. Each time the train swayed around a curve, he
could see the snowy peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, some
of their peaks fourteen thousand feet high, the fresh snow pink in
the light of the sun sliding through the western sky. Up ahead lay
the Raton Pass, and twenty-five miles beyond that, Trinidad,
Colorado.
    There was no one left now who
could connect him with the money; no one, that was, except Frank
Angel. He knew the man well enough to know that the delaying tactics he
had spread in Angel’s path would slow his pursuit but not stop it.
Never stop it. He might get clear of Trinidad with the money, but
Angel would never stop looking for him and never forget. So Angel
must die. He did not want to kill Angel. Yet he could see no
alternative, and so he had arranged that, too. Angel knew where he
was heading – Trinidad. Therefore, he would come to Trinidad.
Probably on the next day’s train – he would get help in Santa Fe;
they would confirm who he was very quickly. Perhaps even a special
train? It was no matter. The three men would wait at the railway
station, and when Angel came, they would kill him. It would not be
a matter of stupid Anglo-Saxon manners, of ‘even breaks’ and facing
the man you were about to kill. The three killers were ladrones, who murdered for
gain, from cover, by stealth, at night, without warning, in ambush
– murdered only when it was safe for themselves, when no risk was
obtained, when the victim had no warning.
    It was a pity; but if he was ever to know
peace, Angel must die.
    He thought ahead, anticipating
his route. From Trinidad through Denver to Cheyenne, Wyoming. From
there by stagecoach to Salt Lake City, and from the Mormon capital
by easy stretches, sometimes on horseback, sometimes by buggy,
others by public transport, across the country to Portland, Oregon.
Then to Seattle and by ferry from there to Vancouver. He had been
there once when he was a very young man and had fallen in love with
the long, silent fjords, the majestic pine-clad mountains on their
sides. Across the bay from Vancouver was the very British
settlement of Victoria, its kaleidoscope of colored, wooden houses
sloping gently down to the water ’s edge, the snowy grandeur of the
mountains astonishing and ghostlike as they soared above the flat
gray clouds across the Gulf of Georgia.
    There he would buy a house, hire
a housekeeper – maybe after a decent interval marry her, if she were
pleasant enough – and live the life of a country squire amidst the
gossiping, inbred British settlers. A man could live very well on
the income from $250,000, very well indeed. Well enough to leave
the capital untouched for his sons. He was still young enough, man
enough, to spawn a litter of them if he felt the urge. He allowed
himself a thin smile at his own daydreams. All in good time, he
told himself, all in good time. And only when Angel is
dead.
     
    The message came chattering back over the
wires, the key stuttering as the telegrapher scribbled furiously to
write it down. They read it over